Sea Hag Resolutions 2010

As ye know, the end of January has arrived, when the Sea Hag makes her yearly resolutions. Thus I spake them, and thus I writ them in blood (not my own, of course, which merely pours in a powdery crumble from my ancient veins):

1) To be even more crone-like.
2) To let go of the little things (a small hand that I hold, standing over a high bridge, albeit connected to a living, writhing person who needs perhaps a bit of persuasion to make that great leap into the unknown)
3) To decide now and forever whether ou non to put a space in my name. Am I the Sea Hag? Or the Seahag?
4) To learn how to tap dance.
5) To knit a truly well-fitting shroud.
6) To stop trying to control the things I can't (space-time continuum, the tides), and focus on controlling the things I can (minds, episodes of mass hystrical dancing, the weather)
7) To create the perfect ciopinno.
8) To commit a random act of evil at least once a week.
9) To play with the Kraken more.
10) Get more exercise.

But as we all know, ye faithful followers, if such exist, resolutions are made to be broken. So I'm sure within a month, mine shall be dashed upon the rocks of oer'leaping ambition, shattered in the Sea of Broken Dreams, torn into bits and scattered to the four corners of earth, never to be seen again.

And what about ye, ye spineless readers? Have ye got any resolutions of ye're own? I compel ye here and now to lay them down and post ye a comment.

Until then, I sign off with the soon-to-be-immortal words of Simon Tucker, from "In the Loop," who the Sea Hag confesses she's crushing on:

Fuckety Byeeeee!

S.H.

The Sea Hag Rises Again

Five long years have I slumbered in my cold womb in the Mariana Trench. 35,000 feet below sea level, my only company the worms that live on boiling poison and the other blind, unknown creatures that lurk far from prying human eyes. As I slept, I nightmared, the twitch of my eyelids setting off tsunamis in far off oceans. Otherwise known as the Seahag Effect. But there has been a disturbance. Something--but what?--has shaken my unholy rest. And now I rise again from the depths. I've dragged myself, and my familiar's familiar, the Kraken, out of Poseiden's icy embrace, through the mud and onto the land, much like the Northern Snakehead. And now I walk among ye, ay, as I wear the invisible costume of a landlubber. I could be the old man walking his tottering dog on the sidewalk. The mother scolding her child in the grocery store. The asian lady loaded with bags of vegetables on the autobus. Ye see, but ye do not see. But the Sea Hag sees. The Sea Hag watches. The Sea Hag waits.

For now, oh my friends and ah my foes, the Sea Hag leaves you with one thought as she ambles through yer every day, unseen, maybehaps words to live by, spake by her onetime intimate, Gustave Flaubert:

"Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work."

Oh, and one more thought: mark ye the moon tonight, in its large and bold-faced loveliness...for I have felt its pull, and believe in fact the strength of its influence has dragged me into rebirth:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/space/20100129/sc_space/biggestandbrightestfullmoonof2010tonight

A Tale of Dis-Tress

Beware, friends and foes, for this is a tale to chill you to the very marrow. Also, it has nothing to do with the houseboat. Because the Sea Hag wasn't on the houseboat this weekend, but instead, went to Hell-Yay for the wedding of the Sea Hag's dear compatriots, Tony and Gretchen. Do not fear, the Sea Hag shall not warm the cockles of yer heart with a tale of love...no....this is a tale most dread.

It starts with an extended family friend inviting the Sea Hag to come into said friend's hip Melrose salon. "Come in any time, doll, I'd love to see you." In the Sea Hag's admittedly seaweed-addled mind, this translates to "Come in, doll, I'd love to give you a discount, and/or surely charge you no more than the exorbitant amount you already spend on that dishrag you call a head of hair."

The Sea Hag takes said family friend up on the offer. Woe be the Sea Hag.

Several hours later, the Sea Hag emerges from the scissors and the dyes looking like a republican newscaster. When said friend, who shall remain nameless due to the Sea Hag's overly generous heart, says, "Doll! You look great! [Lies, all lies!]. Is that going to be credit card or check?"

Oh, credit card, thanks.

Then a smile and "That'll be $380.00."

I tried to remain unfazed. But seriously, $380?! Seriously!? I mentioned something about it being the most expensive cut I'd ever had, while still trying to look cool, while still trying to act like, hey, my hair normally costs $300, so no biggy, even though every synapse in my brain is firing and about to explode, and he lowered his voice and said, "I'll give it to you for $360."

$360?! Apparently the special "friends and family" deal involves spending at least double what you normally spend. I was over a barrel here, and not in a good way.

And let me say this. This was a "celebrity" stylist. However, it turns out the biggest celebrity this guy has done is the nebbish in "Grey's Anatomy."

He lowered his voice even further, and said, "And I'm giving you a free bottle of conditioner." Conditioner?! Are you kidding me?! Now that's just rubbing my face in the dirt, isn't it?

Friends, I paid it. What else could I do? Of course, it meant no shopping, or eating, for the rest of the weekend.

Was it worth it? Well, at the wedding my friend Josh came up to me and said, "I have to tell you, I just love your hair. It's the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen on a woman!" Pause while I'm thinking, Hey, well, maybe it is worth it, or least $60 worth of worth it, even though the man who is telling me this is sporting an enormous blond afro that rivals anything the Globetrotters ever trotted out in their glory days. And then he says "I just want to rip it off your head and put it in a museum." At which point it became clear that my friend Grant had told everyone at the wedding the story of my dupedness.

I told my creative director this story. Fantastically, now everyone at work knows this story.

And said friend left a message for me. He said, "Hey, doll, I just wanted to say how great it was to see you this weekend! Come in again real soon!"

That was nice of him to call. And really, what price friendship?

Exactly $360.00, it turns out.

Giant Squid! GIANT SQUID!

After a thousand year wait, Sea Hag is thrilled to announce that the glorious giant squid has finally made its film debut.

Yesterday, or perhaps it was the day before, two Japanese scientists sent down a crazy robotic arm with an underwater camera and finally captured the elusive large 'n lovely squid on film. However, after an epic Jules Verne/Mothra-esque four-hour battle with the robotic arm, the squid lost one of its own arms--which is 20 FRICKIN' FEET LONG. On the whole, the squid weighed in at what the newspapers are calling a "petite" 26 feet.

You may not know this, but the Sea Hag is an armchair giant squid hunter. I have harbored an extreme, bordering on insane, fascination with our squidish underwater friends for some time now. This goes along with my extreme, bordering on morbid, fascination with shark attacks. But that's another story (see several blog entries below). So here's the thing: no one has ever seen a giant squid alive before. They've only seen dead giant squids, or parts of dead giant squids. They've seen sucker marks on sperm whales (that's right, the Sea Hag said sperm), who are the traditional enemies of the giant squid. That's right, enormous fights between whales and giant squids. It's the stuff that the Sea Hag's dreams--and Japanese monster movies--are made of. There are scientists who have spent their entire lives in the search for the giant squid, sadly failing every time. For more on this, see the New Yorker article on squid hunters published last year. And yes, I'm too lazy to find it for you, unless any of you give me hard evidence that you're actually reading this.

In any case, the whole point of this is that the Sea Hag has decided to capture a giant squid, and turn it into a familiar for her familiar, Frances. The giant squid will be happy in its new home of Richardson Bay, right outside the Sea Hag's front door. At low tide, the Sea Hag can gaze lovingly into the giant squid's dinner-plate-sized eyes as it frolics in the mud. Some of you may think its wrong to take a giant squid out of its natural habitat and keep it as a familiar's familiar. The Sea Hag says it couldn't be more right. Clearly, I'd be saving the giant squid from a difficult life of wrestling with sperm whales and dodging pesky Japanese robot arms. The giant squid can live a life of luxury, spending its day watching its stories on the t.v. and eating bon bons. I wouldn't care if the giant squid's ass got fat. I'm not sure it even has an ass.

In any case, the Sea Hag must immediately set off in her ghost ship to befriend and capture the giant squid now. Wish me luck.

The perfect audio pick to hunt giant squids by: The Way of the Vaselines. Song pick: You Think You're a Man (Think You Can Hunt a Giant Squid). Okay, I made that last part up. Think you can do better?

The Sea Hag Amends Her Tale of Unmitigated Doom 'n Gloom

Perhaps the Sea Hag spoketh too soon in her last post. It appears, after a preliminary study where the control group numbered less than six, that the situation may be thus:

Apparently, agencies are slashing freelancers (not literally or anything, no worries, all your pretty faces will remain intact) in favor of full timers. Which could mean a couple of things. They could be staffing up for work and the clients are requesting permanent teams, or they're losing work and cutting off the extra expense. Moving forward, this could mean that they'll end up cutting back full-timers and need freelancers again. It's the cycle of the employment scythe. Who knows what is written on the wind? Only the fish beneath the sea, and they ain't telling.

So the Sea Hag will hang back and chill out and stop freaking out. Perhaps. She'll try, anyway. In the meantime, when shall we sea witches meet again? In thunder, lightening, or in rain...

Will Work For Sea Haggus

Gather round, children, for the Sea Hag has a tale to tell, one that will chill you to the very marrow. Once upon a time, there was a youngish woman living in San Francisco. It was loud in her fantastic Liberty St. apartment, so she banished herself and moved to a houseboat in Sausalito, immediately transforminig into the all-powerful being known as the Sea Hag. Things were looking up. But the winds of fortune are fickle, as the Sea Hag soon found to her dismay. The Sea Hag's life work--not that of dashing unwary sailors upon the rocks with her unearthly siren song (which is only a part-time gig, and really more of a hobby), but that of writing ads for unwary sailors and other consumers of alcoholic beverages, as well as visitors of various themed casual restaurants which shall remain nameless but which sometimes involve vermillion crustaceans--appeared to have come to a slow, grinding halt.

As Marvin Gaye must have said when his dad pulled out the gun, What's goin' on?

There seems to be a theme in the SF ad world these days. I thought at first it was just me (as we all do, apparently, those of us in the slow, grinding haltish work camp). But nein. Turns out lots of ad places are having problems. I'm starting to hear of layoffs. It's eerie. It's starting to remind me of the dot bomb, where there was nary a penny paid for an honest word. Let's hope not, because those were some dark times. In any case, I'm just starting to look around, so perhaps I speak too soon.

But now the Sea Hag finds herself at bit of loose ends. What to do? Here are some things the Sea Hag has gotten real good at in her "time off": hiking, cooking, introspection, whining, and moping. In fact, I would say that my moping skills have really taken off (as several of my friends can attest to), and my whining--well, sometimes it's so high and sharp that only dogs can hear me. But most of the time, everyone can hear me.

Now, let's speak of cheerier things. Such as the potential Haunted Houseboat party. I'm dying--insert cackle here--to have one, however, the houseboat is small and perhaps not so accomodating to crowds of folk. But, I'm so thrilled by the plethora of moving, mechanical halloween decorations, that I feel I must have a fete. They seem to get more mechanical and gorier every year. I love it! Today I saw a ghoulish skeleton that opened its own chest, and a life-size, speaking Freddy Kruger that said things like, "Let's go trick or treating--on Elm Street!"

I shall of course star as myself, the Sea Hag. I'm trying to convince my friend Andy to be Bluto. He's not necessarily moved by the idea of Bluto, but is extremely excited to wear a fat suit. And who wouldn't be?

On that note, I shall close this evening's entry. The Sea Hag must go and read the runes to see what her future holds...

By the Pricking of My Thumbs, Something Sea Hag This Way Comes...

After a longish/shortish hiatus, depending on your place in the time/space continuum, the Sea Hag is back is back to chill friends and foes alike.

So foul and fair a day the Sea Hag has not seen...yesterday, it was blazing hot. And just now, just very now, as I was writing this, we appear to have experienced the first mini-storm of the season on the houseboat. Thunder seems louder here. And unlike living in an apartment in the city, here the rain beats directly--and loudly--on the roof and skylights. My poor familiar, Frances, was highly freaked out.

It's a good day to cook, and fittingly, the Sea Hag is making a black and blue grunt, an old colonial New England recipe. Well, if the old colonies had crock pots. It's much like a fruit crumble.

I'm both looking forward to and dreading the rainy season. I think it will be great inside the houseboat, because it's tres cozy here, but walking the quarter mile up the dock in rainy, cold weather will be uncomfortable to say the least. Some other drawbacks to the rainy season I've recently learned: with unusually high tides, the parking lot floods, and when the electricity goes out, my toilet doesn't work. That perhaps will be the most challenging of all, but certainly nothing a good bucket can't solve. As of yet, I have no bucket.

None of you are probably wondering what the Sea Hag has gotten up to in the last few weeks. Well, let me tell you and satisfy your lack of curiousity.

About two weeks ago, the Sea Hag found herself in the delivery room with her friend Jen, holding her hand as she (Jen, not the Sea Hag--the Sea Hag's womb is a cold and forbidden place) was giving birth. It wasn't how I anticipated the evening. When the head crowned, they kicked the Sea Hag out, perhaps fearing that the sight of the Hag's hideous visage would frighten the child back the way it came. I actually wanted to stay for the whole thing, having never witnessed a real, live birth. I thought it would be a sort of Discovery Channel experience, but it was not to be. In any case, everything came out all right, and mother and son are doing quite well.

You'll notice that the Sea Hag switches between first and third tense. And I want you to know I'm aware of and okay with it.

The Sea Hag also went to see the Brian Jonestown Massacre for the second time. Wow. It was a fantastic, glorious mess. They "played" for an hour and a half, during which time they only played five songs. The rest of the show was filled with Anton Newcombe's wildly entertaining ravings. When speaking of Hurricane Katrina, he talked about "underwater experiments," and how the babies on the I-10 who had no food and water were, according to him, literally exploding. When he was heckled by people in the audience, his response was "Hey, chill out! We need to really love and respect each other," then immediately turned and shouted at some woman, "Fuck you, you evil bitch!" He also claimed that God must have made one audience member bald so that "no fine foxes would fuck you." And on and on, till 1:30am. It was awesome.

Also, I've been making a big effort to be more okay with living in Marin. It's a huge culture shock for me, and my heart was breaking every time I left the city. I was mired in potential regrets. But now it seems to be better. There are pockets of goodness. Avatar's makes unbelievably excellent Mexican/Indian food. Fish was a great casual restaurant/bar that reminded me a lot of Cape Cod, but oddly, it's apparently suddenly shut its doors. According to the bartender at Saylor's Landing, another 70's-esque salty dog bar, the owners of Fish panicked and fired everyone. Ah, Fish, I hardly knew ye. And the San Rafael farmer's market is most, most excellent. And I'm highly looking forward to the early Octoberfest at the German Tourist Club on Mt. Tam this weekend. It's apparently goofy and fun and an unlikely hipster happening, although it does go with the whole hipster ironic thing. But of course, the Sea Hag doesn't drink beer, only grog. And many movie theaters within a short distance, thank Poseidon.

If anyone who reads this happen to know of some other Marin gems, let me know. Especially comic book stores.

Until then, like the South, the Sea Hag shall rise again.