Tis The Season

By: Kelly McClure

One Christmas morning, a couple handfuls of years ago, my dad and I woke up to find that my mom was gone. Not gone like she is now. As in dead. Just gone. Not in the house. I was living in Chicago at the time and, having given my Jeep Liberty to my mom after it had been towed for its third time, would use Zip-Car to go visit my parents in Bourbonnais, Illinois on holidays. For this particular holiday I had requested a red Mini Cooper, and I saw it in the parking lot of their apartment area when I moved the flapping blinds to see if her red Jeep Cherokee, the one I learned to drive in, was out there in its usual spot in the driveway. It wasn't. 

It took a while for us to wrap our minds around her car being gone. Even longer to fully believe that she actually wasn't in the house. Was she hiding somewhere? Was she laying on the floor in a spot that maybe we didn't check before? Is this supposed to be for fun? Like, for Christmas fun? My mom was known for doing wacky things on holidays. One Easter she snuck into the backyard of my gramma's house, where she and my aunt and my cousins were inside crowded around her kitchen island talking. She was wearing rabbit ears and carrying an Easter basket full of eggs, hopping around like a bunny and dropping the eggs throughout the yard. As the story was later told to me, it took a long time for people to notice she was out there, and once they did see her out there, they didn't quite understand why she was doing what she was doing. My mom went home mad that day. I don't even know if she went into my gramma's house. I could see her just going back out through the fence she snuck in through, probably lighting up a cigarette once she got into the Jeep. Probably feeling a little hot behind the eyes.

It was definitely Christmas morning, and she was definitely not there. My dad and I both arrived at this firm fact at the same time. 

"She's gone."

"Yeah, she's not here."

We got in his car and drove around town looking for her Jeep. We drove past some of the dollar stores she liked to go to, through the mall parking lot, through the Target parking lot, past my gramma's house. There were a couple hotels in town and we drove past those too, but not with the level of high investigation as we did the other locations. Why would she be in a hotel? It's Christmas. That's literally the saddest thing either of us could think of. Sitting alone in a hotel on a holiday, let alone the biggest and best of holidays there is ... why? 

Every other Christmas there were cookies, and some classic movie on TV (classic to us meaning, like, Uncle Buck or something). There were lights, and different kinds of things in the house that weren't usually there. Festive things. And all of this was the result of my mom being there. These things would just fly out of her. When maybe no one was really sure what my mom was about, what she liked, or what she thought about, did, etc - holidays would firm it all up. Would temporarily fill a hole that sometimes seemed too scary to think about. She was, if nothing else, a mystery - but Christmas presented some clues. She tried. She tried on holidays. And she tried on Christmas. Other things could be sad, or mad. Even violent at times. But never Christmas. Christmas was a day where you could have this life that maybe you could have all the time, but just didn't. 

I left that night to drive back to the city. I didn't want to sleep in an anti-Christmas sort of environment. My dad probably didn't want to either, let alone by himself, but that didn't occur to me at the time. A few days later, when the vice-grip that Christmas tends to have on a person's emotions let up a bit, I called him to see if he ever found out where my mom had went that day. Turns out she had gone to a hotel. One of the ones we had driven by. She didn't say why. He didn't really press the issue. 

Not too many years later, after my mom had died and I went back to Bourbonnais to help clean out her stuff for my dad, I found a scrap of paper in her junk drawer in the bathroom, along with a bunch of other scraps of paper, pill bottles with other people's names on them, and a ceramic squirrel. Most of the other scraps of paper had shopping lists on them, or little reminders to do things, but this one in particular stood out. It said:

"No one to make comments. No one to make me feel bad." 

I knew exactly what she meant. And I know what she means now. It's fucking embarrassing to try. It's embarrassing to care. Wouldn't it be nice to just stop? 

@WolfieVibes 

'Carol' And The Case Of The Tragic Lesbian

By: Kelly McClure

When a lesbian movie comes out it's very exciting, regardless of what it's about or who's in it, because it's rare that we (the lesbians) get a movie that reflects our own shared experience of going through life while being all lesbian about everything. 

  

Unfortunately, almost every lesbian movie has to be filtered through an emotional colander, catching the fun, hanging out, normal life, kissing parts and letting the bulk of the film - which usually centers around the main lesbian characters suffering some extreme emotional, physical, or societal tragedy, go down the drain. This was very much the case with Carol, which I intended to see several months ago in the theaters, and finally just watched on iTunes. 

Aside from a few brief exchanges of actual human intimacy, a few scenes with Sarah Paulson - which felt like eyeball heroin - and three random seconds of Carrie Brownstein where she was very much used to demonstrate "here, you sad lesbian, here's another lesbian for you," this movie was very much just another cautionary tale of how being a lesbian will ruin your life, the lives of everyone around you, and always has/always will. 

Help me, I'm a lesbian.

It goes without saying, or should go without saying, that it is undeniably important to have films that show how lucky we (the lesbians) are now versus the amount of literal burning, beating, throwing-in-jail-happening, and "corrective raping" that was just a part of lesbian goings on back in the day. A lot is definitely better now in that lesbians can be allowed to legally marry - provided the person offering up the license is cool with having that happen - and we can 50% of the time buy a wedding cake/dress 50% of the places we'd want to do that. ¡Viva la Revolución! However, wouldn't it be nice if we could readily watch a film that's  just about two lesbians, or MANY lesbians, having a fun life together where no one gets raped, tries to kill themselves, or goes back to "the man?" 

Most of the lesbian movies I can think of off of the top of my head are tragic as shit. You've got Heavenly Creatures, the touching coming-of-age film where two lesbos fall in love and then kill a mom. Then there's Lost and Delirious where a scorned lesbo becomes so lesbo that she turns into a bird and flies off the roof of her school. Blue Is The Warmest Color is more or less three hours of insanity capped off by a return to "the dick." And Foxfire, a classic none the less, is about how being a lesbo will turn you into a heroin addict and/or make you go on a crime spree. There are only two exceptions to all of this that I can think of in my personal mental lesbo movie library and those are D.E.B.S. (aka, the best movie ever) and Imagine Me And You. 

The IMDB description for D.E.B.S is hilarious, considering it says literally nothing about the beautiful love affair that takes place between two female characters in the movie, which almost the totality of the film revolves around:

"Plaid-skirted schoolgirls are groomed by a secret government agency to become the newest members of the elite national-defense group, D.E.B.S."

The description for Imagine Me And You fucks it up too:

"Rachel and Heck, long time friends and lovers, finally tie the knot, and during the celebration, Rachel starts a friendship with their florist, Luce. And while Rachel originally intended to match her new friend, Luce, up with her husband's friend, Cooper, she soon finds out that Luce is a lesbian. During the course of their friendship, Rachel starts to question her own sexuality. And though she comes to realize she may have feelings for her new friend, Rachel must decide who she will ultimately find the most happiness with: Heck, her new husband who is also adored by her family, or Luce, who has turned her life and everything she thought she knew about love upside down."

What I'm gathering, to no surprise, is that the majority of lesbian movies have to be primarily tied to how directly lesbianism tampers with the lives of men. A lesbian can stray from men, but in the end, must return - or there are terrible consequences. A lesbian can stray from men, but she'll suffer abuse, and never be fully happy due to all the abuse that she (the lesbian) brought upon herself. A lesbian can stray from men, but she must be a predatory lesbo out about town, leaving her gloves in toy stores to ensnare naive straight women who don't know better, thus degrading themselves into an unhinged life of pussy licking in hotels that they'll never recover from.

   

What do we know about Carol? Is she a good person, or a bad person? The shit eating grin we're left with at the end of the film, to me, implies the latter. There was no obvious warmth in the eyes of either of the main characters as they re-connected at the restaurant in the final scene. If anything, it seemed that the parting message for viewers was "see, lesbians, you made your lesbian bed, now sleep in it. Lesbians!" 

At least no one got killed, or killed themselves. Really though, who has soup on a first date?

@WolfieVibes

I Guess I’m Into Astrology Now?

By: Ben Johnson

I have decided to like everything about this.

I’m not usually one to be taken in by new age anything, or spiritualism anything, or mysticism anything, or certainly anything where a random hippie with six remaining functioning brain cells preaches about self-actualization between bouts of compulsive high-pitched laughter. But I went through a breakup recently, and at the very apex of my melodramatic “I don’t deserve to be loved” self pity, at the exact moment when I was actually physically collapsed and on my knees in an embarrassing performance of despair, I got a text from my friend Lexie, who recommended Kaypacha. I could not possibly have been more susceptible.

I don’t know how late to the party I am on this guy. I have a feeling it’s medium late. I have a feeling this will reach a few people who’ll be like “oh yeah, eye roll, welcome to me in 2014.” If you’re not one of those people: there’s this guy on the internet named Tom Lescher, who calls himself Kaypacha and is a weird new age hippie who is really into astrology and lives in Costa Rica, of course, because of the weird gravitational pull Costa Rica exerts on this type of person. He puts out this weekly YouTube video called the Pele Report.

Here’s what happens in the average Pele Report: Kaypacha, off camera, talks at length about what’s happening astrologically, like where the planets and various heavenly bodies are, and what degree aspects they’re in, and he uses a bunch of gobbledygook astrological terminology about 60 degree T-squares. Usually he bitches and moans a little about how important astrology really is and how people don’t like this part of the Pele Report, but that it’s important to him. You feel kind of bad for the guy.

The hardcore astrology portion of the Pele Report lasts about 8-10 minutes, and, here I’m going to maybe sound harsh here to anybody who’s actually really into this stuff, is also complete ridiculous made up horseshit. I’m sorry. It is. If it makes you feel any better (and it should) religions, human culture, a great deal of science, and the entire economy of the world is also complete ridiculous made up horseshit. So even though I believe this thing you care about is stupid, I also firmly believe that it’s not essentially much stupider than anything else. Kaypacha, who seems like a solid enough dude, is really into it. A lot. He could talk about it nonstop for much longer than his customary 8-10 minutes, and I always get a sense he kind of wants to.

Even though I find the opening astrological portion of the Pele Report to be utter guff, I always watch it. The whole thing. It has a lulling, soothing effect. His babble allows me to turn my brain off for a few minutes while he fills it full of empty mush. It’s like a form of forced meditation, which is great for me because I tend to only meditate if and when I’m forced to. I get a majority of my meditation regimen done while in line at the post office. I’m a highly efficient meditator.

At this point in the Pele Report, Kaypacha steps in front of the camera to share his thoughts on what recent astrological events mean in people’s lives. The theme is mostly that there’s a necessary push and pull between one’s most elevated self and one’s earthly survival instincts, and that causes a lot of tension and pain and worry, and that’s to be expected and accepted and forgiven. He ties it to whatever’s happening in the sky at any given moment, but that’s the basic truth he’s peddling, and it never doesn’t bear repeating, because life is always weird and difficult.

Of course this part of the Pele Report is also complete horseshit, the kind of universally applicable but specific-seeming horseshit undergirded by the Forer Effect and the various human cognitive biases that form the entire basis for astrology and mentalism and all kinds of guru cons long and small. But it’s good horseshit. I like his horseshit.

What makes Kaypacha compelling is that he’s equal parts wise and impossible to take seriously. He says things like “forgive yourself for being born,” which is both pithy and a good thing to keep in mind, and then follows that with a straight-faced recommendation that you unwind from the stress of your life by playing as much didgeridoo as possible. Coming from him this is as translatable “your version of didgeridoo” actual good advice as it is simultaneously just about the whitest white person appropriation of native Aboriginal culture horseshit you’ve ever heard in your life.

You can’t get too mad at a guy whose whole thing is self-acceptance. There’s no point. He’s out there exploring the deep space of just how unconditionally you can love yourself. I keep myself on a very short leash, so I find it strangely inspiring to see this guy out there posting weekly 25 minute YouTubes about astrology from some compound in Costa Rica while wearing an entire craft fair’s worth of homemade jewelry. Even as I can’t help but also think “Oh God, this guy probably hasn’t worn underwear for at least a decade, Oh God, he probably has tantric sex with this wife he keeps mentioning, Oh God, he probably looks deep into her eyes and, like, breathes in her soul essence, Oh God, I’m gonna puke.”

Anyway, that’s what I’m into now. I loyally watch an astrology video every week. Life is weird, and help and wisdom can come from anywhere. You can click here if you want to watch some of this dude’s videos. You’re going to want to stop watching it while he’s talking about astrology. Don’t. Watch the whole thing.

Namaste aloha so much love.

@itisbenjo

Jiro Nightmares of Sushi

By: Pete Johnson

I have a couple of weird, ultra-specific daydreams I like to think about. They are both dumb. One of them is that I am in charge of hiring someone to do something, and during their job interview I show them a photograph of a rock. Like, a nice big old rock. I would then ask the applicant what they thought of when they looked at this picture of a rock. The answer I would be looking for would be an immediate "I want to stand on top of that rock." I would then hire this person on the spot, because I am a moron who should never be trusted to hire anyone to do anything.

One time I saw a picture of a rock and I noticed myself thinking "hey, cool rock. I want to stand on top of it." Then I developed this job interview scenario I think about sometimes. Real people would probably say the picture of a rock made them think about way more interesting things, which would be fun. What does this picture of a rock make me think about? I fucking need this job is all I can think about, you dickhead. What if someone cold responded with just "DEATH." 

The other daydream I have is that for some reason I show somebody a picture of a high stakes business meeting. Everyone is in power suits, someone is yelling, everyone looks rich but also stressed out. I ask this person; "who do you think is the smartest person in this picture?" No, I would say as I smugly stroke my graying beard. The smartest person in this photo is not any of the smart looking dipshit businessmen. The only smart person in the photo is the janitor in the corner, smiling to himself as he goes about his day. "The one smart thing you can do in this life is to be happy!" I will exclaim to the bird who is no longer listening. 

I just watched this documentary about a guy who spent his whole life making sushi. It is called Jiro Dreams of Sushi, and it is a fun way to spend some time thinking about how glad you are to not be an idiot who spent his whole life trying to be real good at something. This adorable, ancient man has spent his entire life trying to be the best at making sushi. He is pretty clearly the best at sushi, and is also the worst, dumbest guy.

There would be no difference at all between this guy and someone who spent their entire life doing push ups in a closet if rich people could eat push ups. The only resource any of us get that matters is time. This dummy spent all of his neglecting his children so he could be the best at sushi? 

Sushi is great. I love to eat lots and lots of sushi. It is a real treat when I get to eat sushi from literally anywhere that makes sushi. I think I would really like eating some of Jiro's world-famous sushi. I also know that I would really like eating some sushi made by the guy who held the boom mic during the filming of Jiro Dreams of Sushi. There would be a big difference to someone with a refined palete, but thankfully I do not have one of those. Refined palates are like a pair of those dangling truck nuts. If you own one you are an asshole and I feel sorry for you.

I've never really understood the need to leave a legacy. Great job, the guy who discovered tacos, but do you think anyone is going to be looking at your monument and giving a shit when the sun dies? You know what I want my legacy to be? Nothing. Here lies Pete, end of statement. He spent his whole life in one room eating hummus so he could continuously light his farts on fire and boy did he laugh like a maniac every time. Anything is better than he dedicated his life to being the best at making rich people go mmmmm for 3 seconds. Fuck you, Jiro.

@Johnny11Hours

The Case of Father John Misty and the Glenn Frey Second Line

By: Kelly McClure

It has been almost a year now since I moved from Brooklyn to New Orleans and I am still learning my way around the city, and all the different cultural things that the city has to offer. In the case of all the other places I've lived in (California, Illinois, New York, Washington) and the different little cities within those states that I dipped in and out of, there weren't very many societal "rules" that you needed to pay attention to aside from the obvious: don't be a dick, and don't wave your money and/or cellphone around after the sun goes down. Washington is an exception here I suppose because I quickly learned while living in Olympia that "tea" was a rule. You had to like tea, OR ELSE. New York was the easiest. New York just sucks you in like a big beautiful toilet bowl filled with a mucky mixture of everyone else's muck and is like "figure it out and don't cry about it." I like that. In New Orleans, there are rules. You move here and you basically need to keep your trap shut for like five years until you learn about everything enough to where you don't sound like an idiot when you talk. I barely feel comfortable saying "Second Line" out loud because it's like "can I say this? Am I allowed to say this? No? I'll give it another year." It's cool though. I'm putting in the work and I want to be here. And me wanting to be here means that I'm not trying to piss anyone off or do anything dumb. I will navigate around this city very gingerly until people stop looking at me like I moved here to flip houses. 

One of the things that I love about New Orleans is that it is quite literally like no other place on earth. People don't really care about the internet here, everyday feels like a weekend, and there is a constant stream of things to do, about half of which I understand, but am very eager to insert myself in. I have lived a lot of places and yet I have never seen anything like this place. It's unique by a mile, and I'm into it. I went to my first big-ish parade on Halloween and got to catch actual beads from an actual float for the first time. I quickly adapted my own unique way of doing that which was to just throw both arms in the air and hope that beads got wrapped around them like tree branches. It worked fine. We have beads on our front fence now, which is what some other people on our street do. We're fitting in. Last week we went to the David Bowie Second Line which was a thing that Arcade Fire put together to honor Bowie's passing. I bought a wig for the ocassion and we met up with our friends at the exact spot everyone was supposed to meet up at. We had the parade route saved on our phones, and a growler of wine in a tote bag. We were ready. Totally ready to stand in a growing swarm of people for 45 minutes then all look at each other at the same time like "what's happening? Did we miss it?" I don't know if the band jumped from the balcony we saw them give their intro speech from over our heads and down to another street or something but we didn't see shit. We caught some beads that some rich people threw upon us from a balcony above, then walked away in search of sandwiches. Our first Mardi Gras is coming up soon and we'll do better. We'll learn the rules better this time.

Yesterday, while sitting at my desk at home, my wife sent me a Facebook event link for THIS. Upon first glance of the event you would think that, yes, Father John Misty was organizing a Second Line of his own this weekend, this one intended to honor the passing of Glenn Frey from The Eagles, which is a totally normal thing that would just normally happen and then be seen on the internet. Mind you, I am not a personal fan of Father John Misty, or The Eagles, but we were like "OMG, this is ridiculous, let's go." I took things further and sent the link to my editor at Maxim and was like "OMG, this is ridiculous, let's write about it." Which I ALMOST DID, until taking a closer look at the parade route:

The "continue into river" part said it all. This was obviously fake. BUT! BUT! I better check, just in case. I mean, weird things happen every day. And also, they do that thing here where they walk kind of into the river to sprinkle the ashes of a loved one into the water, so I thought maybe "continue into river" could mean that in this instance. I emailed Father John Misty's publicist, Frank Nieto at Sub Pop.

People on the event page thought it was funny that I did that, but hey, again, you never know. And yes, I AM Sherlock Holmes. 

So after it was established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that this was fake I continued doing my daily work stuff. In my absence, things continued to brew and bubble into a full fledged shit storm.

First Father John Misty himself tweeted to be like "this aint real," which is normal. But then he went on to the actual Facebook event page and told everyone a story about the Rainforest Cafe.

So the lesson I learned yesterday was that if you get a Facebook event invite for something that seems questionable, ask about it. And if enough people inquire, Father John Misty will (regardless of the event in question) emerge and tell you a story about something. 

@WolfieVibes