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Beth Cato writes about wild adventures on airships. She writes about mechanical gremlins and sexy (sexy) stewards with long hair. She is a Steampunk Goddess. She is also soft-spoken, beautiful, and fond of spending time with neurotic other writers, namely me.
Our husbands set Beth and I up on a blind date over a year ago, because we were both “artists.” We fell into friendship easily, because indeed, we were both “artists” with quite a lot in common (including a love for British TV). When the news came that her debut, The Clockwork Dagger, had been picked up by Harper Voyager, I was one of the first to hear … and REJOICE! I mean, seriously, if there ever was a reason for celebration!
The Clockwork Dagger will be published September 16, but because I “know people” (um, Beth), I got a look at an ARC. My full review will be posted Thursday, but in the meantime, take a gander behind the red curtain and learn more about a girl who’s about to take steampunk by storm.
An H and Five Ws with Debut Steampunk Author Beth Cato
How did you come up with the world of Clockwork Dagger?
A number of years ago, I wrote a steampunk story I was unable to sell. A while later, I was trying to figure out a new novel concept and I hit on the idea of doing Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express, but on an airship with a healer as the main character. I decided to use the same world from that old short story, though I had barely developed it there. The characters from that story do show up briefly in my novel as well.
Who is your favorite character in your novel?
Oh, that’s such a hard question. I have to say Mrs. Stout. She’s inspired by one of my favorite television characters of all time, Mrs. Slocombe on the British comedy Are You Being Served? Mrs. Stout is a fifty-something woman with a loud voice, loud hair, and loud clothes, but as vibrant as she is, she carries some terrible secrets. She’s so over-the-top with her mannerisms that she’s a delight to write.
What is the best thing about being a writer? Worst thing?
Best thing, no question, is seeing people react emotionally to my writing. If I can make someone cry or feel angry or cheer out loud, it’s the most amazing thing in the world. The worst thing … rejection. Always rejection. Soon enough, I’ll have that in the form of harsh reader reviews, too. I fear my skin will never be thick enough to deal well with that.
Where have you felt most inspired?
I took a cruise to Alaska last summer. One morning, our ship traveled through the fjords to view a glacier. I sat by our open balcony door and wrote in my journal and read a book. We then did a day trip by bus and train from Skagway up into British Columbia. I breathed in that crisp air, as if I could store it in my lungs as long as possible. I knew I needed to write about characters going to these places. In my next book, I hope to do just that, though it will be hard for words to do justice to that wild beauty.
When (if ever) have you wanted to give up on writing?
I have an urban fantasy novel that I wrote and rewrote and wrote again. It was near and dear to my heart. The problem was, I worked on it for ages but I never had anyone critique it an an early stage. When that finally happened, the feedback was devastating. The book, quite simply, did not work. You can’t accept all critiques (some people are just plain wrong) but I knew this person was right.
I spent about three days in a horrible depression. I could barely eat or sleep. I really debated if I should completely give up, but then the next question was, “What am I going to do if I don’t write?” I couldn’t think of anything else. So, I figured, I need to fix this book. I need to prove I can write. I tore the novel apart. I rewrote it yet again. I had it critiqued by a whole group of people. Six months later, that novel is what snared my literary agent.
Why steampunk fantasy?
Adding magic and mythological creatures in with history makes things fresh. I made things a little easier on myself by setting the novel off Earth, so I didn’t need to rely on strict historical details, though a lot of World War I-era research still went into it. I had the chance to think about so many what-ifs: “What if battlefield medical wards could use healing magic alongside standard surgery? What could limit that magic? What if your enemy in trench warfare had fire magic … and airships?”
Airships in particular are a trademark of steampunk. I was obsessive about making them as realistic as possible. I based the principal airship in my book on the infamous Hindenburg, down to the room descriptions and the angles of the promenade windows. For me, those historical details make it more real and believable, even with the heavy reliance on magic. Plus, it’s just plain fun to write and to read!
Learn more about Beth at http://www.bethcato.com, and look forward to my review of The Clockwork Dagger Thursday!
Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch is a thirty-seven-year-old British actor who closely resembles either an otter or space alien. I’m really not sure if he was even considered mildly good-looking until 2010, when he premiered as title character Sherlock in the BBC’s modern adaptation.
Co-creators of the show Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat have famously been interviewed as saying the BBC didn’t think Cumberbatch was sexy enough to play Sherlock. Now, oddly enough, he’s considered one of the sexiest men on Earth, with a trove of maniac fans known as “Cumberbitches.”
Empire Magazine listed him number one in their list of 100 sexiest movie stars. He made Glamour Magazine’s list, too. Oh, and number one in the British Sun (two years in a row). In response to this, Cumberbatch says, “I enjoy being considered handsome, even though I think it’s hysterical.”
Do I think he’s good-looking? Yes. God, yes. (See obsessive Pinterest board.) That’s right, folks. Embarrassing as it is, I’m a member of Benedict’s maniac fanbase. And it is kind of embarrassing. When I was a kid, I had this thing for Brad Pitt (posters on the wall, signing my name “Sara Pitt”). I haven’t had that kind of obsession again until now, and I’m thirty-two and married.
What does this have to do with my career? Since getting to know Mr. Cumberbatch via BBC’s Sherlock, he has inspired countless fictional characters in my work, most notably in “Don’t Ball the Boss,” soon to be published by Stoneslide Corrective.
When he got his Emmy nomination.
The TV show inspired me to write fan fiction, as well. I’ve written
five pieces of
Sherlock fan fiction and have been shocked by the overwhelming response.
I’ve had women and men send me emails requesting more, more! They shout to the rafters that I should be published immediately. My Twitter following has possibly doubled. In fact, I once found my name mentioned in a Twitter conversation involving no less than six Cumberbitches. When I chimed in, one of them tweeted, “It’s her! It’s HER!” as if I were a celebrity.
My stories get upwards of two hundred hits per day. As writers, we very rarely get such immediate praise and develop such a fast following. Benedict Cumberbatch has unknowingly made me famous.
But the actor is more than creative inspiration. This is going to sound sappy, but he’s a life inspiration, as well. He was almost killed after being kidnapped in South Africa, but due to this terrifying experience, he just says he learned “not to sweat the small stuff. And just enjoy the ride of being alive.”
Apparently, he’s impossible to interview, because he’s like a fish with a shiny object. He’s easily distracted, due to his overwhelming enthusiasm. According to GQ writer Stuart McGurk, “I feel, compared with Cumberbatch, like someone going through existence with the contrast dial turned down. To him, it seems, everything is neon bright. The barbs may sting more sharply, but his sun must shine that much brighter.”
Taking pictures with fans.
co-star Martin Freeman said, “He’s sweet and generous in an almost childlike way. I could take advantage of him playing cards.” Other male co-stars seem to have developed complete bromances with Benedict (Michael Fassbender and Zach Quinto, for example).
Cumberbatch admitted recently that he’s seeing a therapist to deal with his new fame, and he admitted this with no shame, saying mental health should be more openly discussed.
In everything he does, he seems exuberant, fun loving (see U2 photo bomb), and incredibly polite. He worships his fans, and he says “thank you” every five minutes, even in the middle of the Oscar’s red carpet. When I said earlier he looks like an alien, he might really be an alien, because no human being can possibly be so damn sweet!
This is what I mean when I say life inspiration.
The man’s behavior, even as he has become a superstar, is jaw dropping. He has yet to go the way of Bieber or Lohan—stars who got famous and lost their shit. Instead, Cumberbatch has become more gracious, and according to Steven Moffat, “better looking the more famous he gets.”
Today, I say thank you to someone I’ve never met and will probably never meet, because unknowingly (and over and over), he has inspired me, made me laugh, and made me want to be a better person. He has improved my career (something even I never saw coming). And it all started while watching PBS, when I thought, “Wow, that man has great hair.”
Bromance dancing with Fassbender.
Jake and I saw Kings of Leon last night. I love them. I listen to them when I’m sad, angry, happy, when I want to dance. I listen to them always. Instead of doing a full concert review, I offer you my favorite of their kick-ass rock songs. And they played all of these last night at the Ak-Chin Pavilion.
1. Charmer
They opened with this ditty, hiding behind a curtain that made them look like ten-foot-tall ghosts. A creepy girl shouted from a huge TV screen. Warning: one of their wilder songs that showcases “the scream.”
2. Closer
An extremely sexy song I think is about vampires.
3. Molly’s Chambers
From their first album, back when I first fell in love with my boys. (Look at their hippie hair!!) Now, this is a dance song. This is a sexy woman power dance song.
4. Pryo
A melancholy tune that Jake occasionally does for karaoke. They rocked it last night, surrounded by images of flying flame.
5. Arizona
Well, it’s called Arizona. How cool is that? I like driving through the desert at night to this song, especially when the stars are out.
6. Back Down South
I want to move back east when I hear this song. I want to move back to Charleston and have an oyster roast.
7. Wait for Me
From the newest album, this one always strikes a chord. I scream the words … and try not to tear up. An affirming song about love and patience.
8. Cold Desert
Save the best for last. When they played this last night, a wave of fake snow fell on the crowd. Talk about theatrics. I might have sobbed a little. I get emotional around music I love, okay?
Last week, we celebrated the veto of a ridiculous discrimination bill (SB 1062), which means (yay) I don’t have to leave the state. On a personal note, I received word that my first published work of 2014 will be my short story “Don’t Ball the Boss”—an audacious gay romance about a celeb and his PA.
Finally, though (and come on, most importantly), last Thursday was Dallas Arizona’s birthday. I met Dallas a couple years ago. He’s probably the most famous gay guy in Phoenix and not only because he’s hot but because he’s sweet and he can dance. He dances often, all over the city, but my favorite venue for a good old Dallas time is at Ice Pics Video Bar on McDowell.
The place looks scary from the outside because there are no windows, and the front door is sort of hard to find. Whenever I’ve gone there, I’m one of the only chicks; seriously, you can hear crickets singing when I walk in the front door.
Ice Pics is dark on purpose. Inside, there are TV screens everywhere, playing clips of old musicals and current music videos. There’s a dance floor and stage. They have indecently cheap drinks. And despite the fact that my girlfriends and I are usually the only chicks, we feel welcome.
The thing I’ve realized about Ice Pics: you have to come prepared. The friendliness of its clientele can be truly overwhelming. Case in point: Thursday, Dallas’s birthday. As soon as I saw Dallas (who was wearing nothing but fluorescent yellow underwear stuffed with dollar bills, of course), I was wrapped in a huge hug and my picture was taken. I was introduced around, hugged some more.
I’m in there somewhere …
I soon had gay boys circling me like friendly, smiling sharks. They wanted to talk about my outfit, my hair, my body, my lipstick. If you don’t take a complement well, do not go to Ice Pics. You will shrivel and pass out under the adoring scrutiny of the men inside.
When I go to Ice Pics, I feel like I’m on vacation—and, it seems, so does everyone else. There is long, loud laughter and sudden, unexpected stage performances by Dallas and his crew. One second, you’re outside talking to a strange, tall boy in multi-colored skivvies. The next, you’re inside, and Dallas is in a wig and glitter, dancing to the Bee Gees. Next, you’re on stage, too! You just never know.
Last week, we in Arizona celebrated the epic failure of a disgusting piece of legislature, but we also celebrated Dallas. I’m happy to know him, and I’m happy to live in a place with a pretty rocking gay scene.
I have been following the career of mandolin virtuoso Chris Thile for over ten years now. He’s a year older than me, which means that while I was chugging beer at Ohio University, he was already on tour. I’ve seen him perform three times, as of last night, and the man never, ever disappoints.
I took along a novice as my date, and as I explained to her the wonder that is Chris Thile, she said, “I think you have a crush on him.” Oh, okay, maybe, but it’s not because he’s hot or mysterious or dark. I really have a crush on the music, and I think my girlfriend now feels the same.
The Musical Instrument Museum is a cool place to wander. There, you can see weird instruments you’ve never heard of as well as instruments played by some of your favorite musicians. The venue housed inside has been called one of the best in the world by musicians who’ve played there, and by the end of his show, Thile agreed. I do, too; he’s never sounded so good.
Chris Thile is a quirky guy. He has nice clothes, yes—well-cut, stylish, colorful suits—but he can’t tame that wonky blond hair. He dances when he’s on stage. He moves with the music like an eighties hairband head-banger. Between songs, he goes on long tangents, akin to a stand-up comedian. Last night, he even admitted: “Most of my banter doesn’t go anywhere.” Yet, the audience was not perturbed, because Thile is too charming and wide-eyed to be a nuisance.
He hit several high notes for me, including segments from his four-part suite “The Blind Leaving the Blind,” which chronicles his painful 2004 divorce. He did a Fiona Apple cover, connecting my favorite female musician to my favorite male. As if that wasn’t enough, he attacked Bach (which he described as a huge musical cube in the center of his set).
As a solo musician, I assume you worry you’ll be boring up there all by yourself, but Thile’s set list kept us glued to our seats. He jumped from classical to covers to sad songs to songs that paused in the middle due to audience hysterics (see “If You’re Gonna Leave Me Set Me Up With One of Your Friends” or, my personal favorite, “Too Many Notes”).
Thile is thankful, modest, and so comfortable on stage, you’d think he lives there. He is the epitome of a one-man show: a genius talent and an improv expert. He received three standing ovations and deserved many more.
Post show, we all stood around, hoping he’d show his face (as he did when I met him last year at Crescent Ballroom). Alas, there was no sign, so my girlfriend and I prepared to hit the road … until we walked outside. I spotted Thile, and in stiletto heels, I scampered to a parked car where I found my music crush and said, so eloquently, “Can I, like, talk to you for a second?”
We shook hands and reminisced over the Crescent Ballroom show. We talked high points of his solo tour and his upcoming reunion with his first band, Nickel Creek. I thanked him for being, well, him, and I even got my second (second!) Chris Thile hug before we separated in the night—him to dinner with his in-laws and me to a giggle fit in my car.
There is something to be said for great musicians. There is even more to be said for great musicians who are polite. They have a way of inspiring fellow artists to be the best they can be. Thile works hard, you can tell; he makes me want to work hard at my craft, too, but I hope I remember more than just that. I hope I remember to always be humble and never forget to say “thank you.”
Kmart recently launched a new ad campaign for Christmas that features two happy shoppers “giffing out.” I know what you’re thinking: Kmart still exists? If you’re not thinking that, you’re thinking: What the hell is a gif? Well. Let me introduce you to one of my favorite time wasters.
A “gif” is an image format. Unlike the boring “jpeg,” a gif format supports animation. Basically, you can turn any video into a repeating image that repeats and repeats and honestly grows funnier the more it repeats.
Who has time to turn videos into gif files? I have no idea, although I often wonder because they show up so fast. You see something funny on the news? It’s probably a gif before the show even reaches your TV. I mean, these people are fast—like, faster than a Cumberbitch with a camera at The Hobbit premiere.
For me, gifs exist to make me laugh—and they do, often. And who doesn’t need a laugh, right? I’m not a computer nerd, but I did laugh at the new Kmart commercials. I say bravo to them for being hip with computer folk.
True, there are those who think the “giffing out” commercials are immature–but laughing at gifs is immature, so the advertising makes perfect sense.
Thanks honestly to all the insane fangirls, comics, and internet-obsessed who give me the gift of gif. Merry Christmas to me!
Suicide Girls. Blackheart Burlesque troupe.
There is something really hot about a chick with black lipstick and tattoos. I’m fake punk; I know this. I wear dark lipstick, makeup, and tight t-shirts with snarky sayings. However, I also clean up well and look very nice in a white dress. Oh, and I only have one tattoo. I couldn’t be a Suicide Girl, but oh, how I would like to be!
I attended Suicide Girls’ Blackheart Burlesque at the Marquee Theater in Tempe. Initially, I bought tickets because I love burlesque. Only secondarily did I look into the Suicide Girls, although as I understand it, the majority of my male friends knew about them already.
Suicide Girls is a website, created by two Portsmouth, Oregon, folk who wanted to see “hot punk rock girls naked.” To be a member of the website, you must pay, and it’s become an international phenomenon, now based in Los Angeles. There are books by the Suicide Girls, as well as movies and a tour.
Priddy Suicide. Pardon my drooling.
The Blackheart Burlesque show is a little different than the tour, because not all Suicide Girls can dance—and the BB girls … they could freakin’ dance. The lead cast of the show was only four ladies. I could have gone for more, but the four did not disappoint—Priddy Suicide, in particular. Talk about a hot chick. Yipes. Each of the four women was different: different colored hair, different tattoos, different body shapes. What did they have in common? Severe confidence and an edge.
The Blackheart Burlesque was very much about nerd love. Since I’m a nerd, I appreciated all the cultural references. This wasn’t a stupid strip tease. This was everything from The Big Lebowski to Planet of the Apes to Star Wars. True, Star Wars in g-strings with duct tape over nipples—but Star Wars!
I was about six rows back, but the front couple rows got covered in everything from fake blood to whiskey. And how could I forget the birthday cake? At one point, the MC covered her breasts in birthday cake and let the audience lick frosting from her fingers. Priddy Suicide even poured whiskey into her own mouth and then spit liquor into the awaiting, open mouths of her fans.
Half the troupe was British (hot). But of course, Priddy, the whiskey-chugging, foul-mouthed, ample-breasted redhead, was American. Thank you.
The Suicide Girls are not about dotting letters with little hearts. They aren’t about being sweet or shy. Although burlesque is the art of tease, this was teasing with a fist to the head. Whenever you open a show with Bjork’s “Army of Me,” what can you expect? Nothing less than one kick ass performance from four kick ass women who chew men up and spit ‘em out like bad sushi.
The Suicide Girls do Star Trek.
Brad vs. Brad.
My father has always considered me shallow. (Like he can talk; he used to judge college girls’ outfits from my apartment window in Athens, Ohio.) Daddy’s right, though; I am shallow. Look at my husband. However, I would like to point out to my father and to all of you … I’m not the only one.
This came to my attention most recently thanks to a box office flop.
The Fifth Estate is the fictional-based-on-fact account of WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange’s rise and fall as conspiracy theorist and (arguably) American terrorist. According to the Huffington Post, this film, released October 31st, is “the biggest wide-release flop of 2013.” The director blames Assange and his underlying omnipresence in the media.
I blame a blond wig, brown contacts, and a funky accent.
The film stars Benedict Cumberbatch—my current Hollywood crush. (I like to keep one around; gives a girl something to look forward to in movie theaters.) Cumberbatch—or “Benny,” as I call him—is best known for the BBC’s Sherlock and his role as Khan in Star Trek: Into Darkness. He’s also best known for black hair, icy blue eyes, and a voice that Britain’s Times likens to “a jaguar hiding in a cello.”
Now. Take these things away from Benny, and what do you have? A lanky, odd-looking, British nerd who can act.
How is this even possibly the same dude?
This was The Fifth Estate’s mistake. To play Julian Assange, Benny had to look like the guy—and he did! In spades! But as Cumberbitches (Benny fans), we don’t want to see him looking like Julian Assange. We want to see him looking HOT. Ergo film floppage.
Now, let’s discuss Little Favour.
Little Favour is a short film, released today on iTunes, starring dear Benny. In the film, Cumberbatch has:
- Shaggy, black hair.
- Bright blue eyeballs.
- A DEEP … BRITISH … VOICE!
So far, word of the short firm has spread like a computer virus on all forms of social media. According to Empire Online, it is the highest selling short in iTunes history, even before its release!
Every Cumberbitch the world over probably has a copy already, and he/she has watched the short film a dozen times. (Well, er, I have, at least.) Anyway, Little Favour made me realize how shallow I/we really are! I mean, we say we love this guy, but we won’t go see him in a blond wig, will we?
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to admit to prodigious superficiality. Additional examples:
- Brad Pitt: Saw him immediately in Seven; skipped Twelve Monkeys.
- Val Kilmer: worshipped him in Tombstone; had no interest once he got fat.
- Ryan Reynolds: will watch even bad, bad movies just because he’s in them.
SHALLOW!!!!!!!!!
I don’t want you to think I feel bad about this. I don’t. I’m very proud that my husband has earned the nickname “Hottie McHotterson” amidst my girlfriends. I acknowledge my Benedict board on Pinterest almost solely includes pictures of him with black hair (he’s actually a ginger). I am shallow, and well … I’m okay with it. But I’m not alone.
Why, Val? WHY???!
Your call: which picture is from the drag show?
Differences between a drag show and a bluegrass fest? There are a few. A drag show smells like cigarettes and glitter; a bluegrass fest smells like weed and nag champa. People at drag shows wear evening gowns and three-piece suits; people at bluegrass festivals wear tie-dye and tattoos. At drag shows, gay men show me pictures of their ex-boyfriend’s sculpted abs; at bluegrass fests, people show you bare skin that’s never seen a gym. See? Differences.
On Friday night, I was honored to attend the Elements drag show at BS West as a VIP (thanks to Ms. Tiffany Brown and dear dancer Dallas). The Elements cast of characters are known nationwide. They’re pageant winners and local celebrities, and I had a front row seat. BS West, however, is impossible to locate. The gay bar is in downtown Scottsdale, where I already get lost. Throw in a back alley entrance (no pun intended), and I was a lost lamb among Scottsdale popped-collar wolves. Anyway, I finally found the place, and I was pleased to find our seats in the very, very front row.
The Elements cast didn’t hit the stage until about 10:30 (way past my bedtime), but I was hopped up on Diet Coke and ready to roll. Opening with a trio rendition of “Stop, in the Name of Love” never hurts, followed by several amazing artists who lip-synched to icons like Whitney Houston, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera. More than lip-synching, these bitches could dance! I mean, we’re talking Rockette-style kick lines, side splits, back handsprings, and gyrations that would make Shakira jealous. The drag queens were spectacular, gorgeous, meant to be worshipped—and they were, openly, by the adoring crowd, who waved dollar bills like white flags of surrender.
Then, there was Dallas—the one male dancer of the night not in drag. Dallas is an Usher lookalike who, let’s face it, moves even better than Usher. Plus, I’m pretty sure Usher doesn’t have the guts to wear nothing but an American flag string thong on stage. He gave a bachelorette party one hell of a show, and I admit, by the end of the evening, my throat was coarse from screams of animal ferocity.
That night, I dragged my tired butt to bed at 2 AM, but I’ll be back to BS West, because they put on one heck of a good show. The bar features several special events (including the Prima Donna pageant tomorrow), and every Thursday, there’s an all-male dance review. How awesome is that?
Duo de Twang.
From Scottsdale to downtown Phoenix … Sunday, Jake and I attended the
McDowell Mountain Music Festival. We attended last year, as well, but I was excited to discover this year’s fest would take place at the Margaret T. Hance Park downtown. The Hance Park is that mysterious span of green above the I-10 tunnel between Seventh Avenue and Seventh Street. Although I knew the space would be sweet, the lineup is what caught my eye, most notably … Les Claypool.
I first saw Les Claypool at All Good Festival years ago. I adored him then, back in those innocent days of pot-smoking and the occasional magic brownie. He is the astoundingly creative, eccentric bass player of bands like Oysterhead, Primus, and my favorite, the Frog Brigade. When I saw his name on the lineup, I had to be there to see him perform with his new project, Duo de Twang, an acoustic outfit, featuring Claypool and guitarist Marc “Mirv” Haggard.
Not only do these boys have talent, but together, they have charisma. I was blown away by finger-picking, slide guitar, and of course, Claypool’s vocal oddity. Watching the Duo de Twang, my head felt light; it might have been the kids toking up next to us, but I think my happiness was due to the deep, chest-shaking bass of the super-talented Les Claypool.
McDowell Mountain Music Festival has been around for ten years, and it continues to grow. Jake and I don’t quite fit there, because we don’t own tie-dye; Jake doesn’t have long hair; and I don’t have a flowing hippie skirt. However, none of that mattered. The music mattered. The beautiful weather mattered. The weird eight-foot-tall puppets? They mattered.
Yeah, drag shows and bluegrass festivals are different, but there’s one thing they have in common: both venues bring people together. The differences don’t really matter when the commonality is so freakin’ cool.
Hmm. Drag show or bluegrass fest? Tough call.
By:
Sara Dobie,
on 12/6/2012
Blog:
Sara Dobie's Blog
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- Befriend their roadie, their merchandise guy, and club security.
- Send the band shots of tequila and a note.
- Basically … just show up.
I saw my favorite band of all time last night. I was nervous. So nervous. Why? I was worried I wouldn’t meet them—that they would be so close, here in Phoenix for the very first time, and I would miss them somehow. I felt the endless anxiety over dinner with my gal pals pre-show. Then, we entered the venue, and I talked up the merchandise guy, who said, “Yeah, if you buy them shots, I’ll send them to the green room.” What better than tequila? I mean, we’re in Phoenix, right? I sent them their shots, along with a note with my name. I’m sure my girlfriends thought I was just a nut, but I didn’t care. I had to meet THE PUNCH BROTHERS.
The phenomenal Chris Thile.
I’ve known their music since the band’s foundation, thanks to an amazing performance experience back in Charleston, SC, at the Cistern Yard downtown. Once I moved out here, I pre-ordered every CD, every single. I wrote a letter to their rep, begging they come to Arizona, because they never come to Arizona (something I was not aware of when I moved here, ah-hem). In response to my letter, I got an autographed poster, but still, no word of an upcoming show.
Then, months ago, while enjoying cocktails at Carly’s, I saw the flyer: the Punch Brothers were coming to Crescent Ballroom. I remember staring at the flyer, thinking, “No, it can’t be true. I’m obviously hallucinating thanks to this delicious jalapeno-infused tequila.” Some kind of Mexican agave voodoo? Nay. They really were coming to Phoenix. That night, I bought my tickets: good thing, too, since they apparently sold out.
I’ve been waiting for weeks, counting down the days to December 5th. Then, yesterday, the day arrived. I did nothing productive all day. I got a massage and laid around my house, so panicked was I at the prospect of not meeting the Punch Brothers while in my hometown.
At Crescent Ballroom, after sending my note and the round of shots, I was pretty confident I would make an impression. Then, I waited. The Milk Carton Kids opened for them—a fabulous duo from LA who were equally talented at music as well as comic repartee. Loved them. Then, my boys came on stage, and I’m pretty sure I almost passed out. It was unreal. I mean, the Punch Brothers were three feet in front of me (because I was obviously at the front of the crowd).
Always moving …
The show is a blur. They played a lot of new stuff, some old stuff, mostly upbeat, although I do love their sad ones. Thankfully, they played my most recent obsession, “Another New World,” and their song list gave me a chance to do a lot of clapping, knee-slapping, and general “woohoo”-ing. They have such presence, these boys. They thrive off each other’s energy. They dance around the stage (which made it very hard to get good photos). The audience can feel that energy, and by the end of the show, we were begging for more, more, more. On several occasions, vocalist and mandolin player Chris Thile made the comment, “I can’t believe we’ve never been here before!” I agree. Punch Brothers, Phoenix has been waiting, and we expect you to come back.
After the show, I literally ran into Gabe Witcher, the phenomenally talented fiddle-player who I love. I almost fell over myself trying to make coherent conversation. Then, I turned around, and there was banjo man Noam Pikelny, who I also approached for an autograph and to give extreme kudos. I didn’t see the rest of the band, and I was all set to go home. I left the venue, dejected at not having met, okay, my favorite band member, Chris Thile. That’s when the roadie I met earlier said, “He’s standing outside the bus right now.” In high heels, I ran, damn it, and it was true: there he was.
Me and Chris.
I walked up and said, “I’m Sara. How was the tequila?” to which he replied with much hugging. We reminisced over their Charleston performance years before. He signed my Moleskin and gave me another hug before we had our picture taken together—a fan’s freakin’ dream. Then, I waved and was gone, making him promise the Punch Brothers would one day come back to the Valley of the Sun.
So meeting the Punch Brothers? Pretty easy. Probably because they’re five charming, humble, hilarious dudes, who love good bluegrass and love their fans. I’m so thankful to have discovered them years ago. I’m thankful they came to Phoenix. I’m thankful God made such talented musicians, because the Punch Brothers manage to inspire and entertain with every show. Thanks, boys, for a great night! I’ll see you next time!
Whatever you do, don’t take this blog post seriously. Or you can, if you want. I’ve found a groundbreaking way to fight depression. I call it MADATL, short for MacGyver, Arrested Development, and The League. When I’m depressed, I can’t move. I literally want to sleep all day and pout. After the past month of fighting this horrible disease, I’ve become really, really good at pouting—so good, in fact, that I fear my face might permanently stick that way, like Mom always warned.
Although I am in no way healed (yet), I have found a solution to my pouting. Believe me, I’m not a big watcher of television. I would usually rather read books, but because of my depression, I’m always tired, and reading books just makes me even more tired. Therefore, I recently turned to TV, namely Netflix, and I’ve discovered the joys of three shows to which I owe a great deal of gratitude.
MacGyver is all Jake’s fault. He was the original proponent of this horrendous eighties program, insisting I just watch an episode to see what I thought. Although admittedly, the show is dumb, I fell in love. MacGyver is basically the best human being on earth. Not only is he best friends with everyone, but women love him, he’s charitable, and he can create a bomb from, like, rust and nail clippings.
The show is, of course, totally unrealistic. (For instance, here’s the Best MacGyver Escape Ever.) I mean, how often can one guy come across terrorists randomly, right? But MacGyver always has a happy ending (a freeze frame ending, even; you know, where the final shot is of MacGyver laughing, and they linger on that freeze frame until the credits start?). Also, it’s insinuated that MacGyver probably gets laid just about every time there’s a woman involved. Highly uplifting, even in the pits of despair.
Arrested Development was a show Jake and I heard about but never saw. We decided to watch a couple episodes. It’s about a rich family who loses everything, because Daddy goes to jail for fraud … or tax evasion … or something. I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s in prison, so his son (played by Jason Bateman) has to keep the company and the family together.
Although the first couple episodes were almost too ridiculous to swallow (including a magician brother who rides a Segway and a young Michael Cera in love with his cousin), I am now obsessed with watching every episode. The absurdity that at first annoyed me has now convinced me of the show’s utter genius. (For your viewing pleasure, an Arrested Development Chicken Dance compilation.) I laugh at least a dozen times per episode, and the episodes are only 21 minutes long. Talk about easy escape from sadness!
Then, finally, The League. The League is about a group of buddies in a fantasy football league, and it features one of my favorite comedians, Nick Kroll. I watched the first season before realizing the program is only partially scripted. The writers lay out a basic plotline, but most of the put-downs and general crap-talking is all ad-libbed, which makes me love the show even more.
2 Comments on The Cure for Depression is MADATL, last added: 7/31/2012
Tubing the Salt River is like Mardi Gras, except it takes place on inner tubes in a river, and instead of beads, you throw marshmallows. I didn’t know any of this going into it. I just knew we needed to bring water shoes, snacks, and a hell of a lot of beer. Oh, and sunscreen. Gobs and gobs of sunscreen.
The Salt River is a short drive from Phoenix, located in the Tonto National Forest near Mesa. Upon arrival, it was hard to believe such a beautiful, mountainous, untouched-by-man place could exist so close to the city. I was reminded of Zion National Park, the Narrows hike—a river surrounded by two sheer cliff faces. Once we had our tubes (a fifteen dollar rental, which includes the bus ride to the “launch site”), we were ready to go.
Or not. See, first you have to make your raft. Jake and I went along with five other people. You don’t want to lose these people (which, trust me, did happen once or twice, thanks to unexpected rapids and one cooler rescue mission). Using rope, you must tie your inner tubes together, ideally with the coolers tied in the center for easy access. I watched all this happen while drinking a beer in a bikini on a beach at, oh, eleven AM, under the scalding Phoenix heat.
I could totally do this for a living.
Another thing: you gotta cover your inner tubes with sheets to keep them from getting too hot. I also learned that the sheets acted as a support system, which allowed me to balance in the middle of my inner tube, Indian-style, for most of the trip … whenever I wasn’t going Navy Seal-style on marshmallow attack missions.
So what’s the deal with the marshmallows? I honestly don’t know. I know we were told to bring marshmallows, but I didn’t fully understand the fire-fight (or pastry-fight) that was due to ensue. Strangers, complete strangers, barrage you with marshmallows all the way down the four-hour river ride. Of course, retribution is sweet. By the end of the day, I was like Upton throwing a run-saving line drive to Montero at home. The huge marshmallows were like prized possessions, and several of our group often went diving halfway across river to grab one of those monsters.
As I mentioned, there were moments when people were almost lost. The Salt River is not, I repeat, not free of rapids, and they have a way of sneaking up on you. All you can do is hold on tight—to each other and to the coolers—and hope for the best.
If I could spend every Saturday tubing the Salt River, I would. It felt a lot like the Rockville Regatta in Charleston, South Carolina, where a bunch of strangers tie their boats together and have a day of romping. On the Salt River, you’re best buddies with everyone. You do strange things for beer (things that will not be mentioned here) and make great friends with funny lesbians (don’t ask). You get body-slammed into deep, blue water, and it’s great. It’s all great!
The Salt River is a place where fully grown adults can pretend, for one afternoon, to be kids again. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I would suggest you go, as soon as possible. Don’t forget your marshmallows, and be sure to buy more beer than you think you could possibly drink—beca
Ms. Jenny.
This past Friday night, Jake and I were sitting around watching
Trollhunter—a B-horror movie from Norway—when our pal Brandon showed up at the front door. I had a couple seconds to think, “Huh, why is Brandon showing up at our house when he knows Jake has to work tomorrow?” Then, a girl walked in behind him, and I swore I knew her from somewhere. Then, in the dimness of our living room, I recognized the smiling face of my chica from Charleston, Jenny, who Jake had secretly flown in as a super spectacular birthday present to me. The next minute is kind of a blur, but I’m pretty sure there was a lot of hugging and cheek kissing and crying. So began my thirtieth birthday weekend.
Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly. I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.
I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.
Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them. We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.
Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.
At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thi
I’m extremely fond of Veronique Vienne, author of masterpieces like The Art of Doing Nothing and The Art of the Moment—small, square-shaped books that hold a lifetime of French wisdom. In the latter of the two aforementioned books, Vienne dedicates a chapter to “The Art of Wonder.”
Quote: “Your attention can allow you to see the beauty of a vacant lot, of an overpass, of a parking lot, even of a blank wall. … In contrast, when you are self-involved (when you are held hostage by your internal dialogue) everyday reality feels quite banal. If you are in a distracted mood, everything is a blur, a drone, a blah—a so-what. … Absorbed in your thoughts, you are not mindful of what’s going on around you. Why should you be? As far as you are concerned, nothing is happening. But wait a minute! Are you sure that nothing is happening? Or could it be that what you assume is ‘nothing’ is, in fact, the lull that precedes a really important event.”
Last week, I experienced events that pulled me out of my banal internal dialogue and threw me into the magical world of wonder. Let me share them with you.
First, I attended a beautiful luncheon at the Phoenix Art Museum. Following my lovely lunch, my companion and I walked around the museum. We almost missed the exhibit that would change my day—and possibly my entire mindset—until a museum guide said, “Did you see the fireflies? You have to see the fireflies.” The fireflies were hidden on the second floor. The only indication that they were actually present was a small white arrow painted on a big, black wall. That little arrow led me into a true out-of-body experience.
The installation is called “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies” by artist Yayoi Kusama. Walking in, you are consumed with blackness until your eyes begin to focus and then you see them: the fireflies. They’re really just a bunch of LED lights, hung at different levels, reflected in mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Sounds simple, and yet, inside the installation, I lost myself. I lost any sense of my body or mind. I lost the worries of today and the fears of tomorrow. I just stood there and allowed myself to be obliterated. Now, in moments of stress, I try to remember the fireflies, and I plan to go back as soon as possible.
On Thursday night, I attended a volunteer appreciation event at the Arizona Science Center. I was there for one reason and one reason alone: Van Gogh Alive. Combining the troubled artist’s work with light, music (the one they played with Starry Night HERE), and animation, this exhibit is a must see. There are strategically placed benches, and I could have sat there for hours. Not only was the art stunning (especially when projected on room-size canvases), but Van Gogh Alive felt a lot like the fireflies. I lost myself. I had no worries. I felt peaceful, relaxed, and very Zen. The exhibit will be open until June 17. Don’t miss it, and try to go very early in the morning or late in the day. It’s more fun when there are less people around.
Finally, Friday, Jake planned a super-secret date. He told me to wear a nice
Saturday night, dressed as my wicked witchy self, I had the pleasure of attending the Hotel San Carlos’ Ghosts of Phoenix tour. I was not disappointed.
The Hotel San Carlos officially opened in 1928. It was the premiere luxury hotel of its day and the first hotel in Phoenix to feature air conditioning! Plenty of famous folk stayed the night, including Mae West, Clark Gable, and the lovely Marilyn Monroe (who has a suite named after her near the pool—of course). The years have passed, but the hotel is still a beautifully spooky spot with antique lighting and long hallways, reminiscent of Kubrick’s Shining.
Being so old (old in a Phoenix sort of way, that is), the Hotel San Carlos has plenty of ghost stories—which the staff was oh so happy to share. The Hotel San Carlos is famous for its history and alleged hauntings. It has been featured on the Travel Channel’s “Weird Travels” and received the #3 spot on Horror.com’s list of “America’s Top 10 Haunted Hotels.” Oo-oo-oo … spooky!
It helped that the night itself felt spooky, as nights near Halloween are wont to do. By the time I arrived, the sun had long since set, and the busy city bustled beneath a star-lit sky. When I walked into the hotel, I noticed the Ghost Lounge was covered in creepy cobwebs. A wedding reception was in full swing near the lobby, the bride wearing a dress that would have fit fine in the late 1920s. Basically, the scene was set.
Our tour guide, Julia, was a heck of a storyteller. First, she took us down to the dastardly dark basement, where the ghosts of three children apparently like to play. The adoringly curious crowd snapped several photos, and even I caught a ghoulish “orb” on film. Then, it was up to the seventh floor, where the ghost of actress Leone Jensen floats. Leone jumped from the roof of the hotel, but her death was suspicious. She wore a fancy evening gown, and she was still clutching her purse. Plus, why would a suicide victim have mysterious bruises on her wrist?
The list of strange deaths goes on, but the tour is definitely worth it for the spook factor. It added greatly to my Halloween mentality, the staff was spook-tacular, and I can’t wait to someday spend a night in the haunted Hotel San Carlos. The tours will continue on through December, so get in touch with the hotel and book your reservation! All the info you need is on the Ghosts of Phoenix tour website: http://www.ghostsofphoenix.com/.
Now … You know what day it is. It’s Halloween, which means you have a few things to prepare for tonight. We all know the ghosts are free to wander this eve. If you want to stay safe, it’s time to carve that jack-o-lantern, or Stingy Jack might come and get you. Jack once made a deal with the Devil to never take his soul. But Jack wasn’t a nice guy, so when he died, Heaven wouldn’t take him either. Jack has since been trapped on earth, carrying a carved out turnip with a light inside. To keep him (and other wandering spirits, for that matter) away from your home, light a jack-o-lantern and put it in
Saturday, we had a Halloween extravaganza at my house. I made pumpkin chili. (It was delicious.) We had a huge spread of food, including—but not limited to—horseradish cheddar cheese and crackers, homemade guacamole with orange, fresh vegetables, and Smartfood White Cheddar Popcorn. Did I mention the pumpkin beer? Because we had lots of pumpkin beer, too.
We also had ambience. All the little purple, green, and orange lights in the apartment were bright and shining. I closed the plantation shutters so we could pretend for one afternoon that we lived someplace spooky, where it might just rain and storm. The wicked little critter on the coffee table that laughs when you touch him joined in the conversation, and we watched horror movies: Trick-or-Treat, followed by Halloween, followed by Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-Long Blog (okay, that last one wasn’t a horror movie, but it was entertaining). And of course I chased Ripley around the living room in my witch hat.
All of this Halloween decadence was followed by a trip to the Dark Scares Haunted Attraction in Mesa. Now, the longer I live in Phoenix, the more I learn about Arizona. For instance, who knew a 10,000-square-foot haunted house could fit in a shopping center? In Ohio and Charleston, I was accustomed to haunted houses in big old mansions or—even worse—in pitch black cornfields. This AZ dastardly house of horrors was literally in the middle of a classic car show. The only reason we found it was because of a strobe light on top of the entrance. But don’t let the entrance detract from the creep factor …
Oh, no, while waiting outside, a kid dressed like a corpse sneaks around and stands right behind you until you notice and JUMP! Or possibly scream. I prefer screaming. And you can hear plenty of screaming from inside Dark Scares as you wait in line.
So the Dark Scares Haunted Attraction is composed of two haunted houses: House 666 on the Lane and Le Carnaval des Non Morts (translation: “No Carnival of Souls”). Yeah, you heard right: a carnival. As if clowns aren’t scary enough in sunlight … As a participant, you get to run through both the houses—and I do mean run. First off, they separate big groups. You can either go in as a group of two or three. Our gang of Halloween revelers was six, so we split down the middle and set foot inside.
When I was younger, my girlfriends always made me go first into the haunted houses. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make much sense, honestly. Going first means you probably won’t get scared. They always go after person number two or the dreaded last person in line. If you go last, you’re practically guaranteed to have a ghost hanging from your ankle at some point, which is basically what happened Saturday night. My gal pal Tiffany and I were paired up with my brave Jake, who kept us safe … when he wasn’t laughing at our terror.
Although both sides were excellent, the carnival was my personal favorite. Not only do you have a chance to get lost (and I mean LOST) in a maze, but there’s a spinning room you have to walk through and a terrifying cannibal zombie that would NOT let up. Our group’s most quoted line of the night came from House 666: “Did you wash your hands? … DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?” I didn’t stay to see how that conversation ended. I was too busy screaming my face off and running for the door
When I first moved to Phoenix, I wanted to get connected to the social scene. While networking at a local coffee shop, I discovered Ignite Phoenix. The platform is similar to Pecha Kucha (an event I covered for the local newspaper in Charleston, SC). Ignite Phoenix is all about passion in the Valley of the Sun.
You submit a presentation idea about something you have passion for; then, if you’re chosen to speak at Ignite, you have to prepare twenty slides. Night of, the twenty slides scroll behind you for five minutes. During this five minutes, you speak, and you can’t screw up, because if you do, your timing will be off, because the slides keep scrolling, no matter what. The point is to ignite passion in other people regarding your topic—as long as your topic is within PG-13 constraints. You get it?
I was chosen to speak at Ignite Phoenix #7, in front of 900 people at the Phoenix Museum of Art. I talked about “The Art of Bad Writing.” You can read the full story about that exhilarating evening HERE. However, I’d like to talk right now about something different, known to insiders as IPAH, or Ignite Phoenix After Hours.
The ingenious maniac behind Ignite, Jeff Moriarty, asked me to join him for coffee after my Ignite Phoenix presentation. We got to chatting, and I suppose he noticed I’m a little off-kilter, because our conversation soon turned to this new idea of his: Ignite Phoenix with an R, X, and NC-17 spin. Jeff sought a new platform, designed for the Phoenix fringe. He asked if I wanted to help, and I said, “But of course.”
A succinct explanation of Ignite Phoenix After Hours: “So we told you no F-word at Ignite Phoenix. No racy pictures, no gore, and definitely no nipple tassels. Sorry, but it’s PG-13. Get over it. Move on. Not gonna happen. But what if there was another event, akin to Ignite Phoenix but different—and edgier? Meet Ignite Phoenix After Hours.”
We had our first event back in December, and may I say I’ve never heard so many inappropriate topics discussed in public. From tits to kegel exercises to “Do drink and drive,” we heard a bit of everything. When the whole ludicrously filthy evening was over, the day after, everyone asked, “When’s the next one???” Well, darlings, the next Ignite Phoenix After Hours is Friday, July 29.
Right now we’re looking for presentation submissions. All of the details are available at the Ignite Phoenix After Hours website: http://www.ignitephoenixafterhours.com/. At our last committee meeting, we strained our brains for new edgy groups to approach for presentation submission purposes. I have my fingers crossed that one of the Scandalesque ladies will submit. We’re sending someone to the upcoming Fetish Prom May 28. But I want more. I want fringe ideas we haven’t even thought of yet and not just about sex.
Beth Cato writes about wild adventures on airships. She writes about mechanical gremlins and sexy (sexy) stewards with long hair. She is a Steampunk Goddess. She is also soft-spoken, beautiful, and fond of spending time with neurotic other writers, namely me.
What is the best thing about being a writer? Worst thing?
HOWEVER the hype was a little out of control, and I think Brewer vetoed it based on hype. I dunno if that’s a good thing either. (?)
*sigh* That picture cannot be real.
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[…] over at Sara Dobie Bauer’s site with an interview all about The Clockwork Dagger. She’ll have a review of the book up on Thursday! […]
[…] – It’s always a bit intimidating when a friend reads your book. Will they like it?! Fortunately, my friend Sara Dobie Bauer did enjoy The Clockwork Dagger and wrote an amazing review. She also interviewed me a few days ago. […]