I was going to post a scathing piece about how the Star (I am an educated Black Woman) Jones/Nene (I am not a Bully) Leakes Celebrity Apprentice feud made this educated black woman want to put a huge disclaimer ad in the New York Times.  Something like:  “The views expressed and behavior displayed on this show do not represent  those of the vast majority of African American women.”

But then I found Merrill Garbus who made me forget the horrors I'd witnessed.  She restoreth my soul.

She’s not an educated black woman--in fact, in Killa, a song you can hear below, she declares she's "a NEW kinda woman."  And women like Garbus need to be talked about—and listened to—more than the Nene's and Stars of the world.   She’s a performance artist whose “project,” tUnE-YaRdS, may not be new to you, but she’s new to me.  She's one of those really “out there” acts no Tucson radio jock would play even if you put a gun to his mullet.

Okay, we do have an amazing community station (KXCI) that probably has been playing her forever.  But their signal doesn’t make it all the way out to my little lair up against the mountains.  So I listen to David Byrne’s playlists on ITunes and his Web site (http://www.davidbyrne.com/radio/index.php) sometimes, to catch up.  And she was the one that stuck for me this time—you’ll see why in a minute.

I also watched a documentary about Charles Bukowski that broke my heart, but sent me to the Web to find some of his work.  I’ve known about him since the 60sl but had almost forgotten him.  And along with some books I’m going to buy, there was a poem about being a writer that says everything I feel about being a writer.   And…why I have no choice but to be a writer.

These may seem like two disparate discussions, but they’re not.  I’m pretty sure that Garbus is driven to do what she does the same way Bukowski was driven to do what he did.   You don’t do what they do for money.   You do it because you just have to and hope that you can find a day job that lets you do it some more in whatever spare time you have left.  

According to The New Yorker (May 2, 2011):

“A friend gave her (Garbus) a Sony ICD-TK digital voice recorder, and her parents gave her a Dell laptop. She began recording melodies, lyrics, and noises, making them into songs with a free version of the audio software Audacity.”

Her quirky, "LoFi" compositions are what Yoko Ono might've done if she'd had soul--and rhythm.  She's like George Clinton on estrogen.  And acid.  And she released her first collection on recycled cassette tape. 

It was an underground hit, and her newest offering, whokill, is apparently doing really, really well.   She also sells out now wherever she goes.  So there is a God, maybe.

Bukowski  became a very unexpected “hit,” too, and the documentary I saw shows how conflicted he was about that.  It is probably fair to say that he drank himself to death, but I wouldn’t say it was stardom that did it.  He just liked to drink as much as he loved to write.  

Working at the Post Office for over a decade to support his writing may have contributed to the drinking.  It definitely contributed to the ulcer that almost killed him.

But he couldn't give up either the writing or the drinking.  So he gave us everything he discovered while doing both.   Priceless stuff I’m not sure we deserve.  Or fully understand.  But he couldn’t stop.  We're lucky.  Him...not so much.

I turned this poem into a desktop background that I have decided to keep forever even when friends send me truly adorable grandbaby, pet, beach, desert and mountain shots that tempt me to change it.   You might want to do the same if you’re like Bukowski, Garbus or me.  

It cannot be said any better.  And if you’re some other kind of artist, replace the word writer with whatever it is you do.   Watch—it’ll be about you, too.

So…here are two songs by Garbus.  And your poem, by Bukowski, right below them.

Nene and Star…you can’t get this from Trump.   You gotta be born this brilliant.   It may kill you, but…for a better cause than…whatever you were turning those tricks for, sistah girlz.  Listen up.