Monthly Archives: October 2007

Mark Morford is a Mraztafarian

He may not know it, but that’s ok. We’ll welcome him anyway for being the snarkysexy writer he is.

In today’s column he talks about fighting the Terrorism Watch List by creating a Bliss Watch List. It’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t we think of it before? It’s like a social register for the kind of people who would follow a fake Jason Mraz religion.

Mr. Morford writes:

The BWL will contain only the names of people widely suspected of being savvy, titillating, open-hearted, deeply lovable, sexed-up geniuses of divine intent and hot self-exploration and ravenous intellectual curiosity.

It will contain the names of anyone who is suspected of daring to understand that life is not, in fact, a clenched and harrowing slog, but an actual ongoing, incessant, stunning manifestation of the divine, even when it’s dirty and violent and obnoxious and horribly dressed and seems to contain only a bleak never-ending rundown of doom and decay and Dick Cheney. It’s just that kind of list.

I don’t think it could get any more Mrazalicious than that. Read the rest here.


Halloween: Time for Dirty Skeleton Poems

There’s nothing at all Jason Mraz about this, it’s just fun. (Not that Mraz isn’t fun, but I don’t want to drag his good name down with horny skeleton poetry.)

Click the naughty linky for the whole thing.

Cemetary Blues
Limbs rattling, and teeth clenched, a skeleton
wonders who he can lay down with. While
there is nothing to erect, consciousness
of sex and urges still remain in his
bones…


Are You My 10,000th Visitor?

Spike the RhinoLooks like someone today will be, so thanks to all of the first 9,999 for making that possible.

Enjoy some safe and tasty Halloween celebrations, and if anyone dresses up as Jason Mraz/The Geek in the Pink/The Curbside Prophet, send me a photo.

Too much candy corn on my plate,

Lisa (and Spike the Rhino the Wannabe Pez Dispenser)


Is No Mraz News Good Mraz News?

While we all keep hoping for the best for Jason Mraz and his San Diego homestead, have a look at this interview Mraz did a ways back with the ABC chick who I always think is Martha Stewart, but who probably doesn’t know what a Marionberry is.

Here Mraz not only talks about the inspiration for “The Remedy”, but is joined by the friend who was the inspiration for the song.

Sure to outlast this catastrophe,
Lisa


A New Old Jason Mraz Interview

This one is from 2003, but I’d never seen it before, so it was new to me. It’s by a Kiwi, which makes it even more fun. Read all about Jason and how his young body was nourished by McDonalds.

No post from him today about how things are going in his corner of San Diego, but hopefully we’ll be able to sing “The boy has gone home” soon.


Jason Mraz, Dusty But Safe in San Diego

As the fires in San Diego grew over the last few days I kept checking Jason’s blog for news on his house. The way he describes it I figured it was in a remote area, surrounded by highly flammable, woodsy scenery. Today, we get a little peace of mind as he writes that he’s ok (having just flown back from London), his cat is safe and sound, and for now, his home is still sturdy, if a bit ashen.

Since one of the things I have always appreciated about Jason Mraz is just how damn normal amd un-celebrity-like he is, I’m not sure why it tickles me to know Halloween Lisathat all he wanted out of his house were some Polaroids, surf equipment, and towels, or that he grabbed his little stuffed ducky friend. Probably because if someone gave me ten minutes to fill up my car with essentials, I would also grab my teddy and Spike the Rhino first, then the family photo albums (see how damn cute I was?). But then, who wouldn’t? Forget any of the pricey stuff, I want to save my childhood.

I imagine some people in his position would have called their assistant and had their entire house packed up while they stayed safe and clean in London, waiting for the unpleasantness to pass. They wouldn’t have wanted to get the smoke in their eyes, and the taste of soot in their throats, at least not unless they had photographers following them every step of the way to chronicle the trying ordeal for a full spread in People and a five-minute spot on TMZ.

But as always, Jason sees the big picture, and even keeps his sense of humor in tact:

My mates in London ask me how come I’m not on the list of celebrity evacuees. “I’ll get my publicist right on that.” I deadpan.

(Honestly? I was kind of checking the news for his name too, even though I know our Prophet doesn’t get the same press as Frasier.)

Fingers crossed.


Mugged in Oz – Part Three

Start with Part One and Part Two 

The afternoon of our conference I walk from Central Station down Elizabeth Street, crossing to the other side of Cleveland Street into Redfern. The PCYC building is just a few blocks in. There’s nothing spectacular about the outside, but inside the walls are covered. Any space that isn’t decorated with a bright mural or student artwork is used for announcements: community events, support groups, hotlines for abuse, alcoholism and depression, dates of local plays and concerts.

I find Liz in a bright blue and yellow classroom she’s setting up for us. Six chairs are arranged in a circle. Biscuits and tea bags are laid out on a table behind us.

The boy arrives next, just walks into the room. He parks his bike in another room and comes in. Liz introduces us and he says hello. I try to smile but I think it’s more of a grimace and he sits down at a computer and fiddles around with it while we wait.

His mother comes in. When we are introduced she shakes my hand and hers feels cold and weak. I notice a large bruise under her right eye and my stomach turns. I don’t know anything about this family. I feel out of place, far from the middle-class California suburbs I grew up in where the most controversial social issue was how to separate your recycling.

The boy’s teacher and a large, muscular constable join us. The conference happens. We take turns talking. Liz is careful to make sure that we each have our say while the others listen quietly, but the rules and etiquette of it all make the setting too formal and get in the way of any real communication.

The boy says little, not out of pride or arrogance, but because he’s 14 and has a room full of authority figures staring at him. Every now and then he looks at me, briefly. He’s not angry. He seems more curious. His eyes look me over like maybe he’s never seen an American up close before.

When I speak my voice shakes a little from emotion. I tell him about that night, what I did, how I felt. I don’t know if it makes a difference. Maybe yelling and getting angry would have more of an effect.

His mother apologises to me. I didn’t want her to. She wants him to learn from this, to do better. His teacher says he’s a good kid with almost perfect attendance. He’s just completed a five-week chef course and did well in it. She hopes this was the beginning and end of his criminal record.

It is agreed that he will commit to this school program for the next six months. He’s already been there for a year and a half, so it’s doable. His teacher will keep tabs on him. His mother will make sure he follows his curfew and other conditions of his bail, which I didn’t know he had. If he breaks any of these conditions he will go back to court, and possibly to jail. We all sign off on this plan, leave the biscuits uneaten, and put the tables and chairs back in place, turning the room into a classroom again.

Liz offers me a ride back into the city and I’m relieved not to have to walk back as it’s beginning to get dark. “Will it work?” I ask. “Do you think he’ll do ok?” She doesn’t know. Some do, some don’t. She says it doesn’t help that a lot of teenagers know people in jail, so that it doesn’t seem like a scary place to them. They have friends and family inside to hang out with.

The Department of Juvenile Justice Annual Report states that Aboriginal people are over-represented in the NSW juvenile justice system, making up around 40% of the detention centre population.

I try to picture him there, but he looks too young to go someplace so hard, someplace where the walls aren’t painted in rainbow colours. I see him in a chef’s hat instead, working in a kitchen, making friends, having some money to bring home to his family. I wonder which picture of himself he has.

“Well, enjoy the rest of your time in Australia!” Liz says. I thank her and she drives off, leaving me in the middle of the city. Darling Harbour is to the west, the Opera House straight ahead, my place near the beach to the east. I think about all of the sights on my list of things to see in Australia, the people I wanted to meet: Surfers and koala bears and bushmen and backpackers. But not this kid. This isn’t the cultural experience I planned to have, and it won’t go into my photo album, but it’s the one that will stay with me the longest.