Combatting the February Blues.

Days are dark here in slushy Manhattan, dear Reader, & while I will be the first to call (at least partial) bullshit on any diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder (WE ALL HAVE IT), I will also be even before the first—that annoying, clamoring olde-tyme reporter with the flashbulb camera & the card in her fedora who simply will not get out of your face—when it comes to decrying the February Blues. Indeed, I've put together something of a spiel over the years, & it goes a little something like this:

In the beginning, of course, there is January—but not even January-proper. No, every year begins with what I like to call "Trailer January": a Coming Attractions of optimism & accomplishment, a montage of a year that can't not contain the magical fulfillment of your every goal, accompanied, perhaps, by a power ballad or 5. But slowly over that first week, the champagne buzz begins to fade, & you realize that actually sticking to the now-insane-seeming loftiness of your resolutions means, well, actually sticking to it—which, as any human with cognitive ability well knows, is nigh impossible.

So, every time you "forget" to go to the gym or read a book or update your blog, you necessarily feel a pang of guilt—but, rather than direct that frustration inwards, you start to blame it on subarctic temperatures & severe lack of sun. All of your personal shortcomings become the weather's shortcomings: if it were only a few degrees warmer out, you cry, fist shaking at an overcast sky, everything would be better! I could walk those ten blocks to my Astronomy lecture! I could translate the Aeneid into Dutch! I'd find Wonder Woman's invisible plane, goddammit! Once Winter & Failure are so intertwined, the desire to Get the Fuck Out becomes more than just a temperature imperative: it's the quest for life itself—&, wouldn't you know, standing like a giant, inert moose on the highway of your indubitable progress is February, that utterly useless blob of 28 days between you & your freedom from icy catatonia.

Meanwhile, just to fuck with you, February brings fun surprises, like Greeting Card Companies' Valentine's Day, which is situated right smack dab in its middle, providing that one final solar-plexus punch as you're going down, down, down the slope to spring. As we are all no doubt aware, February the 14th is a day of incorrigible evil, forecasting either stress (to impress a loved one) or melancholy (for a lack of someone to stress over), both of which imply too much money spent on too much sugar, & inevitably leave the Valentined in a wake of guilt & headaches & wilting rose petals. Also, what cocky motherfucker of a month gives itself an extra day every four years? Rude, I say. Rude.

My point is: FEBRUARY IS DEEPLY AWFUL, & you have to catch any & all bright spots as catch can—find the diamonds in the rough, to crib from The Cave of Wonders (who, let's get real, is my barometer for all that is good & true).

For example, if you find yourself desperately hacking away at Insomnia with mind-numbing episodes of shows you don't watch anymore (because they've gotten just untenably bad), & still sleep isn't coming, & why do you even bother at this point—you may just find that, lo & behold, here's your very favorite Zombies song "She's Not There" AS PERFORMED BY ACTUAL ZOMBIES.

Excellences upon excellences, indeed. Well done, Glee. I officially return to you exactly 1.5 of the 8,579 kudos I retracted after that Rocky Horror Disasterthon.

Having witnessed me forgive the dreadful Glee this minutest of fractions, you, my canniest Reader, may be wondering if February doesn't deserve some of this clemency—perhaps a reasoned re-viewing through rosy lenses? It's just a month after all—it can't help itself; oughtn't we put aside our past differences & look for the bright spots within February itself?

To which I will answer, emphatically, no, & find the nearest door such that I may slam it in your general direction.

February is simply & profoundly the Worst.

End scene.

Via Toothpaste for Dinner.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Time Is Running Out—The Section Quartet (Muse cover).

I've never been a huge fan of Muse—if only because I don't know them too well & haven't yet taken the requisite time to explore—but Absolution is one of the albums with which I have passing familiarity, & "Time Is Running Out" has always been one of the songs I liked. That said, I really don't think even a passing familiarity with the original is required to appreciate this truly fantastic string quartet arrangement—dynamic, creative, full of builds & careful interplays, wheedling along the razor's edge of melodies the rock song simply can't quite pluck out. Really, really lovely.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot.

[ Well, apparently my resolution not to procrastinate is already done for. However, I can tally some points for my resolution to spend less time mainlining internet—or, rather, traveling & being forcibly kept from it, twitching in my sans-wireless straight jacket. However, I wrote this, so it's going up anyway. I'm being resolute, after all. ]

I'm on a bus right now, actually—New York-bound to flail a bit with old friends—but I realized that I should probably post something internet-ward, 1) because I haven't in a trillion-zillion years (finals like a Sisyphean triathlon, I swear), & 2) it's almost the New Year, & that's a time when people are supposed to publicize feelings of good cheer. So, with that in mind, here are some scattered thoughts:

—For Decorated Evergreen Day this year, I received many wondrous wonders, the most striking of which was ultimately Rat Girl, the recently published memoir by Kristin Hersh (former frontwoman of Throwing Muses, since gone solo). It's one of those books (as in, the best kind) that grabs you by the throat & shakes, made of phrases that burrow inside your brain like termites & yell, loud, until you exorcise them with your own creativity. After devouring most of it in a matter of hours, I wrote 300% more songs than I've written in the past two months combined (that is, three), & even started writing prose again—structured, personally, with intent. So, that's been beyond wonderful—feeling inspired, fingers electrified, full of fizz—& it bodes well when it comes at an ending/beginning, I think.

—Also now mine is a special edition, bound-book publication of the Inception script—which, I'm going to be honest, was one of those gifts that makes your face into a bad-smell grin: "Oh…! Thanks…! …" & even your pauses have a rising inflection. Still, after investigating it a little, I found it was actually pretty fascinating: a transcribed conversation between Nolan & his brother (who wrote the short story on which Memento was based) reveals my once-derided idol to have totally admirable intentions & right-on opinions about cinema. I meant to type up a section of it here as proof, but I just realized I left the book in Bostonia (& I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling stupid-brain!). I may revisit this when I get back, though—it's definitely worth sharing. Anyhow, my point is, Happy Birthday, Jesus: I've officially forgiven one of your brethren.

—Apparently, this is a time of year when people get resolute. Here's my list (published, honestly, for my own later self-guilting more than anything else; I assume you are, at best, neutral):

• Keep up with my own writing—both this online outlet & the ramblings so recently begun.
• Stay healthy, in mind & body.
• Learn to play guitar with a pick.
• Learn to appreciate my brother's pet rat, despite its really, manifestly gross tail.
• Respond to text messages.
• Avoid oatmeal.
• Remind the people I love that I love them, because that doesn't happen nearly enough—at least in proportion to just how much they all (you all) mean.
• Use erasable writing implements until March (at least), so the last two digits of every date won't be messily crossed out. (I can Never. Remember.)

—Last night, as another sort of year-winding-down activity, I had a chance to reconnect with Childhood Friends—the kind who, though you inevitably go months without communication, having grown up & out of your neighborhood proximity, you still can fall immediately back into kinship with at the drop of a dime. One of the many topics broached—as we are Wild & Wooly Women of the World these days—was the baffling & kind of wonderful stupidity that tumbles from most people's mouths when they're trying to hit on you. Of course, I've collected a list of my favorites ("Hey, that shirt's very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you, I'd be coming, too." B-dum-chhh!), but all of this is really just a set-up for the breathtaking realization I had just now:

That guy Dave from Slime Time Live is blessed with a plethora of the world's most beautifully disgusting pick-up lines. (You're welcome for the pictures in your brain.)

—Tonight, at midnight, I'm blowing a kiss to the sky. Feel free to catch it. [ POST SCRIPT: I'll do it at 11:11 on 1/1/11, too. ]

Happy Fuckin' New Year.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Counting Backwards—Throwing Muses.

An excellent album-opener (The Real Ramona: check it), as well as a literal description what we'll all be doing in a scant few hours (10!… 9!… 8!…). A beginning about an ending—a seething, surreal rock song—Hersh's gift to me meets my gift to you—sound's gift to everybody—like the snows of yesteryear, & Auld Lang Syne.