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[08 Sep 2008|12:43am] |
One of the few good memories I have about my ex-boyfriend John, revolves around a book written by Art Pepper called "The Straight Life". I'll spare you the gory details involving our relationship, but let's just say it was a pretty awful two years of my life. The only thing I cherish about my time with him is the fact that he exposed me to this autobiography.
I packed this book away almost four years ago, and started reading it again for the sixth time tonight. It is one of the best memoirs I've ever read because it was written by an actual degenerate petty thief junky with no pretension. His wife helped him write the book near the end of his life, and at no point does any of his story seem forced. You almost feel like you are sitting down with the guy having a beer while he tells you about his thoroughly fucked up life. I suppose I'm a bit biased since most of his story takes place in Los Angeles when it was still FAAAAAAAAR OUT. I guess I have a soft spot for stories based on the old Southern California. It's also pretty awesome when he talks about the ultimate F you he gave to Miles Davis. Also, he talks a lot about "balling chicks". It's fantastic.
You should check it out.
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[21 Aug 2008|12:28am] |
An hour ago a tweeker pulled his bike up to the curb in front of our house. Daniel and I were smoking cigarettes on our front porch. He asked us the following questions:
"Did the people who lived here before die"?
"Was the girl pregnant"?
"Wanna come help me burn down my brother's house"?
Our dogs were barking and growling through the front screen door like maniacs. The tweeker said:
"Hey, those are nice dogs, are they mean"?
"You have a really nice place".
"I wish everyone was dead".
"I know you have some cans I can recycle".
We told him to have a good night and went inside. I got the chills from the tweeker. I told Daniel I thought he was casing our house. Daniel walked to the end of the driveway and the tweeker was on his bike in front of our house staring at our front door. Once he saw Daniel he sped down the street.
I called the cops and asked them to send a patrol car out. By the time they had arrived, the tweeker was riding his bike down the street with an equally scummy dude.
I assume they had 93592750235 warrants out between them.
How was your Wednesday night?
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| Notes from the Union Station bus terminal, Los Angeles 2007 |
[29 Jun 2008|08:16pm] |
Obese middle-aged woman in tight red sweatpants and a filthy white t-shirt is sifting through her belongings in a dozen or so plastic bags. She pulls out a Happy Meal toy and exclaims to no one in particular that it's from "Everybody Loves Raymond". She then sings "The Heat is On" over and over again for the next half hour.
A woman with stringy, dishwater blond hair is slumped into a terminal chair gently pushing a crying baby back and forth in a stroller piled with backpacks, trash and a transistor radio. The woman looks like she just fled her Winnebago in Barstow because her skin is dry and sun drenched - like she'd been holed up in the desert for the past ten years. It seems like she'd been sitting in the terminal since last night. My guess is she can only afford a one way ticket on Greyhound. She has that look of desperation. If she wasn't in a tank top and shorts she'd look a bit like a woman Dorthea Lange would've photographed during The Great Depression.
A roughneck ex-con covered in shitty prison tattoos chain smokes Pall Malls next to the drinking fountain in a gangsta Bugs Bunny t-shirt. His eyes are bugging out of his head, and probably everything he owns is stuffed into a laundry bag. His nose is black and blue and crumpled up against his cheek. I want to ask him if it's from a fight in the joint, but he looks pretty agitated so it's probably not a good idea.
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[03 Jun 2008|10:37am] |
Daniel and I just got back from Belize. It was hurricanning the entire trip. We spent a lot of time in our hotel room watching Mexican game shows drunk. More on that later.
Here's a video of what our dogs did while we were away. Our friends John and Tim took them to HOLLYWOOD.
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[22 Apr 2008|09:50am] |
Since it is Earth Day, I thought I'd post one of the most smug interviews I've ever read with a truly vile little creature. A self proclaimed "Sustainable Design Blogger" (translation, I have a rich husband), Jill Fehrenbacher is just one of the millions of self righteous assholes "saving the planet" in $158 organic cotton t-shirts. Give me a fucking break.
my green life: the dreamerSustainable-design blogger Jill Fehrenbacher lives eco-fabulously, but still sees room for improvement. With Earth Day as a canvas, this visionary paints two versions—one ideal, one real—of her plans for April 22.
Mika Macihda organic cotton and bamboo jersey "Elephant" top $158 Ekovaruhuset (212) 673-1753. Veja organic cotton and rubber "Volley" sneakers $130 Takashimaya (800) 753-2038
7:00 AM
fantasy: Rise and shine to NPR blazing on my solar-powered satellite clock radio. Hear news that the U.S. set automobile-emissions targets and Bush signed the Kyoto Protocol. Yay, Earth Day is off to a great start!
reality: Wake up in my tiny Manhattan loft to NPR on my solar-powered (but not satellite, sadly) radio (freeplayenergy.com). Hear more statistics about melting ice caps. Hit snooze and crawl under the covers for another 15 minutes. 8:12
fantasy: Turn on my lean, green MacBook Air (apple.com), which connects to a workstation treadmill. While I type, I walk, producing energy to juice the laptop.
reality: Boot up my old power-hogging, toxic chemical-containing laptop. Check in on inhabitat.com, the green-design blog I publish. 9:05
fantasy: It's a beautiful morning for a jog. Pull on my organic Veja sneakers (veja.fr) and head to the waterfront. Pass throngs of old men fishing in the crystal-clear East River.
reality: Jog down to the water. See old men fishing in the murky East River and lament rising mercury levels in tuna. 10:00
fantasy: Back home to blog. Scan sites for news to post on Inhabitat. Spot a groundbreaking story about how NYC has decided to ban landfill-clogging plastic bags.
reality: Not finding any interesting stories after an hour of browsing, I sit down at my custom recycled-wood dining table (scrapile.com) to read The Onion and clear my head. Chuckle at the headline "Nation's Snowmen March Against Global Warming." 11:33
fantasy: My architect calls. She's just completed a green renovation of my loft. I wax ecstatic over the secret drawers we put in behind the staircase risers. The dual-purpose design, which we copied from a photo in Vogue Living Australia, is both eco-friendly and beautifully efficient.
reality: With no staircase drawers (or closets) to speak of, I am The Container Store's best customer. 12 PM
fantasy: Pop over to vegan bakery BabyCakes NYC for a treat (babycakesnyc.com). Order tea and a vegan croissant for $2. In its rise to world dominance, the company hit on a butterless recipe for flaky French pastries!
reality: Go to BabyCakes for a delicious, but $3, frosted lemon spelt cupcake. 1:30
fantasy: Tonight I'm covering Project Earth Day (projectearthday.com), a showcase of ethical fashion. I pop into Swedish clothing boutique Ekovaruhuset (ekovaruhuset.se) to look around. Lo and behold, everything is 50 percent off, and I find a gorgeous Misericordia organic cotton dress that fits perfectly (misionmisericordia.com).
reality: Stop by Ekovaruhuset. Despite my love and longing for the inventory, the dress I covet comes in one size only—5'11" Swedish-model size—and doesn't work on my 5'5" self. 3:44
fantasy: Take the long way home to pass by artist Edina Tokodi's "living graffiti." Edina creates flora-and fauna-shaped street art out of moss, reminding urban pedestrians of our detachment from the natural world.
reality: Rush home to blog. Keep an eye out for Edina's graffiti along the way. Sadly, the city took down the installation. 6:40
fantasy: Hail an electric taxi and make it to Project Earth Day in 10 minutes. Now that Mayor Bloomberg has instituted a congestion surcharge, Manhattan traffic is a breeze.
reality: Take a regular gas-fueled cab to the show; sit in traffic for 30 minutes. 9:00
fantasy: I invite a few of the show's designers to dinner at my very own organic, vegan and wildly successful restaurant, Urbavore. Everything is local and in season— and on the house since it's my restaurant!
reality: Vegan dinner at home in front of The Daily Show, cooked with farmers-market produce by my husband, Peter. 10:02
fantasy: Enjoy the glow of my cordless, phosphorescent E.L. Flutter night-light.
reality: Plug in my E.L. Flutter light (juvieshop.com). Hope that a zero-energy version comes out by Earth Day 2009. Shut down my laptop, plop into bed and return to dreamland.
I really hope she chokes on a vegan cupcake on her way to buy a $10,000 designer recycled wood coffee table. Its people like this that make me want to dump the contents of my kitchen trash can on a hybrid. Maybe instead of posting eco-friendly tips on your shitty website that only rich, judgemental assholes like yourself read, why don't you throw your "power hogging" laptop out the window, move out of your metropolitan neighborhood and really live off the grid? Spending the equivalent of my yearly salary on organic cotton yoga pants and designer hemp tote bags isn't exactly impressive, you dig? Homesteading in Montana and harvesting your own crops is.
What an obnoxious fucking twit.
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| DOG POST |
[05 Apr 2008|01:28pm] |
PEARL
DINK
CHESTER
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[31 Mar 2008|09:50am] |
This is my husband.
He's pretty awesome.
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| Lady Wino |
[08 Mar 2008|06:54am] |
After work last night I went to the Trader Joe's in Santa Monica to buy orange juice, cheese and bread. What should have been a five minute trip took thirty minutes as I had to push my way through a throng of uppity Westside soccer moms and their bratty offspring. Every aisle was clogged with these women. They blocked shopping carts with their SUV sized strollers and cackled on their cell phones as their children destroyed displays. I just wanted to get home and watch "Bone Detectives", and these assholes were standing in my way.
By the time I reached the check-out I was in a seriously foul mood. The line was six customers deep. I considered walking out until I noticed a milk crate on wheels filled with Christmas tree ornaments, empty soda cans, old newspapers and PUPPETS in front of me. None of the other customers seemed to notice that this was a sign that somewhere in the store an absolute nutcase was grabbing a last minute item before they returned to the line. I totally forgot how miserable this Trader Joe's had made me, and anxiously waited for the milk crate's owner to return.
Then, as though she'd escaped from a drunk tank at the Central Jail and wandered into the store, an elderly lady wino wobbled back and forth in front of the Chuck Shaw display next to the entrance. She was holding a bottle of vegetable oil she'd wrapped in saran wrap. I watched her sneer at a woman and her child exiting the store before she slowly lifted a case of merlot off the shelf. She hobbled towards me, dropped the case of wine and peeled her filthy green trenchcoat off to reveal an entire clown costume, torn and covered with dried vomit, cigarette burns and grass stains. By now, I had completely forgotten about how miserable I'd felt and anxiously waited for an outburst - especially since the nearby customers were pretending not to notice how bad she smelled.
She finally reached the cashier and pulled a man's wallet out of her milk crate. It took her a few minutes to sort through all of the credit cards until she found a Bank of America ATM card with middle aged man's photo on it. She paid for the wine, but became frustrated when she realized that she wouldn't receive any cash back, so the cashier had to return the case, refund the total to the card, and process it again as a debit to give her $50. By now she had been at the register for twenty minutes, and the customers behind me were making those obnoxious my-time-is-precious sounds like, sighing loudly and stomping their feet like big babies. I could've stood there for a week watching her. Plus, I loved the fact that she seemed to be making everyone else uncomfortable.
After I paid for my groceries I walked out to the parking lot and saw her collect her filthy, arthritic toy poodle wearing a miniature clown costume JUST LIKE HERS. They got into a tan 70's station wagon with expired tags that was filled with junk. By the time I finished loading my bags into my car she was sitting in the drivers seat drinking the merlot out of the bottle while her dog slept on the dashboard.
Since I don't have a photo of her, if you combine these pictures, you'll get an idea of what she looked like:
 
 
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[08 Mar 2007|03:40pm] |
Last night we’re at the HMS Bounty. It’s still early in the evening, and there’s a few local alcoholics scattered along the bar – all in various stages of intoxication. To the left of us on the opposite end a cluster of old men are trading dirty jokes with a hard faced woman who cackles maniacally at each punch line. To our right is some blowhard in a tweed professor’s jacket spouting off about his political affiliations, or something equally obnoxious, to two obviously shitfaced baby boomer friends.
In the middle of all this is Daniel and I, and a thoroughly soused cirrhosis case who must’ve been nursing his thirtieth vodka & tonic. If it hadn’t been for the events that eventually unfolded, all of the patrons at the Bounty would’ve paid their bill at the end of the night with no concern for the well being of said cirrhosis case blowing his SSI check on a bender. He would’ve put away his final drink by 9:00, staggered to the nearest bush, and passed out underneath it until a cop jarred him awake with his baton. This sort of thing happens every night.
Unfortunately, that’s not exactly how things worked out. The man nursing his thirtieth vodka and tonic slid off his barstool onto the floor, and a dozen people came to his “rescue”. He moaned for a bit, and then spat out a string of fuck-this-motherfucking-shit-you-asshole to one of the amateur EMTs trying to press a towel filled with ice to his head. The blowhard in the tweed jacket decides he’s going to check his pulse, and loudly proclaims that he “Knows about these things”, and has “Been trained”. His cronies obediently nod their heads in agreement, which eggs the blowhard on further. Now he’s announcing to the crowd that the drunk’s “Blood pressure is really low”, and instructs the bartender to call 911. The bartender is completely confused so she begins to scream in broken english at the drunk, asking him if she wants him to call an ambulance. The drunk is completely irritated at this point and is plainly asking all of the wannabe boy scouts to put him back on the stool and “Leave him the fuck alone”. None of them listen. They continue to talk about his rapidly failing health and need for medical attention. The drunk clearly just wants another drink.
After about 15 minutes of this Daniel finally says to the group that he’s a “Grown man” and that they should probably “Let him decide what he wants to do with the rest of his evening”. Indignant, they slowly start to move back to their original seats. The drunk is back up on his stool weaving a bit, but drinking a glass of water the bartender poured for him.
Next an overbearing, loud-mouthed woman with a hyperactive mothering instinct is in the drunk’s ear chattering away about how he should be careful, and they’re just looking out for him, and would you like a coffee, and does your head hurt - ad infinitum. The drunk is looking at us like “Who the fuck is this bitch”? We both shrug.
She’s talking to him like a five year old: “WHERE DO YOU LIVE, SWEETIE”? “SHOULD WE DRIVE YOU BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT SO YOU CAN GO TO BED”? He’s completely tuned her out.
The bartender called him a cab. The driver arrives, and the busboy is trying to drag him out of the bar – he’s grabbed him by the arm, and the drunk won’t budge. I hold out my hand, his jaundiced eyes light up, and I steady him against me out of the bar onto Wilshire. Just as he’s about to collapse into the backseat, he brushes his liver spotted hand against my cheek and says “Thanks, gorgeous – I don’t know what those people are thinking”.
But here’s my point to all of this:
If an elderly man, who has probably been drinking heavily most of his life wants to drink himself to death, at least have the decency to let him go out with a little self respect. I understand the desire to want to help those in distress, but the minute an old alcoholic tells me to fuck off after I attempt put an ice pack on his head, I’ll leave him in peace. All of this showboating about having medical knowledge, and crowding around him, and talking to him like an infant is totally unnecessary. Throw a glass of water in his face, help him back up on the barstool, and go back to your own fucking cocktail. He knew what he was getting into the minute he opened his tab that night.
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| 8 occupations I would like to have, weighed. |
[26 Dec 2006|11:54am] |
1. Blimp operator
Pros: This job is bananas! I can show up to work every day wearing tap shoes, a barrel held up with suspenders, and a snorkel mask without being sent home by my boss to change.
Cons: I get terrible vertigo in a plane, so I can’t imagine a blimp would present less of an obstacle. When I tell strangers about my job at cocktail parties, they’d privately have a laugh at my expense. It seems like operating a blimp would hold the same stature as one of those dudes that paints themselves silver and acts like a robot on Venice Beach. On top of all that, I’d constantly worry about another Hindenburg incident.
2. Snake charmer
Pros: I'd finally have an excuse to learn how to play the flute without looking like a fruit. No enemy would dare cross my path since I’d carry a real live cobra around with me at all times in a knapsack.
Cons: I’d have to sit in a dusty bazaar all day in extreme heat, and probably wouldn’t do my job well since I’d be too distracted by goats roaming past the vendors. No medical insurance.
3. One of those doo wop singers with an ultra low voice that only sings a sentence in a song because his voice is so scary and weird.
Pros: If I needed an extra paycheck I could do voice over work as a demon, or stand-in for James Earl Jones. Women would assume my deep voice = a higher level of testosterone, and would be so turned on that they’d throw their panties at me on the street.
Cons: Never getting the chance to complete a crank call without being caught. Becoming a convincing transvestite would be totally out of the question.
4. Soda jerk
Pros: I’d love to make egg creams all day and wear a tiny paper hat.
Cons: Listening to Bill Haley & the Comets all day would eventually make me snap.
5. Train porter
Pros: Riding a train for a living would be an ideal existence. Again, I’d get to wear an official train employee hat, which greatly appeals to me.
Cons: Carrying rich peoples’ luggage around. There’s also a possibility that I’d witness a murder in one of the cabins and have to worry about becoming the next victim.
6. Competitive eater
Pros: All the hotdogs I could eat without having to pay. Giving myself a nickname like Bitten “The gurgitator” Williams, or “The Mouth”.
Cons: Morbid obesity, diabetes, uncontrollable vomiting, and esophageal tearing.
7. Trash barge captain
Pros: I’d never have to take another bath since I’d smell like an open grave all the time. I’d also never have to develop any new social skills since my daily interaction with anything living would be limited to grunting and spitting.
Cons: I can’t really think of any cons.
8. Bridge troll
Pros: My only job requirements would be baking pies and guarding pots of gold coins tucked away in my cottage made of gumdrops and dead villagers’ bones. I’d also get to live out my fantasy of being surrounded by wild goats with no real contact with the outside world.
Cons: I’d be low on the mythical creature scale, so I wouldn’t be taken seriously by many and would probably be clowned by local teenaged villagers who would throw rocks at my cottage when they passed over my bridge.
So that’s my list. If any of you know a bridge troll or a trash barge captain please let me know. I’d be interested in an apprenticeship. I think the other positions I could acquire based on sheer determination.
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[22 Nov 2006|03:13pm] |
I don't know much about making a rhubarb pie, or where to find rhubarbs. Can you find a patch in the woods and just pick them? Also, why is a slice of rhubarb pie never an option on a diner menu? I'm beginning to think that this is all one big joke on me. I've never seen a rhubarb, but I like to do everything as olde timey as possible, and this seems like a better option than plain old cherry pie. I also like the idea that it may have been a popular treat in the Great Depression. Along with rhubarb pies I'm also obsessed with doing everything the old fashioned way, which means I would like to be able to brag about surviving the Dust Bowl and a food riot.
Another thing I'm curious about is after I bake the pie and leave it on my window sill to cool, how do I prevent a fat neighborhood kid wearing a propeller hat from stealing it?
Here's another example of why I think rhubarbs aren't real or made out of broken glass or something:
Clearly I'm missing something.
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[20 Aug 2006|01:03pm] |
Alright, so I promise to knock it off with all the uh, marriage stuff soon. In a week or so all of my entries ahould be about me chasing him around in curlers with a rolling pin after he comes home late from the bar.
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| This afternoon I almost died |
[13 Aug 2006|08:23pm] |
It's true. I came inches from death. If not death then definitely a hospitalization involving me in a full body cast drinking my lunch out of a straw and peeing through a catheter. The accident was caused by an involuntary space-out on my bike. I caught an Audi failing to stop at a yellow light so I hit my brakes hard and flew over my handlebars onto the hood and then tumbled to the ground. I landed on my back, realized I was still conscious, free of broken bones, and not bleeding! Honestly, I don't know if it was plain dumb luck or I landed the right way, but I'm beginning to think my calling in life is that of a stunt double (Or a stunt man - don't stunt doubles just stand in for actors when they have to show their dicks or boobs or whatever)?
Anyway, a small crowd gathered. The driver asked me if he should call an ambulance and offered me a bottle of water. Some lady on a mountain bike with a cyborg helmet and hairy legs offered to give me a lift back to my place. Yeah. Like I'm really going to ride on this bitch's handlebars back to my apartment. Who did they think they were dealing with? A wimp? As you can probably tell, when I fall down I react ANGRILY and want to be left alone. I shrugged off the collision and told everyone I was fine. I gathered up my grocery bags and hobbled over to the curb where I smoked a cigarette and wondered how I didn't wind up a Terri Schiavo. Since I'm a bit of a fatalist I've convinced myself that there's some big cosmic plan for me. The problem is I don't know what the fuck it could be. I don't excel at any one thing. Maybe I'm meant to do something as seemingly insignificant as smile at some down on his luck lush sitting at the end of a bar which then prompts him to change his mind about blowing up the house of the boss that fired him on Friday. Everyone has a destiny I suppose. It'll be a riot to find out what mine is one day.
On a completely non morbid note this move to New York isn't exactly what I thought it would be. It's been six months and I still haven't adjusted to the East Coast. Spending most of my life in Southern California has something to do with it I'm sure, but really - the people out here drive me up the fucking wall. I know a lot of people would say "New York is REAL" or "That's just how New Yorkers do things". Fuck that. Give me the trashy opulence of Hollywood and the gayer than gay West L.A. I miss the Bloods and the Crips. I'm desperate to ride the City bus to downtown and walk around skid row with a tall boy. I miss the taco trucks and gridlock. The delusional starlets and attention seeking movie extras. I miss LAPD beatings and freeway chases on the six o'clock news. Even the homeless people are better, and there are miles and miles of them if you head East towards Union Station. I guess what I'm trying he to say is, although good things have come out of this move, I'm ready to immerse myself again in all of the things that once frayed my nerves.
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| Musical Survey! |
[01 Dec 2005|05:11pm] |
Survey!
1. Of all the bands/artists in your cd/record collection, which one do you own the most albums by?
THREE SIX MAFIA
2. What was the last song you listened to??
I listened to a Dr. Demento tape this morning before work because I thought it would put me in a good mood and pump me up for my 9-5. It actually just bummed me out because I thought, ‘Dr. Demento is a total loser and no one likes him at all but me’
3. What's in your CD player right now?
THREE SIX MAFIA
THREE SIX MAFIA
Carole King - Tapestry
4. What song would you say sums you up?
Gangsta Gangsta
5. What's your favorite local band/group?
EXTREME ELVIS
6. What was the last show you attended?
This show at the smell where a bunch of kids stood around and looked disinterested. Some girl was wearing a rat trap in her hair, and there were a bunch of 19 year old dudes hanging out that looked like they had never thrown a baseball
7. What was the greatest show you've ever been to?
When I was 8 I went to see Neil Diamond with my GRANDMA and he had this full on David Copperfield act with pyrotechnics and smoke machines and a giant lazer eagle flew into the crowd.
I also saw Tom Jones at the Ventura County Fair and a gaggle of senior citizen ladies threw their underwear onstage
And another time my mom took me to see X when I was 4 and I fell asleep at the bar with my Shirley temple while my mom totally thrashed
And of course, there’s always this show:
8. What's the shittiest show you've ever been to?
Probably an Earth Crisis show because I was the only girl there and all of the dudes smelled really bad and looked like they were about to start crying
9. What band do you love musically but hate the members of?
The Pope
10. What's the most musically involved you have ever been ?
Fucking drum circles dude
11. What show are you looking forward to?
I want to go to a booty bass show in Atlanta, but that will probably never happen so right now I’m not looking forward to any shows.
12. What is your favorite band t-shirt?
Born Against shirt with golden shower Tom of Finland illustration on it
13. What musician would you like to hang out with for a day?
Bushwick Bill or David Lee Roth because I would just ask him to do air splits all day
15. What was your coolest "rock star" moment?
Having sex with Led Zeppelin
16. Do you like rap concerts?
Yes, I like rap concerts
17. Who is one musician or group do you wish would make a comeback?
ODB for real. Like crawl out of his grave a scare the shit out of motherfuckers
18. Who is one band/artist you've never seen live but always wanted to:
The Residents
19. Name 6 of your favorite songs of all time:
MONSTER MASH
MONSTER MASH
MONSTER MASH
MONSTER MASH
The Thong Song
Living Colour is my favorite black metal band
20. Name 4 flawless albums
That’s easy
Anal Cunt - Top 40 Hits
Bushwick Bill - Little Big Man
Dee Dee Ramone’s rap album
Dr. Demento – Hits from Outer Space
22. What was the greatest decade for music?
1930’s
23. How many music related videos/DVDs do you own?
The only one that really matter is Steve Vai groupie
24. How many concerts/shows have you been to, total?
If I could reclaim every minute wasted at a shitty Ventura County show I would have a year of free time on my hands
25. Who have you seen the most live?
Elvis Costello
26. What is your favorite movie soundtrack??
Suspiria
And the Thrashin soundtrack is pretty sweet too.
27. What was your last musical "phase" before you wisened up?
Well right now I’m going through a Dr. Demento “phase” and I hope I never wise up
28. What music is your "guilty pleasure" music that you don't often admit to liking?
Michael McDonald, but I tell everyone about it. I’m not ashamed.
29. What album have you purchased the most copies of in your lifetime?
This survey is getting boring
30. Who is your favorite musician?
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