What names have you been called?

(“Señorita Chupacabra”)

My family didn’t give me a nickname (except my brother that one time), but during the years, people have called me names, and I didn’t mind being called these names — most of the time.

“You sword-chinned bitch!” is what my little ten year old brother yelled at me in 1973, during an argument. Much later, I mentioned that to people, and they fell down, laughing on the floor, so I used that name as my first blogger name. It was a tribute to my brother, sort of.

When my first nephew was born, I was so in love with him that my coworkers started calling me “Auntie Sandee.” Then my second nephew was born, cementing my identity as a spinster aunt – I mean, as an aunt. Some of you bloggers picked up on it and started calling me “Auntie Sandee,” too.

I had a Jimi Hendrix-type boyfriend who used to call me “Sandor,” “Sandor the Barbarian,” initially. This was back around 1981. And this sticks! My sister, seven year old nephew, and best friend still call me “Sandor.” Sometimes, my sister calls me “Sandwhore” — a twist on the old moniker! When my three year old nephew begins to grasp more language nuances, maybe he’ll call me “Sandor,” as well. He just only learned to say “Sandee,” without it sounding like “Dadee.”

The next three mean the same thing – they’re transient names, because different people have used these names to describe me throughout the years. The long and short of it – I suppose I’m out there — the names are, “kook,” “space cadet,” and “nutcase.” Now, mind you, the names were always used lovingly. But, if you were to insert the prefix, “you fucking,” obviously, it becomes something else.

The last two names, “La Sucia” y “Chupacabra,” were given to me by a Mexican friend. “La Sucia!” he’d scream upon seeing me. Actually, it was I who gave me the name while chatting with him once, and he just latched onto it. Was I dirty that day? I can’t remember. Well anyway, “Chupacabra” is a name that we called each other. I’d call him “Chupacabra” then he’d call me “Chupacabra”– “Hey Chupacabra!” – “What’s up Chupacabra!” The name belonged to both of us, except for the times that he called me “Señorita Chupacabra.” Unfortunately, I’m not so friendly with him anymore.

It’s fun learning people’s nicknames. Have any of you been called the names that I have been called? Have you called anyone else these names? What kinds of names have you all been called?

Kanye West – Avant Garde?

Usually, I don’t watch the Grammys, but stumbled upon this year’s show. After the Kanye West “incident” at the Grammys, I’ve had this Beck song “Where It’s At” in my head, constantly. And that’s a good thing. Beck is “where it’s at!” A real artist. Original, honest. I feel the truth in his work. I’ve been into him for years.

It makes me want to pull my own teeth out when I hear pop entertainers, who need more than five people to work on one dumbass and hackneyed song, proclaim that they’re artists. While some true artists find their way into the hearts of the masses – Sly Stone, Prince, Stevie Wonder — having a fan base made up solely of the masses makes you nothing more than a commercial product. A writer for ‘Black Voices’ in the Huffington Post spoke of “socially constructed” pop stars, specifically referring to Beyonce: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kim-lute/dangerously-in-denial_b_6666334.html. But some pop stars do transcend into another strata because of the phenomenon of deification, when the masses turn you into a goddess or a god.

I wonder if Kanye West will ever see the error of his obnoxious ways. I kind of feel sorry for him, because I can see his desperation in trying to be “an artist”. But I don’t see where he actually is an artist. After the thing he pulled on Beck, and after reading about some of his delusional quotes, he just looks like a big baby, pathetically clinging to fame. And I wish people would stop patronizing him saying he’s a madman, implying some kind of genius. He’s someone interested in making a whole bunch of money who started believing in their own hype, and in what the masses were saying to him. Because he does have the support of the commercial industry and of the masses — pop entertainer clout — people who follow trends, and whatever pabulum happens to be marketed to them will be interested, no matter that it’s common bullshit. I don’t have a problem with common bullshit, and I like a lot of pop music. While I appreciate originality more, lying on the floor while performing doesn’t make you avant-garde, if what you’re singing or rapping about is common. Oh well, keep trying.

What do you all think about Kanye West interrupting Beck’s moment at the Grammys?

Now, this Beck song – it’s where it’s at!

Where Else Do I Post Selfies and Shoddy Phone Pictures Since I’m Not On Facebook Anymore (For Now)?

My previous post was about having cooties. This one’s about recovery. It was nothing serious, but I’m still certainly under the weather. Today was the first time I felt motivated to clean my apartment and go for a walk in my neighborhood. It was just the kind of look I liked outside, but colder than I’d thought.

I only just know how to make quinoa for dinner, so while I waited for my quinoa to finish cooking, I thought I’d post the pictures from my walk that I took with my new smartphone that I bought to replace my old-school Nokia. Really, the pictures don’t look much better than those sad ones I used to post with my low-tech phone.

But I like the sidewalk panel one because it reminds me of Gregory Crewdson. You can google image his work with light and panels and that sort of thing. I have a lot of nerve even uttering his name in the same paragraph including a description of a picture I took with a camera phone — haha! Oh, and I do like the one with the frozen river. The first one in the third row I took because I was actually trying capture this tall, thin man walking in front of me — I liked the imagery of his figure on that block — he walked fast and I couldn’t really get him. Don’t pay any mind to the stupid plastic bag in one of my photos of the trees in the park.

And of course since I’m not on Facebook anymore (for now anyway) I had to include selfies — where else am I gonna post selfies now? There’s one happy and one sad, to represent me with cooties and without.

I apologize but boredom brings out my vanities. So, in the end, I do feel better, and I did manage to burn my quinoa. By the way it’s 3am, and I should be crawling into bed soon. Goodnight…

The Cooties

My adorable nephews gave me cooties again. Last week I visited, and here I am a week later still sick. I thought it was a cold, but it could be bacterial. I’m going to my doctor tomorrow.

Though they flipped around like normal three and seven year old boys, I was constantly blowing the three year old’s nose, and the seven year old had the remnants of something from the week before, but he managed the snot better.

During my visit, I couldn’t teach the older nephew to play chess without the three year old flailing his arms at the pieces, with a constant stream of snot coming out of his nose. “Let’s make him ‘King of the Chess Game’,” proclaims my brilliant older nephew, with the idea of sitting his little brother in a chair above us, telling him that as ‘King of the Chess Game’, his job was to move our pieces. It worked for a bit. I counted three times that I had to blow ‘The King’s’ nose. The whole time I’m thinking, “Whatever this is – I’m getting it.”

On the “benefits” of being sick… I got a personal reply from a reputable journal saying “…this isn’t a standard rejection.” They praised my story, but can’t publish it at this time. They said I should send other work. If not for being homebound, and motivated by the “praise,” I might not be bothered to finish this other story that I started last year.

Another “benefit” of being homebound – movies. The first one — Sharknado! I’m a fan of absurdity, and in the movie, there were sharks climbing stairs, sharks on the highway, and of course, sharks in tornado funnels. And the ending – sublime ridiculousness! And I seriously loved Tara Reid and Ian Ziering (Pronounced eye-on – even better!) in this movie.

The second movie that I saw was Shampoo – totally sexy but deeper than that – and Warren Beatty was hot, of course.

I only saw the last half hour of this third movie. I don’t know if I could have handled the whole thing. I saw it in ’89. Glory with Matthew Broderick, Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman, is about the black 54th regiment during the Civil War. While netflix reviewers mostly gave this movie five stars, one person gave it one star saying, “Man’s inhumanity to man was too much for me. I saw only about fifteen minutes of the film.” I relate. The last half hour that I saw included a pre-battle talk that Broderick’s character gave to the men. I’m thinking, “No don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…” Finally, tears came, but what caused the gusher was the background music slowly infused into the scene – the Harlem Boy’s Choir — that did it! Thinking of my nephew’s sweet little voice didn’t help.

The final battle scene – hard to watch but riveting. Here’s that snippet from the Harlem Boy’s Choir – you’ll see what I mean:

Oh My God, I Kissed A Killer.

You don’t have to watch TV to know what’s actually on television, or what the latest thing in commercial industry happens to be. I knew Katy Perry’d be doing the Super Bowl. I recalled Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl,” a song that I hadn’t heard entirely, but entirely knew at the same time.

It’s standard commercial pop — I think her songs could be nice tampon commercials. They’re generic that way. I’m not a fan of Beyonce either, but I like Rihanna because she has a personality — I’ll just leave it at that.

So I go to youtube to listen to that corny ditty, “I Kissed A Girl,” and oh my god this other song comes up called “I Kissed a Killer” — now we’re talking!

I love this song. It’s old I think because she talks about meeting someone on aol — aw, cute!

I was hoping when I saw the title that it’d follow the pattern of the Perry song and be all like “I kissed a killer and I liked it,” but the lyrics are pre that song so it’s got its own lyrics. Yay! Here’s my new favorite song, “I Kissed a Killer:”

 

The Star of the Porno Downstairs

I was nervous about who might be moving in after the neighbors under me moved. They were quiet.

I listen to hardcore. But I have rules. I listen for only an hour at the level where somebody might hear it, and not before 10am or after 10pm. I also walk barefoot, and lightly.

We have to be reasonable about apartment life. You expect to hear vague rumblings of movement. Maybe you’ll hear people screwing.

People would tell me how they heard neighbors screwing. I never did, until now.

Finally, a month after the great neighbors below me moved, someone moved in. After a week I thought, Gee, he masturbates loudly.

While exercising lying on the floor, I heard his usual loud crying out. I pressed my ear to the floor. Gasp! I heard the woman!

This couple below me fuck almost every day!

And he’s loud for a dude! Usually you just hear the chick. I had a guy once who screamed like he was being murdered. The inflection of his screaming wasn’t sexual where it trails off ecstatically. It was more like a blood curdling scream.

I had to know what this new couple looked like.

But the nerve of this guy coming up to my apartment at 9:30pm on the weekend to complain about my music. It wasn’t that loud, for chrissake.

He knocks on my door. I’m naked and can’t open it.

Yes, I say through the peephole.

I’m your neighbor downstairs.

It’s the “fucking” guy! You need me to turn my music down?

Yeah.

Okay. I’m sorry. Goodnight, I says.

I tried getting a look at him through the peephole. I saw he was wiry. I had missed the opportunity to meet the star of the porno downstairs. Hey – I’ll throw on clothes and go down there – apologize about not opening the door – I’ll say I want to properly introduce myself.

So I knock on his door — and the “fucking” guy – he did what I had done and didn’t open his door.

Hi, just wanted to say I didn’t mean to be rude by not opening the door. I was getting ready to shower before, which is why I couldn’t open the door, I lie.

He tells me through the peep hole, Oh yeah, me too, now.

Uh, okay — have a good night, I says.

The “fucking” guy was probably naked and getting ready to fuck again.

I did meet him in the elevator last week and properly introduced myself. It was great! He wasn’t bad looking.

I think I might’ve finally met his girl too. Yesterday I got on the elevator with a red head. We said hello then she got off on the floor below mine and walked in the direction of the line I’m in – that had to be her!

Now, it’s white noise to me – sort of – I guess – unless I’m having a spell, you know.

I suppose I should “get a life.”

 

 

VIVA LA PAPPA CON POMODORO!

I wanted to know what the song was from the Heineken commercial. I detected that the language was Italian, and that it was probably from the 1960s.

I imagined an Italian Ann Margret type, hair all over the head, hip gyrations, mini dress, heavy mascara – that sort of a thing – oh my god I want to sing this! Anyhow, I found the singer. Rita Pavone! Damn she’s so fucking cute I can’t take it. The opposite of what I expected. ~Swoon~ I tried deciphering the translated lyrics — something to do with soup and tomatoes and a revolution or somethingorother. ~Shrug~ Hope there’s no evil underlying meaning or anything like that ’cause I love this fucking song! Yay! Eeee-yahhh papapapapahhhhhh!

Tallulah Bankhead!

I had the flu, so I stayed home and watched Cary Grant movies and this Tallulah Bankhead movie, “Die! Die! My Darling!” I know Tallulah Bankhead had done worthier films and in fact, I had always been intrigued by her, so I looked her up. We all know Wikipedia is “iffy,” but if the basics stand, Tallulah was completely deranged, someone I’d like to party with. Here are excerpts from the page:

…During these early New York years, she became a peripheral member of the Algonquin Round Table and was known as a hard-partying girl-about-town. …[She] began to use cocaine and marijuana, going as far as saying, “Cocaine isn’t habit-forming and I know because I’ve been taking it for years.”

…She didn’t like Hollywood either; when she met producer Irving Thalberg, she asked him, “How do you get laid in this dreadful place?”

Her 1932 movie Devil and the Deep is notable for the presence of three major co-stars, with Bankhead receiving top billing over Gary Cooper, Charles Laughton and Cary Grant. It is the only film with Cooper and Grant as the film’s leading men. She later said, “Dahling, the main reason I accepted [the part] was to fuck that divine Gary Cooper!”

In 1933, Bankhead nearly died following a five-hour emergency hysterectomy due to venereal disease. Only 70 pounds (32 kg) when she left the hospital, she stoically said to her doctor, “Don’t think this has taught me a lesson!”

She rented a home at 1712 Stanley Street, in Hollywood and began hosting parties that were said to “have no boundaries”.

Bankhead circulated widely in the celebrity crowd of her day and was a party favorite for outlandish stunts, such as doing cartwheels in a skirt while wearing no underwear or entering a soirée stark naked.

Rumors about Bankhead’s sex life have lingered for years, and she was linked romantically with many notable female personalities of the day, including Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Eva Le Gallienne, Hattie McDaniel, and Alla Nazimova, as well as writer Mercedes de Acosta and singer Billie Holiday. Actress Patsy Kelly claimed she had a sexual relationship with Bankhead when she worked for her as a personal assistant.

Bankhead never publicly described herself as being bisexual. She did, however, describe herself as “ambisextrous”.

She had been investigated by MI5 during the 1920s amid rumors she was corrupting pupils at Eton. The documents alleged that she seduced up to half a dozen private schoolboys into taking part in “indecent and unnatural” acts.

On December 12, 1968, Bankhead died in St. Luke’s Hospital in Manhattan at 7:45 a.m., aged 66. The cause of death was pleural pneumonia, complicated by emphysema, malnutrition, and possibly a strain of the Hong Kong flu which was running worldwide at that time. Her last coherent words reportedly were, “Codeine … bourbon.”

Hattie McDaniel? The Hong Kong flu? Even her death was extravagant.

Well folks, my next post may be about how I had to quit Clark Gable for Cary Grant. Until next time!

Godzilla!!!

“Godzilla” by Fu Manchu, my new song “for an evening of romance.” Feel the pulsation:

Other than that, all’s well and I need to take down my Halloween decorations:

I hope all the folks I’ve been blogging with the last couple of years are doing well!

So long!

Love,

Sandee

 

 

 

 

The Norm of Evil

I told my neighbor once that I want to be Kathleen when I grow up. “Oh really!” He said, looking at me sideways. Though we love her, she has a reputation for being — mean. Kathleen’s old, 87, and lives two floors down from me. She never married and rides her bike everyday. I gave her the bike helmet my dad bought me fifteen years ago. I was too vain to wear it. She still uses it. She’s feisty, independent and has a foul-mouth. She’s pretty with a pixie cut, sharply-defined chin and clear eyes. Kathleen came from Ireland in the ‘50s and has a slight brogue. When I’m running to and from like most people, she’s ambling along the street with Molly Malone, the tiny dog she named after a prostitute. “Oh hurry, hurry, hurry! — It’ll be the death of you, dear!” She’ll screech after me, her way of expressing the slight she feels when “we youngins” don’t have time to shoot the shit with her.

Her voice sweeps up in cadence at the end of her biting observations. I found her “observations” at one time quaint and refreshing. “Ooohhh what a little cunt that one is!” She’d say referring to the old French woman Hélène who lived in this building. I sort of agreed with that observation, but later decided that Kathleen had too many “observations” about people and that perhaps I didn’t want to be like her. She was too damn mean.

On her way to church, she told me about the woman she took to emergency one night. “Oh, Sandee she’s ab-solutely looney tunes! I picked her up and she was dripping in jewels as if she were going to the ball – when we were just going to the fucking emergency room.” The woman happened to have just walked by. Kathleen more or less talked about her in front of her face. “That’s not nice, Kathleen,” I said.

Another time she said she hated the banality, “Have a nice day.” I told her that we could use it as a euphemism for “fuck off and die.” So then I’d see her while I was rushing in and out the way she hates and I’d say in passing “Have a nice daaay!”

Yesterday she had the sweetest demeanor. I hadn’t seen her in a while. I hugged her. I know she needs love. She just gets on my nerves with that negativity shit – to the point where I avoided her last summer. She said, “I don’t know why I’m so happy all the time now.” There was a trembling vulnerability about her. We talked. “I was even humming earlier – that’s not me — for God’s sake Sandee, I think I’m going senile!” She said. Before I finished laughing she asked if I had planned to freeze my eggs, switching the subject quickly the way old people do often because of the ticking clock. “I hate eggs,” I told her. “These eggs.” She pointed to her stomach. “Hell no. I hate kids – I mean I don’t hate kids, I just never thought I needed any,” I said. Perhaps she was advising me on the regrets of not seizing time.

As we departed, she told me that I was the second person who’d hugged her that day. Finally, she said she got a diagnosis from the doctor. She had dyscrasia, she explained. But she said she felt healthier than a horse. “I’m ill,” she said, however. She didn’t look the least bit. I told her to please call or come up anytime – she has my keys. “Get a second opinion,” I advised. She was so pretty, small and delicate, possibly the side-effect of the news. It was a definite departure from her norm of evil.