2011 December | Synaptic Circus of Kelli Jae Baeli

To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before…

I had this nightmare once, where i walked into a party (like i was walking onto a yacht, my hat strategically dipped below one eye…never mind), and at that party was every woman i had ever slept with (and yes, it was a very large gathering, thank you very much). They all turned in unison upon my arrival, with a varied collection of expressions and responses, and at that moment, i felt as if i would swallow my own teeth. It’s not as if i had a horrible track record, or made any real enemies of these women, but the concept was overwhelming in that i had urgent questions that needed answering:
1. Was this a joke?
2. If it was a joke, was i expected to laugh?
3. Had these women all been comparing notes?
4. Was i really dead, and this was my life review?
5. How much alcohol was available to me in that room?

Now, while i am reasonably certain that should this event actually take place, i would have the social grace to handle it, i wonder if I would instead spin on my heel and dash back outside?

I woke up fully prepared to make a few calls and offer any required apologies…

Be the first to like.

December 26th, 2011

alcohol, BOOKS, BRAIN, CREATIVITY, depression, Depressive Realism, DRUGS, evergreen, genius, happiness, harsh realities, HIGHLY SENSITIVE PERSON (HSP), honesty, Human Nature, HUMOR, Insanity, inspiration, intelligence, IQ, Kelli Jae Baeli, life, mental illness, mind, muse, PHILOSOPHY, POLITICS & GOVERNMENT, PSYCHOLOGY, sadness, sensitivity, Sensory Processing Sensitivity, suicide, truth, writer, WRITING

Creativity, Intelligence & Depressive Realism

From a Facebook post I made, a thought-provoking subject emerged.

Jae Baeli : “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Tina Harada likes this.

Amanda Gulledge
I frowned when I read that so I would feel more intelligent.

Candace Lynn Breaux
Is that why I am unhappy so much of the time? LOL

Jae Baeli
LOL. Amanda–you crack me up.

Candy–probably, yes.

Victoria Bard
love it…so true!

Sandi Partee
hmmm…so does that mean I’m not intelligent? Cause I’m happy as a lark! LOL!

I understand Sandi’s reply was meant lightly, but let me just address the topic of Intelligence and Happiness…

I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive, no. There are types of intelligence and there are always variables that affect outcomes. So I would say the quote is a rule of thumb, not an absolute. There is enough data to suggest trending toward intelligent people being unhappy. It has to do with logic, pragmatism, conceptual relativism and other concepts both in and out of the purview of philosophy and philosophical thought. In the most common, if not colloquial sense, though, unhappy intelligent people are more fact-based in their ideation. There is, as such, a condition known as Depressive Realism, where seeking the truth of things–including ugly things–can cause hopefulness and positivity to wane when it becomes apparent that survival is indeed hard, people are indeed cruel and evil, and life is indeed unfair. It’s about rejecting the cognitive dissonance of optimism in the face of negative data.¹

The human brain understands the world through patterns. When a new experience appears, the brain wants to match it with a previous experience in order to understand it. Paradoxically, that’s why there is a pervasive belief in society that creative and/or intelligent people are at least partially mentally ill. The pattern does, indeed, exist. But it can just as easily be based on a chicken-or-the-egg paradigm as any other. Does creativity come first, and then depression? Do depression-oriented people seek creative expression? Do intelligent people tend toward a need for creative expression? Clearly, creative people need expression of that creative impulse, they are compelled to communicate it. They also crave freedom and the leeway to think out of the box. Business people with regular white collar jobs, tend toward logic and pragmatism, and have to punch a clock and strive to fit in. This flies in the face of a creative psyche, and so more creative people are drawn to artistic endeavor than more sterile, clinical, restrictive lifestyles in the mainstream. So it might not be that artists are depressed, so much as depressed people fare better in the arts.

The newest research in this regard points to this connection being myth. However, perhaps it is a question of semantics. Which type of intelligence are we referring to? Creative intelligence? Spatial intelligence? Emotional intelligence? Since there are also a great number of divisions in the intellectual paradigm, it becomes a bit convoluted when making an emphatic statement one way or another. For instance, historically, we have known that prolific and gifted writers, artists and musicians have a tendency to self-destruct, either through escapism behaviors like drug use and alcoholism, or, tragically, through suicide. (And this is rather frightening, considering I am an artist, writer, and singer-songwriter. But i think i dodged that bullet pretty well). Many have sought these counter-productive coping mechanisms due to some aspect of being overwhelmed. Whether the “overwhelmedness” is due to the aspects of creative processes, or the realism that reveals ugly truths, is debatable. I think if you have a combination of realism and sensitivity, which usually goes hand in hand with highly creative individuals, you have a Molotov Cocktail of potential destruction. If you know how ugly things are, how unfair, and you are also very sensitive, this can lead to the inability to cope in a healthy way. The burden becomes too great.
Additionally, creative individuals are often alone, since acts of creation generally take place in isolation, so loneliness is a feature within the social psychology of the paradigm. And new research published in the online journal Genome Biology has shown that loneliness can actually make you ill.² In research of 20,000 genes of both lonely and nonlonely people, the chronically lonely individuals showed 209 changes that resulted in immune changes, inflammation and adversely affected response to infection.

In relation to intelligence, it can be surmised that individuals with high IQ experience a type of ostracization from society, in that they don’t feel like a “normal” person. This can lead to depression, since feeling different and misunderstood can become a divisive aspect between an intelligent person and the less intelligent majority. Intelligent people also ruminate more, and analyze information more, so that it becomes easy to impose feelings of isolation on every situation and interaction. If you combine the conditions of being both highly intelligent and highly creative, the potion becomes a catalyst for depression on a larger scale.

Critics of this correlation among intelligence, creativity and depression will say that studies done have been largely retroactive in that they diagnose well-known creative people of antiquity after the fact. And yet, we understand so much more about symptomatology in the psychological vein than we did when those creative and intelligent people were alive. There is some merit in applying new understanding to the previously misunderstood.

While there are exceptions to the rule, such as intelligent creative people who ARE happy, this condition is ameliorated, in my understanding, by some other coping mechanism; usually, in the form of some voluntary belief system that allows the creative and intelligent individual to ignore the farther reaches of edification–those that would suggest more reason for unhappiness. As a coping mechanism, this is usually very effective, though it could not be characterized as completely entrenched in stark reality. Thus, the individuals who can live behind the cloak of voluntary self-deception are at once more capable of maintaining contentedness. And often, their ability to do so is predicated on the lack of biochemical imbalance that makes positive mindset difficult if not impossible. Yet, there will always be those who cannot accept this postulate, simply because they are not able to experience it. Those who do experience it, will be the ones who have to accept the melancholy that comes with the package: intelligence, creativity, and the propensity, genetic or otherwise, for depression. These individuals might also be unable to reach that rose-colored-glasses posture, no matter how much they would prefer it to be otherwise. This is the quagmire of what is commonly termed Intellectual Honesty. The truth hurts, and some individuals will always be able to choose that mitigation over the often harsh verities of existence.
——————————————————¹this concept is addressed partly in one of my current books “Supernatural Hypocrisy: The Cognitive Dissonance of a God Cosmology” Videos on that blog.
2 http://discovermagazine.com/2008/jan/why-loneliness-is-bad-for-you

Be the first to like.

December 26th, 2011

Attraction, dating, evergreen, harsh realities, honesty, HUMOR, RELATIONSHIPS, singlehood, social politics, Social Psychology, socializing, society, strangers, trust, truth, women, WRITING

1 Comment »

Virtual Strangers (a Play in One Act)

FADE IN:

INT. – POPULAR SINGLES BAR – NIGHT

In a bar specifically for singles who are seeking partners. patrons mill about, as is normal for most social establishments. But they are all moving about inside a white cardboard box. On the outside of the boxes, there is text. Each of them is also wearing a bag over their head.The text on the boxes is information about themselves. A profile. Sometimes there’s only one line of text, sometimes the surface of the boxes is filled up with a great deal of detail.One Boxed & Bagged person approaches another.

B&B1
Hi. I like your profile text.B&B2
Thank you. I saw yours too…
but there’s not much there,
could you tell me more about yourself?B&B1
Well I would prefer to let you get to know me gradually.
I’ll be happy to tell you more if you’ll go out with me.

B&B2
Well, what do you look like?
You know I can’t really tell with that bag over your head.

B&B1
Oh, I’m really attractive, Trust me. I wouldn’t lie.

B&B2
Well, I’d like to have an idea if I’m
attracted before committing to a date.

B&B1
You’ll know that when we go out.
When we leave the boxes and bags at home.
Don’t worry. Everyone says I’m really good looking.

B&B2
(hesitating)
Well…I also need to know enough about you
to feel safe going out with you.

B&B1

Wow, maybe you’re being paranoid.

B&B2
Don’t you want to know what I look like?

B&B1
Oh, that doesn’t matter to me.
I’m interested in what’s on the inside.

B&B2
Oh, so you can be attracted to just about anyone,
no matter what they look like?

B&B1
Pretty much.

B&B2
Then how would I ever feel special?

B&B1
Special. Well that comes from the inside.
I don’t need to see your face or your body to
know I’m attracted to you. I like the text on
your box well enough.

B&B2
Okay, but I am not physically attracted to text.
I have to be attracted physically to pursue anything
romantic, and I don’t seem to have control over who
I’m attracted to. It just happens or it doesn’t.
None of the other information matters,
if I’m not going to be attracted.

That’s why I need to see you somehow, first.
I know I am attracted to certain things,
physically, and I’d like to be able to see you,
so I can gauge that before we spend much
more time with this…Could you take the box and bag off?

B&B1
I’ve already told you I’m attractive.
If you don’t believe me, you must have trust issues.
I can’t get involved with someone who’s like that.
I deserve better.

B&B1
But I don’t know you.
I don’t know if I can believe what you say–
you’re a virtual stranger to me.

B&B2
I can see that not only do you have trust issues,
but you’re just shallow and superficial.

B&B1
Now wait just a minute! That’s not fair.
You don’t even know me.

B&B2

(walking away in disgust)

Forget it, you shallow bitch.

Be the first to like.

December 26th, 2011

evergreen, GYN, gynecology, HUMOR

Gynepsychology

You ever wonder who the gynecologist for famous actresses is? Can you imagine? Most men dream of even seeing a female star; this guy gets to put his fingers in their coochies, and put his face right up there in it. All in the name of medicine. Sanctioned by reputable institutions of higher learning. But they’re still men, and I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be just a little thrilled with their career choice.

I’ve always been suspicious of male gynecologists, anyway. I mean, what kind of guy is in med school and decides he wants to look at vagina’s all day long for a living? Has to be a perv, I tell ya. It can’t be because he is passionate about solving gynecological issues. Unless he’s gay. Then maybe it would be okay. Having a flaming GYN might actually be fun, because he’d say scandalous things like, “Oooo, girl! What pretty pubic topiary, you’ve designed, there!” Or maybe he’d hum altered Broadway tunes like, “If I were a straight man, doobee doobee DOOO be DOO be doobe doobe doooo!”

Some women freak out about seeing a female GYN, and I can’t tell if more of them who feel that way are straight or gay, because I hear the argument for both sides. The straight women say, “I could never let another woman diddle around with my vagina. That would be creepy, because I don’t have sex with women.” The gay ones say, “I would never let another woman diddle around with my vagina, unless she was my lover. Otherwise, that might be embarrassing, because I might get aroused.”

But then a similar protest might be heard for male gynecologists. Gay women would say, “I could never let a man diddle around with my vagina. That would be creepy, because I don’t have sex with men.” The straight ones say, “I would never let a man diddle around with my vagina, unless he was my lover. Otherwise, that might be embarrassing, because I might get aroused.”

Be the first to like.

December 26th, 2011

chickens, evergreen, evolution, HUMOR, ignorance, intelligence, parody, satire

Chicken-Proper

The tendency for some humans to be weak-minded disturbs me sometimes. So often, it is easier to embrace the easy answer of “I don’t know” over the more difficult response, “I don’t know, but I’ll try to find out.”

Example: we’ve often heard the alleged conundrum “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” as if this is some mind-bender of a riddle. It’s not as inexplicable as all that. To wit: from a scientific perspective, at one time, there were no chickens, and chickens appeared in the evolutionary chain because two non-chickens mated, created a zygote (first cell) of an offspring, and that cell divided, to create more cells that also divided repeatedly, with a mutation or two along the way that created the first chicken-PROPER. So the egg had to come first, before the First Chicken could exist. (the First Chicken: sounds like the president of the civilization founded on the planet of Hen).

I guess what I’m saying is, if you’re not intrigued, challenged and motivated by questions without answers (or with unsatisfactory ones) then you are an Intellectual chicken. I am loath to ever fall into that category, and I wish more people felt the same.

I don’t know what the chickens think about all this. I’m not bi-lingual.

Be the first to like.

December 20th, 2011

anger, angst, anxiety, AUTHORS, chaos, CREATIVITY, depression, Depressive Realism, despair, desperation, disillusionment, Driving, fear, friendship, frustration, harsh realities, life, loneliness, meaning, PSYCHOLOGY, RELATIONSHIPS, romance, sadness, self-awareness, sensitivity, Sensory Processing Sensitivity, Social anxiety, socializing, stress

Why not Me?

Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning author, Pearl S. Buck said,

“A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create~ so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off…They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.”

And we now know Buck was an HSP – A Highly Sensitive Person, as it is colloquially called by the pioneer in this research, Dr. Elaine Aron, PhD. Perhaps ironically, HSPs also have the ability to be more adaptable than the average person, if for no other reason than we HAVE to be to survive, and I suspect that the HSPs who aren’t able to, for whatever reason, end up being overwhelmed to the point where they can descend into isolation or even suicide. Especially if they have little support from friends or family.

But HSPs are uniquely qualified to problem-solve. They have a unique brain architecture known in the literature as Sensory Processing Sensitivity. There is a difference in what they feel, as opposed to most others in our society. If two people are being poked in the leg, and one is an HSP and one is not, the one who is not HSP will interpret that as a finger poking them, the HSP might interpret this as an ice pick. So while they might be feeling more pain, they are also more motivated to make it stop, and because HSPs tend to be analytical and creative problem solvers, they are the ones most likely to find the solution.

With the Holiday coming up this weekend, I’m having to deal with many of my least-favorite things. No, I’m not talking about shopping or relatives. I’m not doing either. I’m talking about that dreadful set of decisions I have to make, which I not only want to avoid, but wish I could just sleep through.

I am in that mode where I’m fighting off depression and sadness because the holidays are always a source of pain for me. I can’t even recall the last time I had one I enjoyed, and most of them, I’ve spent alone. It’s made worse when I look around me and so many other people I know are all glowing and happy because they have someone who loves and wants them…it makes me feel sad. I’m happy for THEM, but sad for me, because I don’t have that, and haven’t, for a very long time. Even worse, is when one of those happy people is someone you recently fell for, and they didn’t fall for you, but then went immediately into another relationship and DID fall for the other person; and you watch as they say things about that other person you only wanted them to say about you, and they post happy pictures and remove the ones that had you in them. I want to be happy for them, and I am, but it always comes with a sadness. Why couldn’t it have been me? Why can’t I ever find love? And then the tears come, and the scar on my heart gets opened up again, and I sit and bleed…wondering when I’ll find a spark of hope or inspiration again.

So it’s helpful if I can be social with the friends I do have during the holiday season, since I don’t have any family, but it’s often difficult to catch them on holidays, because they have families and established friends to do that with, and I still don’t know that many people here. I’m not going to be on the list of first chosen to spend time with. Am I having a pity party? Hell yes. I feel pitiful. It feels unfair. And I’m once again feeling terrible about it all. Thanks to the wretched holiday season.

Here’s the crux of my dilemma. As an HSP, my Sensory Processing Sensitivity means I’m easily overwhelmed and stressed by certain situations. Some of those are chaos, loud noise and too many different types of noises, crowds of strangers, all crammed together in a small space, driving and parking downtown, drunk people. Now, tell me, doesn’t that sound like your average holiday party at a pub? So I am always forced into this awkward position: I don’t want to disappoint any friend I might have who invited me, but I also don’t want to put myself through it, especially since the holidays are already really difficult for me. And sometimes being among drunk strangers just makes me feel more alone (and there’s the added insult that they are all straight people, and I’m gay–another source for feeling like an outcast–why would I want to pal around with a bunch of drunk straight men? Especially when they’re usually putting their hands all over me–or trying. I have had moments when they run the risk of pulling back a stump). And then, there’s also the parking issue. The last two times I went downtown to socialize, I got two tickets and also got my car towed (and of course this was after I had to spend 300$ on a brake job–so 550$ later, I’m aware of my aversion to going downtown). Driving downtown is also very stressful to me because there’s too much information pelting my senses–

Turn here? [looking at GPS on iPhone]…oops BRAKE LIGHTS! Nearly rammed someone…Crap! I need my reading glasses because I’m wearing my contacts…what’s that sign say? I can’t read it! oh, take off my reading glasses…. my hands are shaking…oops, I should have turned there…I’ll turn here OH MY GOD THAT’S A ONE-WAY STREET….[backing up]…STOP HONKING AT ME! I CAN’T have an accident….I finally get a decent vehicle and if I have a wreck, I’ll be so upset…I smell something burning…I hope it’s not something under my hood….SAME FINGER TO YOU BUDDY!….plus worrying about paying for it, and being trapped with no transportation….that screaming Serpentine-belt I need to get fixed…so embarrassing when someone hears it, need to get that fixed, but it’s going to be a couple hundred dollars to do…the noise of it is so irritating…is this where I turn? fuck! I nearly ran over someone on the cross walk…STOP HONKING AT ME!! Did I bring my wallet? What if I have to park in the street? Do I even have change? DO I NEED CHANGE? Stop Honking at me!!

Welcome to my head. That’s a mild version, too. And only about a minute of time in that experience, but it’s what my head is doing.

Now, compare that to a low-impact or pleasant sensory experience….

Wow…the snow is so pretty and there’s so many trees….know where I’m going…it’s three blocks down on Vance, turn right then into the free parking area. Got a good space up front….walking into the shopping district…it’s so clean, here… the air smells clean, too…yum, this Juicy Fruit gum smells and tastes so good….it feels good to walk, the rhythm of it is soothing to me…I love all the holiday lights strung on everything here…people look happy, walking along…my life is good….I smell barbeque…and popcorn…mmmm……now I’m hungry, but this place has really good food too, so I’ll just order something delicious….the theater is right there…maybe we could catch a movie matinee tomorrow…oh, that’s my favorite Xmas song…..[singing] “have yourself….a merry little christmas….” just around the corner, my friend waits and we’ll have a drink and conversation, and enjoy our connection…maybe we can sit in front of that fireplace…I love fireplaces…so cozy…I love it when she laughs and smiles…she’s a good friend, I feel lucky to have her in my life…this time, I will hug her and not let go first….I’ll just have a nice relaxing drink or two…if we’re there a while, and I drink more than two drinks, I can just walk home…this is my neighborhood, and it’s familiar and safe…what a beautiful night it is tonight….

See the difference? Having that sensory sensitivity might be bad sometimes, but it can also be extremely pleasant other times. That’s why HSPs are generally highly creative, and spend a good deal of time doing creative things–music, writing, art–all three of which I ACTUALLY DO. And HSPs also need to have some control over their environment and their schedules and their social lives., so that they can create a balance of sensory experience.

So, when I am invited into chaos, I always try to make alternate plans so I can see the people I DO know and care about; but they don’t always want to sit in a quieter place and have a cocktail and talk . I guess I really am odd, because that’s one of my favorite things to do. I want to connect with those I care about or am interested in getting to know. Can’t do that in a loud bar where you have to shout at each other, or when the goal is to get hammered. And by the time I even GET to that location I’m stressed out. Then I can’t have more than two drinks, because I have to drive home, and I just DON’T drink and drive. And just when I needed a drink the most. Not to mention I’m really nervous because I know that a lot of people DO DRINK AND DRIVE and I’m afraid one of them will hit me. Call me a party-pooper, but it’s just not the sort of interaction I enjoy. Some HSPs can handle it better because they’re Extroverted HSPs. For the most part, I am an Introverted HSP. I love interaction like conversation and communion in a soothing atmosphere, watching movies, playing a game…but the more chaos and the less control I have, the more stressful it becomes for me. And I’m so weary of having to explain it, and so tired of being made to feel guilty for being who I am. Is it any wonder that it’s easy to become isolated? Or depressed? Is it any wonder why I question the reason for my existence?

Be the first to like.

December 17th, 2011

AKA Investigations series, Also Known As DNA, AUTHORS, BOOKS, Christopher Hitchens, Fiction, friendship, inspiration, PUBLISHING, Writer's Block, WRITING, WRITING LIFE

Is This What it Takes?

Today, I worked on the 3rd book of the AKA Investigations series. I had to really think about what changed to make me go into that zone again–I’ve been trying so long to get there. One thing was that i just enjoyed a visit with my best friend who came to see me for 4 days. I hadn’t seen her in over 2 years. We had a great social time.

Then, while she was here, I held my first local meeting of Kindred Ink Writers Initiative (KIWI) and got to talk a lot about writing, both in the group and to a new friend who is also a writer.

Then this morning I opened my mail to the tragic news of the death of Christopher Hitchens. I kept thinking about how this brilliant mind was now gone from this earth, and how sad it was that he would never honor us with another book. And I thought about how I am still here, still alive, and still CAN write another book. And i sat down, pulled up the AKAbk3 manuscript and started making index cards of scenes and organizing them on the cork board, and updating the file. I did that all day long, only taking time out to redesign that cover for the 2nd book, which has been something I’ve put off.

So perhaps I needed the right set of inspirations to get me going again. Is this what it takes? A visit from my best friend, talking to other writers, and mourning the death of one of my favorite authors? We’ll see if I still feel inspired when I wake up tomorrow, too.

It makes me not want to go to sleep.

Be the first to like.

December 9th, 2011

Baggage, Book Reviews, evergreen, Fiction, RELATIONSHIPS, revenge, romance, romance-genre, suspense genre

Baggage (Review & Excerpt)

“I have read 2 of Baeli’s other books–Armchair Detective and Also Known as DNA, both of them in the lesbian fiction genre, so I decided i should also check out her mainstream novels–Achilles Forjan and Baggage. I started with Baggage. I have to say, Baeli is every bit as good in the mainstream genre; she’s just a solid, quality writer who never disappoints, no matter what genre she chooses to write in. In this case, the book Baggage was an engaging, heartfelt and enjoyable story–it’s a little bit family-saga, a little bit romance, a little bit suspense. But it grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. Her characters, as usual, are real enough to imagine living next door to you, or as members of your social circle, or even as your family. I like the way Baeli gives them challenges and allows us to watch as they struggle to handle them. I really cared about these people and she was masterful at making them come alive in my mind. And she always provides a satisfying ending. I came away wishing for a sequel to this one too. Baggage belongs right up there on the bestseller list, as far as I’m concerned. It’s that good.”
~Connie R. Ramsey
Hobbs, TX

EXCERPT:

AS HURRICANE KATRINA SPUN CLOSER TO THE GULF coast, Sienna realized Dominic’s intent to ride out the storm, just as he had in all the other hurricanes. His decision was no marvel to her. He obviously considered himself invincible.

She peeked through the slightly ajar door to the attic stairway. He was, of course, too rich to have a standard pull-down ladder; no, Dominic Fontaine had to have a stairway to his attic.

Sounds of shattering glass came from the foyer. The formidable Katrina was hammering at the front of the mansion, morphing into a beast that clawed at the rafters, pounded at the flooring, and made promises to inflict still more. It was as if God Himself was behind the maelstrom. Sienna had never been in a hurricane, and anxiety crept into her mind. Was it always this bad? Was it only this frightening because she had never experienced it?

She had her own Katrina thumping against her chest cavity. Thrashing in the sea of her own trepidation, she tasted it in her mouth, then recognized it as meaningless. I am going to die anyway. He had made sure of that when he pushed himself inside her and essentially mingled his diseased blood with her own. After all those years of being judicious. All those years when her party-happy friends were taking chances like a capricious vacation in Vegas, and prodding her mercilessly with monikers like Sainted Sienna, Sinless Sienna, Spotless Sienna, and even Snowy Sienna, to imply that she was frigid, rather than careful. Now, she felt the fear slipping away, replaced by her own resolve, her own fury; an apoplectic bitterness that was matched only by the tempest that pummeled the mansion of the man she despised.

Pleased to have placed herself correctly, she saw him hurrying up the staircase, silver briefcase in hand, dragging a yellow nylon rope. Pulling the door closed a bit, she observed him through the tiny crack as he lashed himself to the newel post at the top of the grand staircase that fed down into the foyer.

The compromised portions of the house were revealed with every slap of wind and rain. As the storm bullied on, moaning its feral incantation, the window beside the attic stairs blasted inward, shards of glass spattering to the hardwood floor, as Katrina sneezed into the opening.

Dominic held onto the rope with one hand, and the briefcase with the other, his own features touched by terror.

Shelving collapsed, and she heard more shattering glass downstairs. Pictures leaped from the walls along the stairs, their glass spitting out onto the steps. In the hall beyond the top of the grand staircase, Dominic’s fish trophy plaques clattered to the floor. The gigantic swordfish rattled against the wall, as if preparing to reanimate and swim away in the sodden air of Katrina.

She reached down to pick up the small bronze sculpture she had taken from the occasional table at the top of the stairs. Her fingers closed around it firmly, and she waited for the right moment to confront him. As water began to drip onto the landing from above, and a puddle grew near the ravaged window, she pushed the door open and stepped onto the landing.

Raising her voice above the din, she said smartly, “Well, Lincoln Berringer, as I live and breathe—”

He turned to the voice behind him, a moment of keen astonishment and recognition on his features, that had little to do with his joy at seeing her, and much to do with the realization that she knew who he was. His fate became clear, when he saw her holding the heavy statue, saw her raise it high.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the moaning of Katrina, sucking the window frame from the wall. Debris struck her shoulder, and she fell to the slick floor, the statue toppling away. Steadying herself by holding the door knob of the attic stairs, keeping her head low against the incoming sheets of rain and wind and debris, she watched the giant swordfish drop to the floor, and move toward the hole where the window had been. A shifting of wind, and the monster fish spun, rolled, became airborne, and in mindless seconds, had impaled Dominic’s back with its rapier beak. She captured the attic door jamb, to stop herself from being sucked toward the window.

Her attention back on him, the swordfish rocked back onto its tail, as Dominic leaned backward into it, soon limp. The briefcase toppled to the floor, as his arms spread open, his torso propped on the swordfish, its beak protruding from his chest, his waist still secured to the newel post.

Stunned, she stared at him, splayed there like some fisherman’s crucifixion. Euthanasia performed by God.

A blast of rain slapped the side of her face and she scrambled to the silver briefcase, which was already being sucked toward her on the sodden floor, snatched it up and ran down the hall to the bathroom, where she grabbed a rectangular wooden table, broke the legs off and huddled in the garden tub, holding the briefcase on her chest, the table over her head, waiting for the end of Katrina’s blitzkrieg.

Be the first to like.

December 7th, 2011

AKA Investigations series, Also Known As DNA, AUTHORS, Book Reviews, BOOKS, Colorado, erotica genre, evergreen, Fiction, iPhone, Kelli Jae Baeli, lesbians, lipstick lesbians, Private Investigator, reading, romance, SEXUALITY, WRITING

Also Known as DNA (Reviews & Excerpt)

REVIEWS for Also Known As DNA (Book 2 in the AKA Investigations Series)

“After reading Armchair Detective, the first in the AKA Investigations series, I didn’t think Baeli could top herself. But damned if she didn’t write another outstanding book! She is definitely no one-hit-wonder. Kelli Jae Baeli is able to engage a reader in a way that most writers can only dream of. Compelling, sometimes hysterically funny, snappy dialogue, 3 dimensional characters you fall in love with, and a plot that pulls you along as if you are tethered to an unforgiving rope. You are cheating yourself if you don’t read Also Known as DNA!”
~Connie R. Ramsey
Hobbs, TX

5.0 out of 5 stars Exciting and Satisfying – A great Read!, August 1, 2011

“I thoroughly enjoyed the first book in this series so when I sat down to read this one I was sure I was in for a treat. And I was right.
This book features the two main characters from the first book, this time ensconced in a different city and getting on with the job of being happy and working as Private Investigators. This time however, two more, very interesting and appealing characters are added to the mix and the narrative swaps easily between each viewpoint, adding depth and
interest.

Then, in true AKA Investigations style, events conspire to spiral out of control, testing the fortitude, depth of feeling and sheer courage of each of the characters. Nail-biting action and heart-stopping tension take the reader on a roller-coaster ride through the pages, piling one catastrophe on top of another and testing the characters to the limit. I wasn’t sure they’d all make it out alive in this one, but it sure had me turning the pages to find out. Baeli is at the top of her game here, delivering a book at once touching and full of odd, often humorous bits of wisdom and a storyline of exciting misadventure and action.

There’s something about the main character’s voice that delights me every time – self-depreciating humour and phrasing that reminds me of all the best pulp PI fiction but is at the same time refreshing and entertaining in this unashamedly lesbian adventure story.
You really should read it!
~Kate Genet (New Zealand)

EXCERPT:

~ 1 ~

Ceremonial Tarp & Dangle

I’m hanging upside down, wrapped in tarp, like some retarded Houdini.

How did this happen? Well, it all started with me, on the way to my car after a close call. Back to minding my own business. I always mind my own business because I know there are plenty of other people out there who will mind it for me, if I let them, and I don’t feel they’re more qualified to fuck up my life than I am.

Only that morning, I was meeting with a client. Which was, in a way, minding someone else’s business. But that’s the business I’m in. So I can mind someone else’s business and be minding my own business.

Glad I got that cleared up.

Lila Dixon was what one might call a tall drink of water. I never knew what that meant until I met her. She towered over me, and if I weren’t female, I’d say she threatened my manhood. Lila was also regal, and a perfectly lovely woman, but with some unpleasant truths rooted in denial. For instance, she thought it was okay to drink a couple bottles of wine and then drive. Maybe because she was so tall. But I wasn’t on her payroll to play DUI hall monitor. I was there to help her get something useful on her husband, so that she could finally get away from him, legally.

The briefing complete, she signed the tab and left me to finish my short drink of water, going out the rear door to her car, which she had clandestinely parked a block away, just to assuage her paranoia that the dreaded churlish hubby might follow her. I pulled my eCig out of my coat pocket and refilled the mouthpiece with chocolate mint eJuice. I had discovered the wonderful world of electronic cigarettes a few years ago, while searching for a way to quit. Now, I continued to enjoy them, since all the negatives about tobacco cigarettes didn’t exist with the electronic ones. It was just vapor, with the flavoring of your choice. Mine, being chocolate mint.

Lila Dixon’s plan to avoid discovery by her husband had apparently failed, I realized, her paranoia justified, as I saw him come in the front door, hairy knuckles dragging the floor, and recognized him from the photos. It was indeed the churlish one: Lila Dixon’s husband. The way he was looking at me during his approach made me realize he was on to me. He must have waited for her to leave, so he could rough me up, before going home to do the same to her. I pictured him chasing her with one of those cartoony Flintstones clubs. No time now to worry about her future roughing, I had my own to worry about.

I got up and headed for the door, but couldn’t get there through the salad bar, so detoured. The ladies room was just around the corner and I palmed the door open and went inside. He wouldn’t dare follow me in here, in a public restaurant, I told myself. I’m always telling myself these things so I won’t come unglued in a crisis.

I noticed that this restroom smelled purple, like some do. Not sure what the smell of purple is, but I always thought that particular scent just smelled like purple. I stepped into the first stall, and slammed the crooked metal door closed behind me, forcing it into the position to accept the sliding latch, ramming the latch closed just as the restroom entry door burst open and slammed into the wall.

Coarse, meaty hands darted under the door of my stall, and I leapt onto the toilet seat, one foot slipping into the bowl. I pulled my sodden shoe out of the water, and regained my breath, searching frantically for a way out. He shook the door violently, cursing me, and my eyes ascended to the small window above the sink on the other side of the stall. When I looked down again, he was crawling under, shoving his huge shoulders between the door and the ugly yellow linoleum, still reaching for me, straining, pushing at the bottom of the door. The latch wouldn’t stand for that very long, I knew. Why didn’t he just kick the door in? I wondered inanely. Maybe he thought it would make too much noise. The window I spied was small, yet still an escape hatch. The only one to be found. My escape hatches had always been small, but I’d always been able to find them. I’d be damned if I’d break that tradition now.

I climbed the metal wall, boosting myself with the chrome plumbing that rose above the toilet, flushing it accidentally. I’ve escaped down the toilet! my mind screamed absurdly at him, feeling a little crazy with fear. My first question was answered when he wobbled out from under the door and began to fling himself against it. I guess he didn’t care about the noise after all.

Once at the top, I tried to scale the wall without alerting him to my whereabouts, climbed onto the sink at the other side of the second stall, and pulled the window lever down, pushing the single pane open. Thankfully, there was no screen. Or lock. I took hold of the metal sill, hoisting myself up, my sneakered feet scraping the cinderblock wall, as I alternately pushed myself upward and glanced back at him. He had still not figured out that I was out of the stall, but the door was caving in nicely.

I managed to get my hips onto the sill and flail for a handhold on the dirt and leaves outside the ground-level window. I heard the door crash in, and craned my neck to see him struggling to his feet and watching me, his face red, his brows pulled together like the laces of my shoes.

In what seemed a nanosecond later, I felt his big hand close around my left ankle. Instinctively, I kicked at him, feeling myself being dragged back in. The sill scraped painfully across my hip bones and onto my stomach, stopping just under my breasts, and I was suddenly glad I was not flat-chested. I swung my right leg, sodden sneaker and all, as hard as I could toward his head, making contact, but to no avail. I was reminded of my encounter with the Pit Bull in the Stacey Cartwright case, and wasn’t sure if this situation was any less frightening than having a mean dog dangling from my arm as I tried to climb a chain-link fence.

Outside, my hand fell on a broken red brick left over from the construction of the building, no doubt hidden for years behind the shrubbery lining the ground-level windows. When he jerked at me again, I twisted like a cat, felt myself falling. My feet hit the edge of the sink, and I landed with my behind in the bowl, the faucet grinding into my back.

I winced at the pain the awkward landing caused, and when he stepped closer, I lifted the brick, surprised I still clutched it, and brained him. He staggered back, holding the side of his head and I jumped down from the sink, and whacked him again before he could recover. He fell against the wall of the injured stall, and it creaked with his weight. I hurried over to get one more lick in, and when he slumped, I started to climb the sink again, but then stopped, rolling my eyes at myself. I backtracked and went out the door, pausing only long enough to throw the brick at him. It landed on his chest.

The parking lot was just around the building, and in it, my Escalade. The trip to freedom was interrupted by a powerful odor and the sensation of someone’s arms around me. It wasn’t a hug.

When I woke up in the abandoned factory, I was of course unaware that it was an abandoned factory because I couldn’t see through the tarp that had cocooned me, as I dangled in the air by my feet.

What would Jim Rockford do? I don’t think my fictional TV idol had ever been hung upside down with a tarp around him. So I had to just imagine what he would do. And first, he would wait until his captors took the tarp off. Then he would find a way to…to get away.

I am fucked.

But then I heard voices and knew that any escape would be something I figured out on my own without the aid of TV detectives and their clever screenwriters.

“Catch of the day,” one said.

I felt pressure near my chest and looked down, which was really up, due to my unfortunate inversion. I saw the blade poke through and rip an opening up over my head, as I leaned away from the sharp steel of the hunting knife. Blessed oxygen poured over my face and I sucked it in like a black hole.

Even upside down, I recognized Jimmy Dixon, his beefy countenance usually found only in livestock yards.

“How’s it hangin’, Sherlock?” he grinned.

With forced candor, I said, “I am not having a good day.”

They both laughed. Jimmy had some nasty contusions on his face from my recent bricklaying. The other one, I didn’t recognize, so I figured he was the one who did the chloroform honors in the parking lot earlier. “We haven’t met formally.” I said to the accomplice. “I was distracted by unconsciousness…” He just grinned but didn’t offer his name.

“What are we going to do with you?” Jimmy Dixon wondered, without sincerity.

I was willing to lend a hand. “I have a suggestion.”

They laughed again, Dixon saying, “I bet you do.”

“I’m not okay with endangering my life for a disgruntled housewife. She’s not paying me shit anyway. Cheap bitch.” He seemed to like where I was going with this. “In fact, I think she underestimates you, Mr. D. I should be working for you instead. Got any little jobs that need to be taken care of?”

My head was pounding from the blood pooling there, and I was having trouble hearing him as he answered, “Yeah, you could take care of my wife.”

I pretended hesitation. “Is there anything in it for me?”

“Sure. You get to be put back on your feet again. Breathing.”

“That seems fair.”

They laughed, and the Chloroform Guy went over to the wall and untied the rope, slowly lowering me to the ground.

Just like that. It was too easy, but I wasn’t prepared to complain just yet.

As Dixon cut my bindings, and I kicked the tarp away, I checked out my surroundings. Door at the other end, too far away. About as far away, I recalled, as the fence was in that tractor yard during my Cartwright case. The one where the Pit Bull made his home, and anticipated a warm lunch from the armchair detective who made a wrong turn in her escape from another angry husband.

My fetters gone, I sat up and waited for the blood to drain back to my torso. Dizzily, I hefted myself up to stand in front of him. “Everyone has their transgressions. So what did she do to you?”

He lit a cigar and blew the Captain Black smoke in my face. “She wouldn’t let me have a girlfriend.”

“That’s just selfish.”

He grinned, enjoying the repartee. “I want her out of my life. Can you handle that?”

“To save my own skin? Hell yes.”

They both laughed again. We were all having such a good time. The only thing missing was wine and cheese. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s her schedule. All the places she goes to spend my money.”

“I’m on it,” I said, taking the paper. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket, and punched up the recorder app, bold as neon, started recording and then switched to a contact list. “How do I reach you?” He stood there and watched while I touched in the number and saved it. “Now, Mr. Dixon, sir, when you say you want me to get rid of your wife…I don’t want any nasty misunderstandings later. You mean you want her—“

“Dead.”

“Well that’s clear enough.” I poked the iPhone back in my pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” Then I just headed for the door, as if I had a set of brass balls and knew how to shine them.

“Hey—“

I felt my renewed hope begin to dwindle. I stopped and turned to face him.

“Don’t fuck me over, or you’ll be back in that tarp, skiing behind my boat.”

I made a clicking sound and pointed a finger-gun at him. “Got it.” Then I turned and continued to the door. I actually made it all the way outside without a single piece of lead in my back. Perhaps I’ve underestimated the kindness of strangers.

As I walked, I pulled out my phone and stopped the recording, tapped play, and listened to him convict himself. Loved my iPhone.

I continued up Jason Street to Lipan, and called a cab, waiting in front of Stomp Them Grapes, a homebrew wine making supply place. After my recent tarping, a glass of wine sounded pretty good to me.

================

Also Known as DNA can be purchased at Smashwords or Amazon or at my website

Be the first to like.

December 7th, 2011

art, CHALLENGES & MISHAPS, coffee, CREATIVITY, distraction, FOOD & DRINK, HUMOR, PSYCHOLOGY, quirks, RELATIONSHIPS, sculpture, socializing

Hang-outs, Sculpture & Tangents

Sitting down with my first cup of coffee.

I’ve been noticing that I’m beginning to ramble and go on tangents in the morning, recently. This is a good thing, as I need to get back to writing novels. So my readers will please forgive anything that might spill out after this paragraph…it’s even more likely to happen because this is the first writing I am doing upon waking…

SO. Recently someone I’ve been talking to online mentioned she was a sculptor, and also asked me where I hang out. I don’t really have a hang-out, per se. If I did, it would be something like Wash Perk or another quiet, soothing place….I’m casually acquainted with the owner of Bardo coffeehouse (on Broadway). That’s a cool place but haven’t been back since… maybe it’s been 8 months or a year. Mmm..If I have a place I could call a hang out, it would probably be Hanson’s Grill and Tavern. I have been there repeatedly, mostly with friends. It has a restaurant, a patio, and an upstairs billiards room.

I would, in fact, like to have a HANG OUT, PER SE. (that would be a cute name for a coffeehouse, huh? Per Se. …mmm. Since I won’t likely be starting one, I could use it as a title for one of my books….though I wonder how many people would pronounce it “Percy”?)

[see? there I go...]

[stepping back on the path I just wondered from]

Sculpting. I love sculpting…I mean, love it MADLY. With the red hot burning passion of a thousand suns….

Well. Okay, that was a bit overstated and dramatic. Maybe the red hot burning passion of ONE sun. One sun is pretty hot, all by itself. Almost 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit. And that’s just the surface. The corona around it is into the millions of degrees….

[see how this happens? Mornings are like this for me. My brain is always making connections and following little idea-mice around.

Anyway--[yanking myself back again, onto that elusive PATH...]

Sculpting. I love it. And pottery (sounds like the study of Harry Potter–pottery). I prefer the clay medium. I’m very tactile, and enjoy the sensation of it in my hands. I am drawn to things that are soft…which is probably why I like women so much… and also why I like having hand -thrown, hand -built pottery around, along with things made of wood–it grounds me amid all the softness…Am I making any sense?

But I also like that idea of taking a clump of earth and forming it into something brand new, something that is completely unique that can never be exactly replicated, not even by me. I sometimes feel I’m made out of clay…I was formed by a million moments and decisions, and had any one of those been slightly different, I could be completely different. The Butterfly Effect. In chaos theory, where one small change in a nonlinear system can result in great changes later. And I am a nonlinear system. I’ve never taken the straight path–and yes, there is a gay joke in there somewhere.

Anyway, I’m saying I know that there is no one exactly like me. I just wish that more often translated into value for other people, rather than something to keep squishing.

Wow. I need to drink my coffee a little faster…

Be the first to like.

December 3rd, 2011

ENTERTAINMENT, TV, TV reviews

The Year of Good Shows

Since I’ve had months of downtime, part of which was experienced dealing with damage to my little tender heart, I sought refuge in all the new shows this season. Maybe it’s my subconscious way of getting primed for novel-writing again–I watch the inventions of other writers in order to encourage myself to do the same. At any rate, this is by far the Year of Good Shows. In fact, there were so many good ones that I didn’t have room on my scheduler to watch them all. I’ll have to catch them in reruns. My recommendations, thus far:

Terra Nova- There is no paradise without sacrifice. In the year 2149, the Earth is devastated by pollution and depleted resources, and has become a totalitarian society in many ways. A project is launched to start over using a portal into the past–a past 65 million years ago. Participants chosen either for their skills or by lottery, get to return to that pristine and prehistoric landscape to carve out a new future for the human race. Think of it as Lost meets Jurassic Park.

This one is my most anticipated of new shows, since I saw the first trailer. I mean, dinosaurs, survival, a bit of science fiction, and all rendered with Steven Spielberg at the helm. What could be better? I can say that I haven’t been disappointed. It’s exciting, well-written, well-directed, thought-provoking, and the characters easy to care about. I can barely wait for the next episode. Mondays on Fox.

Unforgettable ~ She can do anything but forget. In the first of several shows with strong female leads, Unforgettable is a police drama, but with a new twist. A female police detective lends her rare condition of eidetic memory, or photographic memory, to her job, but the irony is, she can’t recall the details that will solve the murder of her sister in childhood. Add to the mix that she is working with her former partner both in and out of the bedroom and there is some sexual tension there that adds nicely to the drama. Tuesdays on CBS.

The X Factor~ It’s time to face the music. American Idol’s Simon Cowell is behind this American version of the British hit. Contestants vie for the crown of the singer/ performer with that elusive x-factor, and gains a 5 million dollar recording contract and the starring role in a Pepsi commercial. He is joined by the three other judges/mentors L.A. Reid, Nicole Scherzinger, and Paula Abdul. This one has been surprisingly addictive, and I’m a die-hard fan already. See my entries The X-Factor: Not Just Another Idol, and The X-Factor: Try to Rap Your Head Around This for more details. Wednesdays on FX.

Person of Interest~Ever think you’re being watched? The man who developed software to monitor potential terrorist activities finds that his program spits out the social security numbers of average people who will either be killed or commit a murder. Compelled to address this awesome predictive power, he enlists the help of a former CIA agent, presumed dead, to help him discover the details and stop the crime. Starring well-known Jim Caviezel and Lost‘s Michael Emerson, this is engaging and satisfying on every level. Vigilante justice at its best. Thursdays on CBS.

Ringer ~ The ultimate double cross. Sarah Michelle Gellar takes a dual role, heading the cast in this suspenseful drama about estranged twins; one a cold, wealthy socialite, the other a poor recovering addict and stripper who is witness to a crime. Asked to testify to the crime, Bridget instead goes into hiding, seeking help from her sister Siobhan, in New York, who apparently commits suicide while the two of them are on a boat. Except that the twin’s death is faked, and her poor sister doesn’t know. Seeing a chance to restart her life, Bridget assumes the identity of her sister Siobhan, and finds that her sister’s idyllic life is just as complicated as her own had been. This one is filled with twists and turns and the suspense is delicious. Tuesdays on the CW.

Revenge~ What goes around comes around. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I’d say that some 15 years is cool enough. Inspired by the Alexandre Dumas novel The Count of Monte Cristo, this is the story of a young woman named Amanda Clarke who arrives in the Hamptons with a plan to avenge the death of her father when she was a child. Using the assumed identity of Emily Thorne, she systematically begins to take down every person who was instrumental in his demise, via trumped up terrorism charges which resulted in his conviction of treason, and his death in prison. Emily VanCamp, an alum of my beloved Brother’s & Sisters. brilliantly plays the starring role. Wednesdays on ABC.

Prime Suspect~ Not just a pretty face. This gritty, funny and savvy police drama sports another strong female lead, played by Maria Bello. Fedora-wearing Detective Jane Timoney, is in a male-dominated profession, in a male-dominated precinct. While the usual a characters populate this police drama, Bello is the one who breathes life into it. Insofar as the character is concerned, it does remind me of another favorite, In Plain Sight, in the main character, but if a show is good, it’s good, whether the story’s been done before or not. Apparently, word is that it’s been cancelled, which is a shame because what I’ve seen of it has been enjoyable.

Boss~ Betrayal starts from within. From Starz website: “Mayor Tom Kane (Kelsey Grammer) sits like a spider at the center of Chicago’s web of power; a web built on a covenant with the people. They want to be led, they want disputes settled, jobs dispensed, and loyalties rewarded. If he achieves through deception and troubling morality, so be it. As long as he gets the job done, they look the other way. Yet despite being the most effective mayor in recent history, a degenerative brain disorder is ripping everything away from him. He can’t trust his memory, his closest allies, or even himself. Kane’s wife Meredith (Connie Nielsen) knows nothing. Theirs is a marriage of convenience. Kitty O’Neil (Kathleen Robertson), Kane’s advisor, has her suspicions but stays silent. And Kane’s political advisor Ezra Stone (Martin Donovan), a Yale graduate with a rough edge, remains questionless. Only Emma (Hannah Ware), Kane’s estranged daughter, has a chance of learning his secret. This is going to be the toughest term yet for the Boss.” It’s a far cry from Frasier, but it’s great to see Kelsey Grammar in a dramatic role. This show is compelling and dark and worth every minute. Fridays on Starz.

American Horror Story~ Everything you love about a thriller… Nothing you expect. Last, but not least, I’m not usually a fan of the horror genre, but I seem to have become addicted to this one. The writing is so good, and it never ceases to amaze me. It has got to be the creepiest things I’ve ever seen on television. Or in the movies. It would take the creator of Nip/Tuck and co-creators of Glee to come up with such diabolical fun. The premise is that a couple whose marriage is in crisis buy a huge house and try to start fresh, but the reason for the good deal they got on the place soon becomes apparent: it’s haunted. And not in the usual, Casper-the-friendly-ghost kinda way. Many have died in that house, in decidedly horrid ways, and the structure seems to have trapped them in it. The interesting twist is that these ghosts seem perfectly human, and can appear to others as such, even interact in tactile ways. This is one reason why the creep-factor is so high. The unsuspecting family has no clue what’s going on, other than something is very strange. Dylan McDermott and Jessica Lange are notable cast members here. Wednesdays on FX.

There are other shows that are recently new, or old stand-bys, and some shows I literally couldn’t see this time because they were on during others I was watching, but I’ll save them for another blog.

Be the first to like.

December 3rd, 2011

music, TV, TV reviews, Twitter

4 Comments »

The X-Factor: Try to Rap Your Head Around This

I’ve been Tweeting my responses to the X-Factor, and found that I had lots to say on the matter. So I decided to blog it. The previous entry was about the contestants and the show in general. This one is about a specific aspect which seems to be causing a stir.

In the dictionary, X-Factor is defined as a hard-to-describe influence or quality; an important element with unknown consequences. Embedded in this definition are certain criteria; namely, that a contestant on the show should be able to demonstrate vocal ability, showmanship, uniqueness, and a certain charm that would endear an audience to them, and result in the plentiful purchases of their recordings.

Now, since it is a contest about singers, first and foremost, just as Idol is, I find it disconcerting that two in the last batch were rappers. Rap is not something I’m a big fan of, but that doesn’t mean rappers don’t have talent. The problem arises, however, when rappers are placed in a contest that is about being vocalists. Rap is NOT singing. It’s chanting to a beat. So I feel there should perhaps be another contest for rappers exclusively–this one just isn’t it. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. There will be those who vehemently disagree with me.

Like this guy on Twitter:

@JaeBaeli @TheXFactorUSA #Astro your a fucking idiot! The xfactor is a show trying to find a special spark in a performer not just singers?

@brin905 @TheXFactorUSA the status of my intelligence isn’t something UR qualified to assess.BTW, it’s “you’re a fucking idiot” not “your.”

and I added:

it’s not EITHER/OR. They have to have a SET of talents & sparks. Singing ability is one. Rap is NOT singing.

SINGING implies melody & sustaining of notes. #rap doesn’t, unless the rapper actually SINGS. There’s a distinction.

U will have to use your dictionary & look up lots of words to understand. #Rap isn’t BAD, it’s just DIFFERENT.

Let’s go to that dictionary, shall we?

sing: to utter words or sounds in succession with musical modulations of the voice; vocalize melodically.

rap: a fast, rhythmic monologue over a prerecorded instrumental track

Indeed, the term “rap” as it is used in the music business came from the original and primary definition of the word “rap” which is to strike, especially with a quick, smart, or light blow. The absense of sustained notes and vibrato necessarily leaves the musical characteristic of melody out of the mix. Yes, rap is a musical form, but this doesn’t make rappers singers. A drum is musical, but it’s not melodic.

Further, monologue implies TALKING. There is syncopation and rhythm, but this does not make rap SINGING. It’s little more than poetry jam set to music.

Rap is not a style of music I usually enjoy, and perhaps that’s because I wasn’t steeped in it during my youthful years. When I was a teenager, the closest i came to hearing rap was when Blondie performed the song, Rapture. I did, and still do, think that song was pretty cool. But rap as we know it today is decidedly cultural, and I simply cannot relate to its content of violence, arrogance, abuse, misogyny and lawlessness. Not that I’m sure there aren’t wholesome rappers out there. But as we’ve all noticed, they are difficult to find, and are not the ones at the top of the charts, attending award shows and flashing their bling.

That said, I also recognize that it takes a certain amount of talent to chant rhythmically, string meaningful words together, entertain an audience and communicate ideas. I appreciate, for instance, that Astro (of the X-Factor) is able to put a rap composition together under such pressure, memorize it, nail the whole thing, and while in front of thousands with millions watching. However, this does not, nor will it ever make him a SINGER.

Word.

(that’s the software rappers use to compose lyrics).

Be the first to like.

December 3rd, 2011

ENTERTAINMENT, TV, TV reviews, Twitter

The X-Factor: Not Just Another Idol

The types of reality shows I enjoy, are the ones where you watch people evolve. It’s the same satisfaction I get from building a character in a novel and taking them through a series of challenges so that they emerge stronger and more complex at the other end. So I tend to enjoy Dancing With the Stars and now, The X-Factor.

I have been more moved by the X-Factor than I ever was with American Idol. Perhaps it’s the show format that lends itself to such intrigue and emotional investment, but whatever the reason is, I’m hooked.

In general, the finalists in recent weeks have been outstanding, and deserved a shot. Though as the competition zeroes in, there are some who should have been cut earlier, some who should have stayed longer. With only 4 contestants left, the investment is richer, the payoff, huge. The winner of this contest will receive a 5 million dollar recording contract and star in their own Pepsi commercial. They are seeking that one performer who has the X-Factor–hence the name.

The Contestants

Last night, I watched my DVR recording of the elimination of two from the final 6, and have to say, it was the most emotionally intense of every episode so far. It managed to engender some strong responses in me. No one but the most hard-hearted of us would not have been touched by the emotion of Drew Ryniewicz, known simply as “Drew.” I wanted to gather her up in my arms and tell her everything would be okay. She’s young, she’s uber-talented, she’s unique in persona and in vocal style, and she has been weathering a storm of pressure and stress that the best of us would avoid even in our finest hour. I agreed with Paula Abdul, that her rendition of Billie Jean was her best vocal performance so far. It made me forget the drug-addicted, freak-show pedophile that made it famous, and that’s a good thing.

The fact that a young person like Drew (and Astro and Rachel, as well) can walk onto a stage in front of thousands of people, knowing millions were also watching at home, and deliver a near flawless performance without breaking down in tears, is in itself phenomenal. I couldn’t have done it and I was the lead singer and songwriter in two bands for 7 years. Praise must be heaped on any person, young or old, who can do that. That alone, is worthy of our respect and admiration.

Rachel Crow is impressive on a lot of levels. She seems particularly well-adjusted, has a great attitude and I believe a bright future in the music business. She hasn’t always nailed every note, but that’s not surprising since she isn’t exactly a seasoned performer. She does, however, have a sensibility, a wisdom, natural ability and a confidence rarely seen in one so young. And she’s from the great state of Colorado. Props.

Simon made a really good decision when he went back on his previous one and brought Melanie Amaro back to the competition. I don’t think I’ve heard anything but FLAWLESS out of her, and she has some pipes on her that most vocalists would kill for. She also has a natural stage presence, and the ability to sing more than one kind of music, which was one reason, I believe, that Stacy Francis had to go. I especially liked Melanie’s Virgin-Islands-Accent-Outing on stage a week ago, when she became verklempt and suddenly began sporting the Caribbean accent she had been hiding for fear of judgment.

Earlier contestants like Dexter Haygood, The Brewer Boys, LeRoy Bell, and Stacy Francis have a chance for careers, but only in niche markets that might not have much stamina. I was a little surprised that LeRoy stayed in as long as he did, because he was often flat, and seemed to stumble on things that challenged his range.

The last hold-out groups, Lakota Rayne, inTENsity and Stereo Hoggz were three completely different vocal styles, and I liked Lakoda Rayne the most, and feel they still have a place in the music industry. Stereo Hogz were multi-talented, great dancers and singers and performers, and also have a niche in the market. But inTENsity just sort of reminded me of the Brady Bunch and I’m not sure there’s a place for them or not. I’m a long way from the teeny-bopper crowd, and don’t exactly have my finger on that pulse. So Perhaps I’m wrong about them. I did notice that at least one of their singers was flat almost every time she performed.

Phillip Lomax was excellent, and I believe there is a market for him, even though he was compared to Frank Sinatra. Refer to Michael Buble, Harry Connick, Jr., Chris Issac. I’d enjoy listening to him on a lazy Saturday over a cocktail.

I cover the subject of rap in the next blog, but Brian Bradley, AKA “Astro” and Chris Rene, are the oddballs in this competition. Astro’s meltdown a few weeks ago only goes to show his youth, and the pitfalls of thrusting a youngster into a often-pressure-filled vocation. If Astro was an adult, his little fit of pique would have been inexcusable. He let his arrogance get in the way. Yet, while Astro is a more accomplished and natural rapper with incredible natural talent, but Chris Rene is the guy you want to support, because he’s trying so hard to change his life, and I admire that he’s pursuing his dream after getting off drugs. He also at least makes an effort to mix some singing into his act–which he’s not the best at, but he has a certain appeal, and definitely a lot of heart. Astro I believe had a lucrative career ahead of him and plenty of years to do it in, so I’m not concerned that he’s out of the competition. He’s young, and he’ll be signing a contract soon enough, if for no other reason than he’s unusually young to be that good.

Marcus Canty is another contestant who probably has a large degree of every element of the x-factor. He’s cute, he can dance, he’s a great vocalist and performer, he’s versatile, and he has a good personality. I have heard him hit a few sour notes, but overall, he’s consistently excellent.

If I were to judge the most qualified for that criteria at this point, I would have to say Josh Krajcik has the whole package. He is older, so more mature. He has a unique voice, but one that reminds us of other vocalists we admire like Ray Charles. Sometimes he sounds like Michael Bolton on crack. But in a good way. He plays guitar and piano, and demonstrated his skill at both on stage, nailing every song he’s been given, even if it was originally out of his usual comfort zone, genre or originally from a female vocalist. He’s not the best looking guy ever, and I wish he’d wash that sometimes-greasy hair, but other than that, I think this guy is actually the one who has the best chance of winning, all things considered, and assuming the viewing and voting public can keep all the criteria in mind.

The Show Itself

I think the show went astray a few times, sometimes in definition, sometimes in management. One of those instances was illustrated in the types of performers who competed against each other. Rappers vs. singers, groups vs. individuals, over-30′s vs. under-30′s.

I will cover the rap aspect in the next post, but a few words now, about the other competitors: while the format of including all these variations made it more interesting, it did not serve the fairness-aspect. How can you choose between a girl-group like Lakoda Rayne and a gospel-oriented singer like Stacy Francis? How can a 14-year-old rapper like Astro equitably compete with a 59-year-old crooner like LeRoy Bell? I imagine the show’s producers and creators hung their hat on the idea of the “X-factor” itself. They wanted to find a performer with that special combination of potential stardom. Good idea, in theory, but it carries its own form of futility.

Another faux pas would be the sniping judges. A few weeks ago, they began to get downright mean. The petty sniping and snarky posturing by the judges is a real buzz-kill. Can’t we all just get along? That behavior is both unnecessary and unprofessional, and they ought to reel that in.

Also, while I like the curmudgeonly Simon Cowell, and often (but not always) agree with his opinions, I feel he ought to reel in his arrogance, as well. It’s not pretty. Perhaps its intentionally to push ratings, and perhaps he’s expected to be that way, but I just think it’s more harmful than helpful. I was shocked last night, though, when he accepted full responsibility for Drew’s exit. He even admitted he should have listened to his fellow judges about her song choices and presentation. I agree partly with their opinions on that. I do think Simon could have pushed her into more upbeat songs, and showcased her range and versatility more. But I like Simon so much more when he’s honest, fair and nice.

My understanding of the x-factor concept is that they wish to find that one person who embodies all that makes a musical star. Vocal ability, stage presence, appeal, originality, and viability in the marketplace. This does not, as many seem to think, mean that they can be good at one or two aspects and be considered someone with the x-factor. This means that they have to be all those things, and also be able to withstand the rigors of the entertainment business, to include a thick skin against criticism, and a confidence that will allow them to put themselves in a position of vulnerability for all the world to see.

Another bump in the road came when Simon chastised the other mentors for choosing songs that were not rock songs, during Rock N Roll week, then summarily introduced his acts doing languid songs of their own. He seemed to think that a “rock” song was any song performed by a rock band. This simply isn’t accurate. Many musicians and singers perform mostly songs in one genre, but that doesn’t make every song they do a part of that genre. It’s a departure from their usual fare. So I would contend that if you are going to do a Rock N Roll week, the chosen material should belong in that genre, which is necessarily upbeat.

Then came Michael Jackson week. Don’t get me started. I think that our appreciation for the creations of a certain artist should never be more important than who that person really is. I have always been appalled by the general public’s willingness to turn a blind eye to the horrible truth about this guy, just because they like his music. It’s sickening to me to see him honored, because all I can see when I look at his image or hear his songs is a drug-addicted pedophile whose family rides his coattails and tries to capitalize on his death at every turn. I also recall his father, the day after Michael’s death, interrupting the reporter who asked about his grief, to plug his newest money-making venture. Pond scum, that man. No wonder the King of Pop turned out the way he did, personally. Look where he came from. But good-music or not, defiling and molesting children negates all that. So it was tough for me to get through Michael Jackson week.

Finally, I believe that the producers ought to get rid of Steve Jones. He steals valuable critique time from the judges, disrupts the flow, and often appears a little too full of himself. The format, in this area, needs some serious reconsideration. Though I do realize it would be hard to put this show on without an M.C. Too bad they couldn’t have gotten someone who is REALLY good at it, like Tom Bergeron of Dancing With the Stars.

Overall, I’m excited about The X-Factor, and I think it might be around a long time. And it’s most assuredly going to be responsible for launching some stellar careers.

Be the first to like.