Weeds. Dutch Babies.
Welcome to something entirely new from HouseOFNae. I’m calling it HOUSEWORK. Except you don’t need Playtex Living Gloves. Put your feet up. Time for tea 😉
Florida is funny. Bees make honey. And weeds are a real thing here. You can turn your back and instantly be up to your knees. I take walks in the morning and scope the patios like Gladys Kravitz, wondering what mine will look like if I let it get as bad as that guy over there. Or that lady over there who I heard ruined the carpets in her unit with dog pee then promptly moved her and the dog across the complex to a new apartment. She lets the weeds go too and provides a nice benchmark as to just how lazy I can get when it’s a Tampa July and feels like swamp ass every time you crack open the door to see if it’s still swamp ass outside.
Which it is. My parents walked at midnight like Patsy Cline who was born less than 10 miles from my Daddy in Winchester. Round and around the middle school track under a July moon because Richmond, Virginia in 1977 was swamp ass too. Me and my ginger-haired sister would sit in the bleachers when we got tired and complain how we wanted to be home in our beds asleep. Our parents would circle and circle the track, four times around to the mile, she with her ebony-colored Lynda Carter hair winging like it could fly her away in an invisible plane, Dad just trying to keep up, then eventually joining us on the bleachers. Walking and walking with purpose they circled. Like every loop could add one more year to an already failing marriage.
Eventually Nan would poodle-perm those wings into Barbra Streisand “A Star is Born” realness, but for tonight she just wanted to run 3 miles with no interruption please. Alone time grabbed at any cost while her family waits impatiently, wondering why in the hell she has to do this anyway. God, we were obtuse. I can’t even use childhood as a good excuse. She’s out there looking photo-shoot ready and trying like hell to run away but stuck on a gerbil wheel. Could it be any clearer? Trapped around and around and around but still using the rut she’s stuck on to get those legs tight and that ass high so she can come 1st runner up in the Hot Pants competition at the State Fair once again and don’t you forget it.
I love my Momma. How she was a stallion amid all us jackasses with our braying and our complaining and our need. How she’d laugh even if the laugh got jackass loud or manic sometimes with red burgundy attached. Served room temperature please and aren’t you stupid for not knowing that, here’s your two cent tip and only if you’re a TRUE waitress will you know what an insult that means. My mother, The Virgo. My mother, The Endora Supreme, The Joan Collins, The Farrah, The Ava, The Cher. My Momma, Nan. The original Dancing Nancy and I say that with love, honor, pride, and respect because while Nan wasn’t Penny Lane, she would’ve if she could’ve. She would’ve just done it all classy. In gold hoop earrings with brown toenail polish in a bikini with one of those rings in the center like you’re in a harem. Literally a walking 1978 Cosmo cover.
It’s why I’m here today writing to you, for what I hope to be a regular thing but as we’ve all seen from the past few years there ain’t no such thing as regular no more. If you’re still reading this in fact, you’re already irregular because nobody and their mother reads, so thank you.
I do read as well as write although In the glitz and flash and mob and sparkle of DJ Life, I forgot the power, stillness, and foundation of the written word. Friends gave me books to remind me. I rediscovered audiobooks like Shadowland by Peter Straub, a fable with magicians and monsters and creepy mansions, a book I’d loved at eleven and needed again like a beloved blanket. Like the rag which Nan ceremoniously grabbed and tossed when I was four and probably which I’ve been trying to get back ever since. My Rosebud. We all have one. I’m sure hers was taken from her so she had to pass down that legacy hot potato to a first daughter who would understand. It’s only at 56 that I do and honey, forgiven long ago. I don’t need a rag to hold anymore. But I still search for what it meant.
Which brings me back to writing.
Did I drop pen and paper because of latent trauma from writing my own memoir, HAG? Reliving all of that trauma then editing it over and over again? Possibly. Will this new writing project succeed in becoming something more, or peter out as so many of my spaghetti meets wall projects have? Does it matter? I’m here now. Writing. You’re here now. Reading.Thank you for that. Life is funny and bees make honey and all we have every day is a new chance to throw some new pasta at a different set of bricks. It’s up to you to cook the pasta.
Once a week Monday I’ll publish a piece of no more than 500 words, a number which feels like a strong spine with which to attach my thoughts – like a vane for my mind’s kite. Any more it becomes verbal diarrhea, any less won’t feel complete. Mrs. Boyce in 12th grade made us all write in-class essays of 500 words on a topic of our choice every Friday. Fifty minutes to write 500 words. I can do that because of Mrs. Boyce. Not only that, I was able to teach 1000 kids how to do that in my decade-long education career.
Writing is the hardest thing. It’s only good if you do it every day and it sucks to do it every day. A beast with needs that are endless and some days I hate every fucking minute. But when you re-read something and your eyes go wide in wonder at a word choice you forgot you had, it feels pretty fucking good. It feels good to be strapping on that belt again, like a Western gunslinger attacking a great demon. I always did love a good Stephen King novel but god, did they fuck up that movie. Sorry Idris.
I’m dramatic, no apologies, so this weekly column will be as well. My plan is to outline the House Music scene first in Florida, then hopefully the region, the country, the world. I’ll have a topic to dance around but no clear plan. Kind of like my mixes which while deeply prepared, tend to grow on their own like Spanish moss. I promise to be of value to your time, and if not, will kick your ass if you don’t let me know. I’m here for you and that only works if you don’t always lurk. Send flyers my way, stories my way. I’m out and about now, that back thing is done and HALLAYLUYER for that 🙂
The time for being sensitive is over, people. It’s time to be real, have real talks. You won’t find listicles, or cancels, or must-buys. No judgments. BE THE EXAMPLE, NOT THE JUDGE. I just misspelled “judgement” again for the 500th time, and I swear it’s because that kid beat me in the 2nd grade spelling bee with that word. You have shit you need to let go? Because Nae obviously does. I’m a bit like David Sedaris with better boobs. Writing. Thinking. Working shit out and hopefully giving you a laugh. It’s just that I DJ a mean set as well. A House Music set which will blow your eardrums out your ass. HouseOfNae. It’s a thing. Get to know her 😉 Sure a blog about a female DJ in a city with a thriving House Music scene could be considered gossipy and horrible and evil. Most of y’all don’t know me too well…yet. My good friends understand I’m a Pollyanna from Sunnybrook Farm and the only thing shady about me are the beautiful filtered navy blue linens in my window because it’s hot as Hades. Again be the example, not the judge.
I’m here to help. I’m always here to help. This column isn’t about telling tales like you do at Sunday Tea Dance. I just see a lot of shit with my big eyes and it gives me thoughts. Then I see more stuff and add it to those thoughts and what comes out is a visual of our culture now. From my perspective. A female House Music DJ in Tampa/StPete who’s trying to speak a new beats language so she can make a few folks happy. Follow me or not enjoy it or not I just hope I evoke some kind of emotion because empathy is evil. Jack Kerouac talked about conscious, constant, compassion. Yeah that sounds good too. I’ll get that in a to-go bag please every single morning.
When you know better you do better and I know better on a few things and I’m trying to do better on the rest. I’m just here to help like Mr. Rogers said, find the helpers. Glad you found me hope you stay. Bewell, remember to allow, now go handle your shit
ps. Pic of my newest creation coming to a festival (maybe) near you…Blueberry Vanilla Dutch Baby with Fig Compote and Sugared Lemon Zest. Oh yeah. Looks like the Black Plague, tastes like that kid with the blueberry pies in that other great Stephen King novella, Stand By Me.
Today’s post went a little over. it’s been a while. The flag needed to wave in the breeze a bit💋
pps. Of course there will still be mixes. One every Friday. This week a special AFROBEATS mix ahead of my first set a Santos Lounge, 101 E. Franklin, Downtown Tampa. Join us for a Tulum-inspired brunch and craft cocktails and a vibe which will add that last little bit to your weekend. We get loud darling. There’s drums.