The B-Side

New URL

2008-12-15T19:14:00.000-08:00

Hey there, teamsters! My blog has officially made the ol' table-turnin' switcharoo from stdesantis.blogspot.com to http://marissadesantis.blogspot.com

Not only do I hope to receive less jokes about venereal disease now, I also hope people will start to recognize my name in cyberspace. Plus it's easy for me to remember.

And for the record, it was never an STD joke--my last name means "of the saints" so it was just a bit of wordplay. Get yer minds out of the gutter, o' ye five folks who read this blog!

Please change your favorites/bookmarks/pieces of scrap paper that turn up a month later and you're like, "oh yeah--it's that girl's blog. Why did I write this down again?" accordingly.

Christmas List

2008-11-06T06:50:00.001-08:00

http://www.shockhound.com/merch/2061-crosley-cr249-usb-tan-turntable

I wonder if it's a good product...

Ears

2008-11-05T17:51:00.000-08:00

I was blessed with taste and smell. My hearing? A constant battle. This poem has been inside me since I was a little girl, squeezing the arm of a sterilized chair with my mom looking on like she was in pain for me. It still doesn't say everything, but it feels good to write about my ears for once.

Half head
a diving bell,
invisible and flooding
with murmur and hiss,
with feeding hummingbirds.

I move about the office
as a string of ribbon released
from the cage of a fan.

Not knowing how to heal,
my body simply
leans,
adjusts,
bargains with floaty side effects,
tossed covers,
increased effects of alcohol,
imbalance.

In the chair
he asks if he's hurting me,
but there are abstruse degrees
I can't pretend to understand:
high alerts
and low, like unfathomable pitches
ringing out of range
and burning.

A flood of saline solution
bursts from his trained hand.
Feverish dead cells hurl and sweep,
fluttering like warm children
in the rush of a flushing hydrant.

When they leave I am open
only briefly
and a little less each time.
I keep filling
with lifeless white tissue,
or some unborn child's body
curled up and swollen within my
tiny ear canal,
his dead silence
becoming more
and more pronounced.

Mmm Mmm Salty

2008-10-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I ate a can of Campbell's condensed chicken noodle soup. This may not seem so impressive or interesting or uncommon, but to me, scooping spoons full of thin, salty, golden broth with its wiry inch noodles and tiny chicken bits was satisfying in such a pure, unpretentious, classic way.

A simple lunch, warm and quieting Campbell's soup took me back to sleepovers at my grandma's house--me and grandma and one of my cousins splitting a family-size can when my grandma didn't have time to make us her homemade noodles. It's the kind of meal you have to eat with a big spoon. Our bellies were always grateful.

I know that Campbell's has always used nostalgia, goodness, and American values to market their products. And I know that I always tend to get a little sentimental at the beginning of soup and sweater season.

I think it's just that for a while I've been beyond Campbell's classic chicken noodle. I've been dining at local restaurants--at bistros enjoying gazpacho and cous cous, at brew pubs eating creamy beer cheese broth. Even when I eat canned soup I've been doing the "healthy choice" varieties with less salt and more veggies to compensate. And all of these things are good (some more than others), but there are varying degrees of perfection.

And the commercial with the snowman is pretty adorable, too.

Love, Asiago-ly

2008-10-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

I came to Panera to write tonight. I often find that I'm more able to concentrate outside of the house, where I don't have a needy kitten or a DVR to distract me.

Tonight when I came in, I plugged in near my regular leather armchair next to the fireplace, before realizing that the middle-aged man in the royal blue turtleneck one table over was going to use his outdoor voice for his entire visit. He sat and jawed at the woman across from him, who was dressed in what looked like corporate attire from the early nineties, about playing the keyboard and giving up "rock star aspirations," the state of the global economy, installing carpeting, and how he could have saved her thousands of dollars if he helped her remodel her condo. The woman maybe said five things, most of them polite questions about his topic-of-the-minute.

Then I saw her get up to leave, and I noticed that she was holding a single red rose. "I'm so glad we got together," I heard her say. In the parking lot, they exchanged a painfully awkward hug. So, I thought, I just witnessed a really awful first date. Much worse than when I thought he took her to Panera to sell her wall-to-wall carpet. I don't think there's going to be a second.

After that horrid exchange, though, something entirely different happened. A young man dressed in gym clothes and flip-flops walked in and said hello to the girl behind the counter who gave me incorrect change earlier tonight. They exchanged some words out of my sight, but I got the sense that they were romantic.

Then, he came back in moments later and called her to the other side of the counter. He got down on one knee, in his gym shorts on the bread crumb-covered floor, and asked her to marry him. She said yes, and the two threw their arms around each other, he dressed like he'd been watching football on the couch, she in her green work apron and visor. And they looked so incredibly happy. Satisfied with her answer, the young guy left her to finish the rest of her shift. Every few minutes I hear squeals from behind the counter.

This is why I come out to write. To be in the middle of everything, to witness the mundane, the traumatic, the ecstatic, the odd, the trivial. Tonight I got a little bit of everything in one sitting, and I haven't even gotten a refill yet.

It's a Start...

2008-10-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

In the land of dissonant whistles
and lolling tongues
and skinny trouser legs clinging
to the ankles of mad lovers,
and of the desperate menthol burn...

Warm tongue vibrations hum
inside painted stained dead walls,
unknown bruises and a burning lead singer,
his necktie caught in a woodchipper crowd
of nodding samefaces,
with their water-slick
levitating bottles of beer.

Hiding in the standing-room shadows
of Thursday night, I am reeking with sex
and breathing the stagnant loitering ego,
the musk of hip,
the sandalwood and cigarillo essence
of the it-girls and boys
who are
tongue-kissing the fall
in someone else's clothes.

How do they live
outside of the frantic evening?
Will their halcyon days
be measured in moonlight?
And why must I fight to be their breed of free,
running my hands against you beneath the bar,
windblown and dehydrated,
and shifting my weight to stay awake
on aching rootless calves?

Ride the Moustache Wave

2008-08-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

Somehow in the course of our relationship, my fiance and I became equal parts ironically and erotically obsessed with Burt Reynolds. It's one of the many elusive little quirks we share that has a muggy, mysterious origin.

I bought James a book of perverse love letters written to Burt in the Playgirl years. I made James a birthday card with a masterfully cropped image of Burt's famous bearskin rug photo on the front. I bought James an unauthorized biography.

Okay, so perhaps I was the purveyor of this ridiculous obsession and I am therefore the one to blame.

Regardless, we talk about Burt all the time. And the one thing it always comes back to is the 'stache. It's glorious. Sure, the moustache does not make the man, but Burt's moustache is so closely tied to how we remember, perceive, and celebrate him.

The Burt Reynolds moustache is also important because it defies the three most common/seedy moustache associations: Burt's lip fur doesn't belong to:

1. A child molester (we're pretty sure)
2. A porn star (not that he couldn't be one if he wanted to)
3. Hitler

And maybe it's the reason that my fiance, my darling James, felt that it would be okay for him to at last sport some man-baleen.

At first I was pretty excited about the possibility of my man shedding his full beard for a more streamlined look--something that would require one of those neat little metal combs. When the idea surfaced (again, muggily) in one of our late night conversations, I had recently purchased "The Darjeeling Limited" on DVD, in which Jason Schwartzman sports a very sexy, brooding, full moustache. If it works for him, why couldn't it work for my fella?

And so, armed with the most convincing of arguments...

Jason Schwartzman had a moustache for a while. He's hip.

and:

Burt Reynolds.

...I somehow managed to convince my fiance and myself that this moustache would be a good idea.

And so, last Saturday, I waited nervously outside his bathroom door as he shaved with a fully-charged electric razor.

First the sideburns, then the beardy mass. Eventually, he got his face fur down to a simple classic goatee that made him look sort of like a veteran closing pitcher and sort of like a stuffy literary critic (both turn-ons, in case you didn't know).

Then came the Fu Manchu. Ridiculous. Standing shirtless in his tiny bathroom with a sloppy moustache dripping all the way down to his chin, James looked like he was the father of one of the kids in "Gummo," posing for his proudest MySpace picture.

I was at last glad to see the jowel hair go, making way for an adorable moustache-soul patch combo. It looks perfect--all the trappings of a power-stache plus the sensitive hipster presence of the patch. I could really get used to this look. It kind of works for--no, no! Please don't shave off the soul patch, James!

But he did. And there it was. A shocking, straightforward strip of orphaned beard hair, bristling above his grinning upper lip.

Throughout the day, the moustache took turns surprising me, mystifying me, and warming up to me.

It's kind of an okay look for him, really. But I still can't get over the 'moustigma.' The next day we happened upon a pretty low-rent community fair, and there were three things that the good country folk were celebrating there: cheap hot dogs, cut-off jean shorts, and--you guessed it--moustaches. Every burly dude we came across had a well-seasoned bushy moustache and the kind of stiff upper lip that comes from years of working in a factory or lifting weights on a bench in the garage beneath a poster of Tawny Kitaen on the hood of a Firebird.

This judgment is deeply seated within me, and I don't know how to respond now that I'm engaged to marry it. Poor James.

And yet, when I look at Burt I feel no trepidation. I feel not a tinge of doubt. I don't associate him with a good ol' boy eating Funions at a truck stop.

Perhaps then, it's one thing to grow a moustache, and quite another to grow into a moustache. To allow the stern and brooding power of a well-trimmed patch of lip hair tell the world, "why, yes, I do enjoy Russian literature." Or, "come. Let's spend the evening savoring small plates at a tapas bar and then retreat to the veranda for cigars and aged scotch. What? Did you think I was some sort of rube?" Or maybe even to let your moustache say to the world, "Why, yes, I did once go out for a pass with a bare ass in an issue of Playgirl. And you know what? I'm still here."

Prove me wrong, honey. Prove 'em all wrong just like Burt did. And maybe someday, your facial hair will also have a band and a sex act named after it.

Instant Writing

2008-06-04T12:09:00.001-07:00

My professors of creative writing recently sent me a book of surrealist games. I decided to do some "automatic writing" exercises. Each of these short pieces were written without editing, without planning, without stopping. Every time my consciousness slowed or became too present, I ended my piece. The only real "edits" are the breaks that form sections. Here they are:

One:

The journeyman’s pack is full of baked beans and barley wheat, stiff and worn, and full of midday sun. Dried sweat and leaves stick to his calves as he hooks a strap around his ankle and sets to rest in the shade of a willow at the edge of a trickling ford. This is the way we wash our hands, he thinks, recalling some rhyme from his past, some chanted childhood dirge smelling of lavender soap and a warm oven.

Now constant motion is his reality. He is a soldier with active joints and tendons, muscle that has little time to be sore, only to react, to react, to react, to build, to ache only for what is new.

The beard was an accident—a consequence, a guarantee, whatever. It’s there, ruddy and full, consuming his features and blurring his existence.

Two:

My father never asked me to pull his orange cart, though I idle through the market most weekdays with no import. After his heart attack my mother had to re-learn how to cook for him, and consequently grew exhausted. She died clutching a ginger root at the Fratelli’s stand, of old age as far as we can tell.

The thirteen year-old kid from the floor below hooks the cart to the back of his banana bike and pumps standing up down the street, smiling lasciviously at buxom mothers shopping for their family meals. Every day is a Fellini film, full of tit ogling and the coming-of-age celebration of cock.

Every day I regret stealing the bills from his wallet. Every day I punish myself by feeding my supper to the mutts that gather below our window. It’s always unseasoned beef and some sort of limp, wilted vegetable.

Three:

Our prize was a bowing pin, spraypainted gold. My husband hoisted it above his head and gloated in front of the lesser couples, still sweating, still red-faced and fat-fingered. We weren’t bowling—this was a Scrabble tournament. Someone thought it would be funny to have a trophy. Tom found it at a secondhand store, already painted, as if designed with our specific needs in mind.

That’s the thing about Jim. He sweats constantly with no regard for company, for upholstery, for shirtsleeves, for decency. Even with a tray full of vowels for the last three turns, we managed to win. We need to start spending time with people who are more than passably literate.

When you relocate, you make friends with the first genial people you meet. Genial people are mostly simple-minded. To meet anyone with any sort of complexity, you have to put on airs or pretension. You have to be aloof yet full of attractive kinetic energy. We’re so tired from the move though. Jim’s aunt died and left him all of her antique furniture. It smells of rose-petal sachets and her oxygen tank, except that the oxygen tank doesn’t smell like anything.

Eponymous

2008-05-07T19:30:00.001-07:00

Sam Cooke's "That's Where It's At" is truly where it's at. Best slow dance ever. End.

Back in Action

2008-04-25T05:48:00.000-07:00

I found this scribbled on a scrap of paper while I was cleaning my desk yesterday. I'm assuming it's the beginning of a poem, so that makes it qualify for my "Poem-a-Day" challenge. It has no title, and the penmanship is horrible.

Remember type
before fluidity,
Gestalt dot matrix particles
within
sounds
within
symbols.
Remember
before it left behind
serif
scars?

That's it. Sounds like an ode to my parents' old Apple II GS, complete with noisy dot matrix printer and those perforated reams of paper.

She & Him

2008-04-23T16:02:00.001-07:00

Lars and the Real Girl

2008-04-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

No Country For Old Men

2008-04-23T15:54:00.001-07:00

Quit Doggin' Me!

2008-04-18T05:14:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Major slackery alert, right? But I will have 30 poems on here eventually. I promise.

I haven't been neglecting poetry completely. In fact, two nights ago I organized a guerilla group of poetry writers, and we spent the waning hours of the evening chalking some great poetry across the campus of Baldwin-Wallace College. Sides of sandstone buildings, sidewalks, fountains, picnic tables--none were safe from our dusty little fingers!

I've also been devoting a lot of my time to a documentary collage that I'm creating for my creative writing seminar capstone. More about that later...

Oh! And yesterday was Poem in Your Pocket Day. More about that at www.poets.org

Okay, here's the next poem. This is actually a "found poem" that I wrote for my seminar. The assignment was to collect words from billboards, road signs, print advertisements, product labels, and non-English textbooks. We were only allowed to use the words we found--nothing more than that. Here's what I came up with:


Night Paving

Bottled,
           positively     balanced on
shoulder (in
                     different cities
in one day),
a good alternative to caffeine.

The elderly
              de-
              clawed consecrator
handling tarot cards
                         begins recruitment.

Women buy
             guns &
                           tackle
well-balanced flight
attendants,
                           made of
                                   malty
                                             eukaryotes.

You can...
                      imply
full-bodied         truth
in          carbonated
                         express lanes.
North,


            south.

At the Museum of Natural History

2008-04-06T21:24:00.001-07:00

You kissed the little girl
who shares these thick
frames, now clouded
with your skin oil.

Particolored moths,
pinned,
looking the most alive (their
wings are still dusted).

A stuffed kodiak bear,
still hazardous.
Looming,
head-sized paws
stupidly reaching.

Something ceremonial:
a headdress for a wedding...

What implores you to stay here?
I have been here myself
all my life,
her
then me,
like wooden nesting eggs
behind glass.

Pitch

2008-04-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

I was only
told
of the last shape he took.

Paws outstretched,

sunning lifeless
on one side in a
clearing
of trees.

Fur unmatted,
legs un-
broken.
Only a drop of blood
creeping from the side
of his cat
mouth.

Death
with a pellet gun,
aimed steady.

Startling,
the way a flashlight is
to a frog
in our creek bed.

Day Three

2008-04-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

State Fair

A row
of bearded
pie-eating gallants,
the moon a packaged pad
of butter
in an old man's pocket
at a buffet line.

Baskets of deep-fried
ferris wheel riders
dripping oil onto
the head of
prize pig
with her symmetrical
nipples, roasting
on a spit.

Me the apple
in her mouth,
red and hot
with shame
for having entered that tent
and staring too long
at the man with the
reflective forehead.

Day Two

2008-04-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

For Maic:

What if I am your sister,
the one bathing
in a pool of
ersatz moonlight?

Unashamed
of my nakedness,
you spring
upon me
in a bear suit
on your tiptoes,
challenging my height.
And you wrap me (like text
at the end of a
line)
in your Stooges t-shirt.

We watch the ball game
broadcast late,
West Coast,
our arms resting limp
on your sweaty
gaping
brilliant bear head.

National Poetry Month

2008-04-02T11:11:00.001-07:00

The title of this entry tells it like it is, for sure. April is National Poetry Month. In the past, I've celebrated by gathering large groups of friends and chalking poetry over sidewalks, buildings, streets, and fountains. I plan to do this again (college being the perfect setting for this sort of play).

This year, I've also decided to write at least one poem every day, and to share my writing, completely unedited, in this blog. I want every poem (or start of a poem) to feel organic and unmussed, for better or worse.

Today's poem, my first of the month, seems greatly influenced by the departure of my lover this morning. I should also note that I've been reading a collection called "Isn't It Romantic: 100 Love Poems By Younger American Poets" edited by Brett Fletcher Lauer & Aimee Kelley." Sappiness often occurs by osmosis.

Wire

I confess
I am not so afraid
of birds.

But if you will continue
to squeeze my
elbow, to arrest
my pulse
in the presence of gulls,
I will never object
to your protection.

Pretentious Literary Form #294: The Lyric Essay

2008-02-11T19:56:00.000-08:00

The concept of the "lyric essay" still eludes me, even after reading several essays that attempt or profess to define it. Perhaps it should be expected that writers writing about writing will do so in coy metaphor. Whatever.

In my senior creative writing seminar, we were assigned to write a two-page lyric essay using the conventions of one of these forms:

Flash Cards
Billboards
Catalog Descriptions
Rorshak Tests

I decided to explore the duality and the associative power of the flash card. A single word and its intended definition, teamed together with the intention of being forever committed to memory. The workings of memory and free association are at the heart of my latest effort.

I should also add that this morning I found my love's t-shirt next to my bed, which was enough of an event to make me cry over my oatmeal. I hardly ever eat oatmeal. I'm not generally a big fan of mush. Unfortunately I fear that my first conscious attempt at lyric essay might possess that quality:

Three Spices Commonly Used to Disguise Sentimentality

Tamarind:

The pod of a large, tropical tree, Tamarindus indica, of the legume family, containing seeds enclosed in a juicy acid pulp that is used in beverages and food.

Under creased blue tarps upheld by whitewashed two-by-fours we slip sideways through a sidewalk-wide market, past bulbous tubers and raw earthly monster fruits, and family-owned cardboard signs with tentative prices, your hand in mine as a necessity. This is not my city. To slip away would be the pinch in a muddled Hollywood comedy.

We will complete our mission at an Asian market that is held together by stapled parti-colored flyers and incidental grime. There is a bell, the woman at the counter does not understand us, and we cannot read the labels on the jars. While I pay for the pulp, my eyes gravitate toward the coy lips and navels of a hundred Bollywood women on bootleg clamshell cases, splayed beyond my reach. I want to ask if these films have subtitles. Can we sweat together in bed tonight to the garish trill of Mohammed Rafi and to the beaten sound of your mostly inadequate window air conditioning unit, and to the spices that squeeze persistently through our pores like delivery bicycles in curb lanes? But I assume that this sort of communication is futile. No bag, please. Alright, then. Plastic.

Fennel:

A plant, Foeniculum vulgare, of the parsley family, having feathery leaves and umbels of small, yellow flowers.

This one’s harder. My limbs have elongated, swollen and melting with the warmth of taste. The seed, the stalk, the heady climb up the stairs while the stomach still lingers at the dinner table. During the first set, my eyes are closed and his softer songs are punctuated with clattering silverware one wooden floor below. I forgive them, and weep in time with the percussive nature of the universe, each open-mouthed sob releasing the lingering vapors of thyme and some other spice that still eludes my palette.

On a different evening there are gossamer curtains falling around like fluttering scarves. The room is accentuated with copper and murmur. Everything is flickering. We have trouble with pronunciation for different reasons as the night surrenders to the subtly erotic grace of my elbow, bent with lusty intention towards the waning boddess of a stemless wine glass. Tonight I will give myself to you on a full stomach.

Lemongrass:

A tropical grass (Cymbopogon citratus) native to southern India and Sri Lanka, yielding an aromatic oil used as flavoring and in perfumery and medicine.

The flea market closed before we could make love between the leather bound encyclopedias and the unwittingly racist Americana antiquities, the way we’d buzzed about on especially complacent Saturday mornings. That one time, I let the taste of summer dissolve beneath my tongue, and plunged euphorically past you into stacks of must and warp and hairline cracks from amnesic use. Leaving without purchasing a single relic will be the easiest decision we will make.

Soon after it closes, the Chinese restaurant across the street follows. We have yet to find a new place. Mornings, bristles scrape across reluctant papillae, and we are made conscious of it all again. The taste, when mixed with toothpaste, is understandably unpleasant.

Evolution

2007-10-22T12:53:00.001-07:00

There's rough gray carpet around the edges of the glass, surrounding the sharks in a sort of domesticated tranquility. The little children gather around it, their warm hands pressed against the wide pane that towers seven feet, maybe more, over their cowlicked heads, their dusty craned necks, their faces shrouded in sickly green aquarium glow.

The inside of the tank is curved and cylindrical like a soup can, its cement walls coated in mossy film. From the main viewing side, Lana can see across to two hidden portholes, and if she stares long enough, she sees a kid's face appear in the lower of the two as a blacktip sweeps sharply by, cutting another neurotic circular path.

Lana watches, a canvas tote bag weighted down with juice boxes and triangle-cut turkey sandwiches hanging limply over her left shoulder. She is standing contrapposto, posing in a way, as another living exhibition in the zoo's aquarium gallery. Her frizzled dirty-blonde hair is tamed, with much effort, by a red bandana. In an oversized t-shirt and a hand-written name tag, she watches mothers pass by with their own, actual children. She wonders whether they wonder how old she is. If they know that she is pushing thirty. If they could trust a day care that would employ a fragile woman like her. At 12:30, once the kids have tired of the sharks, Lana will seat them at the splintered wooden picnic tables in front of the polar bears, and distribute the lunches. Then she will retreat behind the ladies restroom and smoke a cigarette while she watches a daddy long legs crawl up a drain pipe.

For now, the kids aren't tugging at the legs of her jeans. They are engrossed, captivated by prehistoric silky bodies that seem weightless and hazardous in the water. Lana is repulsed by their black eyes, their gaping mouths. She is bothered that she cannot see her reflection in the side of the tank. The dim lighting in this space makes her feel as though she is drowning, but there are mothers and fathers milling about her, holding the arms of their children, negotiating problems with camera flash against the glass, breathing underwater.

As she moves toward the back of the exhibit to recline on a carpeted bench, one of her charges, Madeline the doctor's daughter, lets out a scream. Its shrillness is absorbed by the fibers in the walls, but it is felt and echoed just the same, from the cavernous mouths of the other children with their unfinished stalagmite rows of teeth. And then Lana sees the source of fear. The smooth-sided body of a blacktip shark rolls to one side, suddenly lifeless and no longer sustaining its own motion. Slowly, it cuts back and forth like a sheet of paper blown from the edge of a desk, and plummets past the viewing window, sinking to the bottom of the tank, leaving no wake.

Madeline runs, flailing to Lana, her stubby pink arms outstretched, plump fingers splayed. Lana watches her gaping mouth, her chubby cheeks, the way she chokes on her own spit when she sobs, and knows that one day Madeline will be ugly. And so she hugs her, the way she's been told to, and is suddenly joined by a mass of other bandwagon seekers of affection, who dutifully rub Madeline on the back of her corduroy jumper, and pat her hair until it is a knotted mess.

Outside at the picnic table, Lana watches the children eat their sandwiches and trade juice boxes, which come in two flavors--grape and apple. One of the boys has a ring of artificial red food coloring around his lips, and he's watching her with heavy, watery eyes. Lana reaches into her back for a pack of cigarettes and swings her tired legs over the bench of the table, heading for a spider-infested patch of dead grass behind the ladies restroom. She'll stay here for a minute or two. Long enough for a smoke. And when she returns everybody will have forgotten about death.

It's Official.

2007-10-03T09:41:00.001-07:00

Ricky Nelson is the hottest teen idol of all time.

Daunting Task Force

2007-09-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

My good friend Kevin recently published a list of his top five albums. I've always wanted to do this, but most "Top 5" lists in my life are too tentative to document. My attentions are fickle.

I've learned that growing up can change the way you feel about an album, the same way falling in love can change the way you feel about a song. It's the same with all art, I think.

But these are the albums that have always been there, or that have come into my life so boldly and explosively that I can only assume that their effects will be lasting. There are five of them. I think I might be ready.

1. Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

There were seventeen tracks on Wilco's previous effort, Summerteeth, but this time, one of the most inventive and versatile American rock bands did it right, releasing a cohesive and groundbreaking 11 track album that would forever change the way they made music. The critical and commercial success of "Yankee" allowed Wilco to grow as a band, and listening to this album made me forget that any other band in the world existed.

The album feels dreamlike. It lets me into a new place, where negative space becomes important, where descending chimes and sleepy fragile vocals play with underwater guitars, and where everything echoes.

I listened to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot two summers after it was released. I'm actually ashamed of this fact to this day. Though I was familiar with Wilco, I had never listened to much of their music, except for a few tracks off of Summerteeth. Now I can't make it through a week without immersing myself completely in the final dissonant measures of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," or the playfully nostalgic pounded piano chords at the beginning of "Heavy Metal Drummer." Every time I hear "Reservations" I fall hopelessly in love.

2. The Police: Outlandos d'Amour

Even finding out the sad news that my cat had died while I was listening to "Born in the 50s" did not ruin this album for me. It says something that I only own it on vinyl; there's no skipping tracks with this one.

This is the time in the Police's career that I admire most. Nobody knew what they were supposed to sound like, and I think they didn't either. And on this album, it sounds like they didn't care. Part reggae, part punk, all pop genius, "Outlandos" has been one of my favorites since I was thirteen.

It's driving, it's fierce. Sting's vocals wail and gargle and scream. Everything is tight when it needs to be, and cacaphonous when appropriate. It's probably measured and calculated like most things that Sting does, but it doesn't feel that way. It makes me go nuts.

3. Ellis Paul: Live

I've always hated live albums because they never sound like they should, and because there's always an annoying person in the crowd who makes jarring sounds at inappropriate times. But this is a folk concert. And it's one of the most intimate folk concerts I've never been to. When Ellis breaks a string he reads an original poem whilst changing it. His guests include Patty Griffin and Chris Trapper. He jams on "Autobiography of a Pistol" and "Martyr's Lounge," and whispers and coos on "Last Call" and "Conversation With A Ghost."

Ellis is a storyteller, and each one of these songs moves gracefully and keenly, like fiction you want to believe. His soaring vocals are unmatched on any of his other studio efforts. It's two discs of modest, heartfelt pleasure. Every time I hear it I pick a new favorite song. Ellis Paul is simply one of the best living songwriters, and this is him, essentially. It's all you need.

4. Weezer: Pinkerton

Screw The Blue Album! Regardless of how much Rivers Cuomo seems to hate Pinkerton, I think it's one of the strongest rock albums I've ever heard. This was a time when the guys of Weezer weren't afraid to be playful. Their self-deprecating, angsty lyrics are the soundtrack of adolescence. But they aren't pandering to anybody. They're just playing fun, kicky, rocky, pop songs.

I miss the days when the boys would make strange noises in their songs, and sing along with guitar solos. Weezer was too big to play in the garage at this time, but this album feels like it belongs there. I love it. It makes me feel like I fit in somewhere. It always has.

5. Sufjan Stevens: Seven Swans

Sufjan Stevens saved me in a way. His music and Over the Rhine's music finally gave me positive feelings towards Christian artists. This wasn't annoying praise music. This was lyrically dense, intelligent, complex stuff, that just happened to have Christian themes.

One of the most intimate, sensitive, and heartbreaking albums I've ever heard in my life, Seven Swans makes me feel like a human being every time I listen to it. The melodies, the banjo, the haunting starkness, in contrast with Stevens' other efforts, are what makes "Swans" so special. The first time I heard it, I was driving home from the library, and it began to rain. "To Be Alone With You" came on just as I pulled into the driveway, and I remember sitting in the car and listening to it all the way through. That's what Sufjan makes you do, especially here. You have to stop and listen to all of it.

Things left in the pocket of a winter coat

2007-09-17T12:48:00.001-07:00

I can shapeshift in the fall. I can slip into things and realize that they feel familiar. I can be more restless, but I can also be more patient.

I was quiet in my mom's car, getting my sense of hearing confused with my sense of feeling, exhausting my memory. The last time I heard this album all the way through without stopping, I had a broken heart. I basked in melancholy on my roommate's futon, under piles of blankets in the middle of the day with the blinds closed tight, trying to create the illusion of night for dramatic effect. The feeling of hurting someone else made my skin feel pinched. I was punishing myself. The time before that, I was reclined in the driver's seat of my Toyota Echo on the night of my high school graduation party. Guests had gone, I was alone with the windows up. This album was a graduation present. It was hard to sleep.

Traditionally, this is the time of the year when I want to say the most, but when I feel the least eloquent. Nothing that I write will match the importance of what is happening around me, or inside me.

I'm unpacking sweaters that I didn't know I had. I'm recalling moments that I'd similarly forgotten.

This is the ticket from the theater in the park. The wrought iron table teeters, my right wrist slips across the page of a notebook, the spine creaks when I press too hard. This is the end of the summer and I'm writing this. And I can smell popcorn that doesn't smell like popcorn, but more like a high school football game, or the floor of a movie theater on Lee that we've just trodded into, wrapped in wool scarves and watching our shoulders moisten as the flakes melt under soft yellow lobby light. Now we are at the corner, and we've said goodbye too early and isn't it strange now that we must continue this way. This is you and me drinking coffee from clear cups, being diplomatic about the last bite of cheesecake, which has fallen over onto its side in surrender, and I'm realizing that you are leaving. Now I understand why you came, and why you stood for so long under the hot lights of the stage. Not because of the cold, but because you weren't sure. And at the time, neither was I. I kept a few things. When I get my phonograph fixed, I'll think of you again, when I play them.

This is me promising that my attentions will not die with a season anymore. I will play the same two-disc set all year long--perhaps more rigorously at times. And I will keep one of my sweaters folded on the top shelf of my closet.

Brushing Past You

2007-08-27T13:11:00.001-07:00

I just imagined, briefly, whilst brushing my teeth and simultaneously pacing circles around my apartment, that there is someone else in the world who similarly wanders during personal dental care processes. Perhaps one day I'll run into this person on a sidewalk. Shaken, we'll stare nervously at each other, toothbrushes hanging limply from mirrored cheeks. We'll want to smile then, and we will, but only for a moment, before our lips self-consciously suck themselves inward to avoid dripping fluoride-rich foam across the concrete. And then, just as suddenly, we will retreat on shuffling slippered feet, to spit.

Creative Juice, Foiled, Sings Swan-Shaped Song

2007-08-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

I just had this wonderful and weird idea for a story, involving a boy throwing his little brother's possessions into a well. I began writing about fifteen minutes ago, and it was all going, well, well. And then my parents' computer decided to freak out just as unexpectedly as my story idea came to me.

I may never get that page back, but I assure you, it was a good one while it lasted.

Better Mileage

2007-08-17T20:50:00.000-07:00

Imagined Dialogue Between Me and My Toyota Echo, as I Trade Him in for My New Toyota Prius:

Me
Echo

I'm sorry, you know. You know I am sorry. I've told you this.
I know.
I'm older now. You're older now.
These things happen.
But lately, I've felt different with you.
Different how.
Smaller different. Like I...
Like you deserve better.
No.
You do, though. I get it. I look at him, and I see why.
He responds to my touch.
Keyless entry. Yeah, I know. Could we just not, please?
Aww, come on. You know I loved rolling up your windows. It kept my arms fit.
Remember that time we were going 85 with the windows down? The way it felt.
Yeah. Insane.
You didn't like it?
The truth is, I never felt really safe with you.
You're telling me this now? I could have tried harder!
It's just not in your nature. It's okay.
So all those miles I gave to you. That just means nothing now.
Of course it still means something. You've seen Ferris Bueller. You know that odometer doesn't run backwards.
Again with the references. Always the references. You name me Akira. From Kurosawa to Hughes. We've certainly come full circle, haven't we?
Ha.
What?
Circles. I'm gonna miss your turning radius.
I'm not the only one who's turned.
Don't. I'm saying goodbye, Akira.
For him, though? Come on. 30 miles to the gallon wasn't enough for you? I know you're a poor college student but...yeah! How the hell can you even afford a guy like that?
You and I both knew from the beginning that this wasn't going to last. I've been planning this for a long time. Saving up. I was a rebound, remember?
Yeah. Me and your mom first.
It's weird when you say it like that. This whole dialogue is.
Remember that time in the park? With--
Quiet.
Or the time you hid in my trunk and tried to---
Stop, please. Just stop.
I feel so close to you now. Here. Where we met.
It has to end. It has to.
Don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just...
60,000 miles.
You've taken all your stuff, right?
From the trunk.
And the backseat?
Yeah.
He has a pretty big trunk.
With a privacy screen.
Good. I can't bear to watch.
You know I really did. I really do.
I love you too.
I'm leaving now.
I know. But could you...
Yes?
Could you leave the Spandau Ballet sticker?
Does it mean that much to you?
It's the last ironic reference we'll ever share, isn't it?
I can't do this.
Are those the keys? To him?
Yeah. I have to...
Just go. Jesus. 55 miles to the gallon. And a back-up camera.
I'll have to watch you as I leave.
In the mirrors.
And the camera.
And the camera.
I'll miss you, Akira.
He's grey. Perfect.
I'm waving goodbye, Akira.
60,000 miles. God, I feel so old.
Me too.

Shorn Is A Good Haircut!

2007-08-10T19:51:00.001-07:00

There really isn't anything like a good haircut. I swung through the door of the salon, the soles of my Converse slapping the swollen pavement, and for once I didn't feel the day's humidity festering between my thick, unruly locks. I wasn't moved to pull my hair back into a bandana. I arched my back and felt a breeze--an actual breeze, across my neck. And why wouldn't I feel the breeze on my neck? There was no hair there anymore to block it.

A lot of people are asking me what moved me to have my curly, shaggy coif whacked. It's a long history. For the past two years, I've been seeing two stylists, and every time I sat in the chair before this time, I'd say, "I want it short." And one of my two stylists would say, "short?! Really?! How exciting!" And then I'd put a stop to the madness and say, "not like that. I mean, just a little above the shoulder."

Then I'd leave, and by some frustrating tinge of buyer's remorse, I'd regret not having something different done. At least make it worth the wad of money I pay. Do something different. I've called myself a wuss in this blog before. But not anymore.

Maybe it was watching "Roman Holiday" last summer with my Culture Night girls. I'd seen the movie before, but seeing it this time, being a woman now, watching her face sink and then brighten almost instantly.

The way such a simple change can make you walk differently--can make you into a different person. It's what she needed to be, and it's what I needed to be. That's what I thought as I watched it, curled up in my basement with a group of the most smartest, beautiful, talented girls I know.

One year later, and I've got my change. I can't tell which version of me looks more like me now, and I love that. This new haircut makes me want to hug everyone! Miss Hepburn got to thank the Academy after "Roman Holiday," and now I get to thank her. And my stylist, Dana, for the best good-hair day of my life.

Oh yeah, and I should thank my supportive fella (seen above) for encouraging me to take a risk (whilst also warning me that shaving my head could have some undesirable consequences.)

For The Love Of Pieter!

2007-08-02T05:10:00.001-07:00

This morning, I woke up, and the name "Breugel the Elder" echoed in my head. It was literally the first thing I thought of upon waking. I think that deserves a hearty:

WTF?!

I hope it all means that today I can expect to debauch like it's 1566!

Laundry, Laundry, Big Hair...Underground Club?!

2007-07-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

Parma Heights is dead, man. Everyone in the Greater Cleveland area knows it's a hole. Parma is what people outside of Cleveland think Cleveland is really like. Dying businesses, citizens who are tragically stuck in the 80s, pierogi enthusiasts, flamingo-decorated lawns.

I work in Parma, part-time, and one afternoon on my lunch hour I passed an old non-descript, defunct building with a home-made paper banner on the side of it that read "JESUS LOVES PARMA" in dot-matrix print. I tried to remind myself to bring my camera the next day I worked so I could photograph it, but when I got back the following Monday, the building had been completely demolished--reduced to a heap of concrete rubble. It must be a sign.

Still, there's hope for Parma, Parma Heights, and its surrounding communities. The key is never to leave The Davenport.

My mom actually discovered this two-week-old club by visiting the website of a band with whom we're (oddly) mutual friends. The venue was listed simply enough, and we decided to check it out.

Located at 6287 Pearl Road in Parma Heights, the Davenport is hidden securely beneath a Marco's pizza shop, in the same building as Parma's Arabica coffee house. We later found that all of these fine establishments are owned by the same kid--a prodigy of an entrepreneur, it seems.

Stepping down into the Davenport after being exposed to miles of laundromats, decaying strip malls, and seedy fast food joints, is like being pulled into a hipster's oasis. There's a classy, sprawling wooden floor, an elevated yet unassuming and personable stage, a bar stocked with over 45 different beers, and, yes, a comfy collection of davenports that feel like home.

I'm still in shock. When my mom told me that this place was located on the same street as my place of employment, I said to her, "But I work in one of the creepiest places in the world!" Did I mention that the Davenport has over 45 different beers?

There are good things about the Davenport. For one, it's a big enough venue to draw in a variety of different performers. The owner has his choice of bands. Last night, a singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar tried to channel the Decemberists before bowing out and letting an alternative-looking (think Crispin Glover) comedian do five minutes. Then a piano-driven pop/rock trio (Return of Simple--my band) took the stage. The final act of the night was an alt-country band called Ghost Town.

I don't want to ruin anything by saying this, but since it's on the Davenport's myspace (myspace.com/davenportbar), I feel okay letting the ten readers of this blog know that smoking is allowed, despite Ohio's recent smoking ban. While I'm not a smoker, I was oddly excited for those around me who gleefully lit up. I felt like I was in a speakeasy.

There's a cover charge to get in (at least, I assume there is on all live music nights), and that's okay, but the drinks are pretty pricey. My mom was upset that they didn't have any wine (just beer and liquor), so she ordered a Smirnoff Ice, and I had an oatmeal stout. Our bill together came to $9.00 before the tip. Harsh.

Another problem with the place is that the acoustics need a lot of work. With the wooden floors, and the size of the place, there are some major problems with sound bouncing off of everything and echoing to a distracting degree. By the owner's attentiveness to the sound board last night, though, I'm sure he'll have everything ironed out in time.

I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes things are worth searching for. Or that seedy and creepy things are sometimes nice of you flip them over. Or that if you build an indie rock club that's got 45 different beers and a jukebox with Pavement in it and a bunch of cushy couches and an eff-you-smoking-ban mentality, hipsters will come.

Or that maybe, just maybe, Jesus really does love Parma.

Remorseless Pleasure

2007-07-19T12:57:00.001-07:00

I've come to hate the term, "guilty pleasure."

It's made many appearances in my life lately, as a new season of the Canadian teen melodrama, "Degrassi," begins to "go there" once again on "The-N" (or "Noggin", before 5:00 PM). Every time I try to explain to somebody why I really and genuinely enjoy the show, the person I'm talking to will invariably chuckle and then muse, "so it's really just a guilty pleasure."

No. Not at all. I love the over-the-top, at times surreal predicaments that the same ten characters will get themselves into every year. Eating disorders? Check. Student-teacher relations? Check. Panic attacks? Check. A boy getting shot, paralyzed, confined to a wheelchair, losing his best friend (who actually got him shot), playing funk guitar in a terrible wedding band, becoming a struggling artist/t-shirt designer, having trouble getting it up, being oppressed by his father, and totally crushing on three girls at the same time? Check.

I'm sincerely trying not to feel guilty about any of it.

When I was a kid, I preferred the Monkees to the Beatles, and my favorite 45 to listen to was "Henry the VIII" by Herman's Hermits. That song made me the happiest. The Monkees were easier to dance to than the later Beatles era records that my mom owned. It was okay that I liked the Monkees and Herman's Hermits back then.

Now, if I told anybody that I really like the Monkees better than the Beatles, I'd be judged. People would respond with a) "ha. that's funny." or b) "are you an idiot?" For some reason, it's now regressive behavior for me to enjoy listening to one set of poppy mop-tops instead of the other collective-approved set. Listening to the Monkees was never a "guilty pleasure" until people out there made me feel guilty for doing it. And now all of these snobs are in my head, blocking out the lyrics to "Porpoise Song."

Chuck Klosterman says what the term, "guilty pleasure," should mean:

"In and of itself, the phrase "guilty pleasure" seems like a reasonable way to describe certain activities. For example, it is pleasurable to snort cocaine in public restrooms, and it always makes you feel guilty; as such, lavatory cocaine fits perfectly into this category. Drinking more than five glasses of gin before (or during) work generally qualifies as a guilty pleasure. So does having sex with people you barely know, having sex with people you actively hate, and/or having sex with people you barely know but whom your girlfriend used to live with during college (and will now consequently hate). These are all guilty pleasures in a technical sense."

Although I've never actually participated in any of the aforementioned behaviors, I'm sure I would feel hundreds of times more guilty for doing those things, than I do when I watch anything on E! Why not save my guilt for the big old nasty stuff and simply immerse myself in the God-given pleasures of Patrick Swayze, or John Woo, or "The Suite Life of Zach and Cody", or Cowsills records, or Ring Pops, or roller derby, or the Oxygen network?

I read today that Seneca recorded an inscription from the gates of Epicurus' garden, where his first followers once met to learn and philosophize:

"Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure."

And so, I shall tarry for these two days, until the newest episode of "Degrassi" airs. I shall escape the oppressive thoughts of my judgemental snobbish bretheren, and excitedly watch the fate of Marco, the show's token gay kid/addictive gambler/class president, unfold. And it shall be good. It shall be so, incredibly, deliciously, and gloriously, illuminatingly good.

On the Drive Home

2007-06-03T21:07:00.001-07:00

I got distracted by a melody on the night drive home from Beaver Falls this evening. It was pitch black out there on the turnpike, the road was wet, my body was jittery with caffeine, and I had to shut off my iPod and just let the song in my brain take over. I had this set of lyrics:

"Before the weight of touch/Before our time was worth so much"

And I felt like I could build a whole song around that lyric, and the few little minor chords dancing around in my head. It turned into an odd little love ballad, that's actually kind of creepy in some ways. I like it a lot though. I'll put the lyrics here. Once I got home it took about twenty minutes to write, which is actually longer than it usually takes me to write just a first version of a song.

In playground days,
before I ever knew your face,
I was four and you were ten.
That's why I'm glad I didn't know you then.

Before the weight of touch,
before our time was worth so much
We could have taken turns on a tire swing
and it wouldn't have meant a thing.

But I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
And if I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

In innocence
Before I became cognizant,
I might have thrown some rocks at you
and eaten all your Big League Chew.

Without these words
I couldn't say what you just heard.
I couldn't say how nice it is to grow
with somebody who already knows.

And I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
If I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

Look at us,
the way we call eachother 'kid'
like we're dying just to know
what we were like so long ago.

But things are fine
when our legs become intertwined
when taunting children aren't close by
to tease us when we kiss or cry.

I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
If I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

Also, if you're my friend and I haven't responded to your e-mails or phone calls in the past few weeks, I'm sorry. I'm a deadbeat, and I deserve to be punted inside a wind tunnel or something. I promise I'll make it up to you.

Stack Judgements

2007-05-21T16:39:00.000-07:00

Last year my city's branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library (CCPL on the streets) suffered tragic losses during an odd and epic flood, and had to undergo a huge renovation. Before, the library was alright. The selection of books and music was not nearly as good as it is at other branches of CCPL. Creepy old men sat in the back, where the romance novels shared a corner with YA materials. Poor planning, really. I was always grateful to have a library just five minutes from my home--I could walk there on a nice day. Still, before the flood, it always left me feeling a little empty.

Now, the Brecksville Branch is sexed up. We've got tall, oak stacks, carved with leafy designs. They're staggered and spaced so the whole building can finally breathe. Things are rearranged for easy access. The DVDs and the CDs aren't on opposite sides anymore--they're close to the door--so people who are afraid of books don't have to step too far into the realm of the scary written word.

My favorite thing about our branch now is that it's totally self-service now. You scan your card and your items. You remove the little plastic security devices and deposit them into a few specially-marked colored bins. You print out your receipt. And you also pick up your "held" items off of a giant shelf.

On this shelf, items are arranged alphabetically, according to the last name of the person who requested them. I simply search for "DES" in the group and pull out the stuff I've waited for. But the best part is, I get to see what the guy next to me requested. Today, I found a young person, whose name starts with "DER", who I suspect is just discovering Daft Punk (there were four different albums bundled together.) My friend whose last name starts with "DEM" requested the last Harry Potter book (and by "last" I mean the most recent one--not the last of the series, which some of my friends are itching their skin off for.)

I get to judge people based on their interests without even having to have a conversation with them! How cool is that?!

Of course, I guess this works the other way too. People are probably judging me. This means that if I ever need to borrow a Michael Bolton album (for whatever reason), I'd better just drive to whichever branch has it and pick it up. Folks I know might see it on the holdshelf and disown me. And then there was that time last summer when I read about Stetson Kennedy's fascinating infiltration of the Ku Klux Klan, and decided to study the Klan's history as a result. I took so many Klan books from the library, I'm probably being watched by the government or something. What if those books were out in the open on the holdshelf and people saw them? Is this some sort of invasion of privacy?

Maybe not. Maybe it just makes it easier for creepsters like me to relate to strangers with the same taste. I think the "DOL" person with the Abe Lincoln biography on hold could be my new best friend.

Static Evolution

2007-05-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

The title of the chapbook that I completed for my Advanced Creative Writing workshop at B-W is, "Static Evolution." The concept is basically that you can create the illusion of change by looking at something in a different way, switching lenses, etcetera. I also wanted to make small things seem profoundly important. Thus, I included poems about electrical outlets, grapefruits, a shark's mouth, a turnpike sign.

On the cover of my chapbook, I included a series of photos that I took a few weeks ago outside my apartment on Seminary Street in Berea. There is a massive amount of construction happening, and in the early stages of the process, many of the streetlights were taken from the ground and laid in pieces on the grass. They looked so vastly different that way--like alien pods or something. When I show people these photographs, they tend to get confused. So I thought I'd post them here, and confuse as many people as possible.

Above: A streetlamp on the lawn.

Above: Things start to get a little strange

Above: I liked the patches of yellow grass where these things used to lay.

Above: This one's my favorite. It was such a bright and sunny day that the idea of needing streetlights at all seemed absurd.

Sidekickin' It

2007-04-26T08:36:00.000-07:00

In a Batman Notebook...

2007-04-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

There's a poem called "Self Portrait in Ink" by Bruce Beasley, originally printed in the Virginia Quarterly Review. In it, Beasley becomes a translucent octopus, releasing an exact copy of himself, in ink, which he leaves behind to escape from a shark. Layered meaning ensues, etcetera, etcetera. Actually, it's a gorgeous, dense poem with exciting wordplay and tantalizing line breaks. It's a fun read. I may add it to this entry later.

Anyway, our Advanced Creative Writing professor had us read it in class today and then decide what we would want to use as a medium for our own self-portraits. Some of the answers were as follows: wind-blown leaves, guitar strings, a stone bust (like Lionel Richie's!), and a jar of honey. It's a small class, nonetheless chock full of weird people, as you can tell. Anyway, I chose comic book cells.

The next part of our assignment was to create a self-portrait using the medium that we chose, in the form of a poem. We had about seven minutes to create. The results were actually incredibly impressive. What I struggled with before I started to write was not wanting to create a self-portrait. I really wanted to explore the control that an artist has over its subject, and the dynamics of that relationship. Then I inadvertently got into the audience's response to art as I wrote.

No matter how introspective of a person I am, and no matter how much I truly try to know myself, I want more than anything to be able to see myself from the outside, to get the best objective view. So I fell in love with the man who draws me in this poem. It may or may not be Daniel Clowes.

Hunched,
he draws my breath
and blood.
I am drawn to
exceedingly self-aware
thoughts in clouds,
colored blue
by Small Press, Inc.
ink,
only when we can afford to.

Each cell as a linear,
filmic storyboard:
bird's eye black,
XCU, flecks of green
in mine,
establishing.

Tales of little consequence
made epic
by thick black guiding lines,
boxes of time and space
with white space in between,
never filled.

Comics are supposed to be!
comics are not!
comics never!
Shouldn't this be
funny? You're funnier
in life than on paper.

The paper is under my
skin, I say silently,
and pull a long
pointed speech
bubble
from my tongue,
and there's a paper cut
on my windpipe

which he kisses in
his brain, hot
under clip-on easel
light.

Demanding Re-counts!

2007-04-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

"You Voted For it! This Month's B-W Cinema Movie is 'Wild Hogs!'"

On the way into the student union this sign assaults my vision. "You Voted For it!" It says. So accusatory. Like it's my fault that I have to suffer through this crap with the rest of my colleagues. The truth is, I didn't vote for it. I didn't even get to vote. When did this so-called "voting" take place? And why the hell are we watching "Wild Hogs" again? Are you serious?

Baldwin-Wallace has this monthly event called B-W Cinema that takes place in John Patrick Theater. Students vote on a movie that they'd like to be screened, and whichever film receives the majority of the vote is shown. There's free popcorn, some raffles, etcetera. It's a simple, free event that's easy to enjoy.

Usually the films that are nominated by Student Senate are semi-popular ones that are about a month away from being released on DVD. It's kind of cool if you've missed the movie while it was in theaters and still want a chance to see it on the big screen. In the past, the Senators provided a great variety. Last year I got to vote for "Mad Hot Ballroom," for instance. This spring, "Wordplay," was one of the nominees. Obviously these were dark horses. I'm perfectly happy that "Batman Begins" and "Casino Royale" beat out the less popular "indie" choices, because I enjoy both of these movies very much. I'm not against Blockbuster films at all, when they're well-done and entertaining, and I agree that it's appropriate to show something that most college students will enjoy watching with their friends.

But seriously: "Wild Hogs?"

This year, the voting process has been shrouded in mystery. I actually don't think that the first semester's films were voted on by students at all. I think Senate hand-picked them. Last year I was sent an e-mail that directed me to an online B-W Cinema poll. And this year? Nothing. I wasn't given a ballot. I'm incensed.

The first blow was when Senate chose Chingy to perform here this spring. It was between Chingy and OK Go. And they picked Chingy?

First Chingy. Now "Wild Hogs."

Is there something terribly wrong with my peers, or am I the weirdo here?

Five-Minute Farce

2007-03-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

1. Head across campus to pick up screenplay evaluation.
2. Realize halfway there that you've popped your front bike tire.
3. Opt to walk.
4. Trip over bike while passing through front door of building.
5. Recover, pick up screenplay from professor's office.
6. Head back outside, walk bike towards streetcorner.
7. Curse madly as your messenger bag strap rips.
8. Laugh it off, pick bag up off ground in front of attractive jogger.
9. Arrive at crosswalk too late for "WALK" sign.
10. Decide that you deserve chocolate for all this nonsense.
11. Go out of your way to the student union.
12. See that some of your favorite candy bars are on sale--two for a dollar.
13. Fling useless messenger bag onto table, dig around for wallet.
14. Snap. You left it in your sweatpants when you changed out of your gym clothes.
15. No chocolate for you, suckah.
16. It's a lot colder outside than you thought it would be.

Imagination is Freer Than Memory

2007-03-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Last week in Advanced Creative Writing, we had to make short lists of specific places--things that could be settings for poems or short stories. I came up with a list of stuff like: a stairwell, a winter coat pocket, a shark's mouth, an eyelet.

Today our prof wrote all of our nominations on the board and we voted on one that everyone would have to write "a short history" of. It ended up being, "a fluorescent ashtray in the bedroom."

So anyway, we got thirty minutes to write something about the fluorescent ashtray in the bedroom, and in my case, a shark's mouth. Surprise, surprise, right?

A Short History of a Fluorescent Ashtray in the Bedroom

That's where I see her,
Aunt Judy.
In cheaper motels,
under broken lattice front porches,
in leaves, dodging loan sharks
and cobweb clutter,
in film
and filth

and sepia,
a beer-pitcher Bonnie to a
steel-toed, line-dancing,
one-night Clyde.
But not as wry,
or motivated.
Like Salinger's Zooey,
in a chain of smoke
and cynicism,
only not as witty,
not as pointed.
Dull, really.

And this is all she's left:
nightstand, stolen console TV,
tinfoil rabbit ears and
no heirlooms.
The last to get boxed
is what she'd miss most,
if forced to feel.
We don't know.
She is missing,
and this is her likely ghost,
a fluorescent ashtray glow,
casting shame.

A Short History of A Shark's Mouth

I've been here,
biting,
shifting seismic rows,
pointed plate tectonic teeth
and the like,
pre-dating badass, sans
evolution.
I've always been this cool,
watch yourself.

Open, suck, pump
twitch, lorenzini dots
sense, dodge fish flutter.
Feel that?
Each one serrated,
ribbed
for my pleasure.
Saw soldier, thrash monger,
frenzy firer.

The salt stands still,
the jaw gapes and drops,
at the ready. Ripping scales
with no remorse,
but plenty of remoras trailing,
sucking guts and gills as it were.
Put that on your neck and wear it.
I'll just grow a new one.

Something of a Moment

2007-03-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

When my ear finally popped in the shower, I wondered how long the dump truck outside had been beeping.

Borrowing From The Yellow House

2007-03-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

Robin Behn has a series of "Yellow House" poems that are thematically linked--sometimes very loosely, sometimes very intensely. She's working on a collection of these poems. In my advanced creative writing class, we were required to read a handful of these works, and I loved a few of them so much that I couldn't stop reading them out loud last night before bed.

Today, our professor read each of the poems one-at-a-time and after each was finished, we were told to write down particular words or short phrases that we remembered--things that jumped out at us. We did this with six separate poems. Then, after we had the lists made, we were instructed to go outside for twenty minutes and write something new using, or inspired by, Behn's words that we'd recorded.

I tried to use every single word on my list, and I came up with this, although it has no title. Also, because of the nature of blogger, it's not formatted the way it is in my notebook.

The perpetuity of dank stones,
chestnut smell of death, a
filmic latch-key monster
with velvet teeth and
fallen feathers.

Your fingers,
your beard as curators of my neck, no--
more like fluttering tails
of blind cavefish
climbing
the lattice of my ribcage.
And then you are,
you are
arched over like a spoon, like
the letter r on its side,
unaware of the policing squares
of light
that pass through latitudinal
tree trunks and jagged crosshair
branches.
in the still--okay, cemetery;
in the exact middle of what is not

not a dream,
but a street where I once lived
in an--
almost--yellow house.

Squealing Inside!

2007-02-23T19:25:00.000-08:00

13 Reasons I really really really want to go to Bonnaroo this June 14th-17th:

1) The Police.

2) Wilco.

3) The White Stripes.

4) The Decemberists.

5) The Black Keys.

6) Spoon.

7) Wolfmother.

8) Franz Ferdinand.

9) Damien Rice.

10) Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals.

11) Martha Wainwright.

12) Gogol Bordello.

13) David Cross.

The Making Love of Art

2007-02-04T16:46:00.000-08:00

An assignment in my Advanced Creative Writing workshop this week was to combine two favorite works or literature and turn them into a new original poem. They didn't have to be poems--they could be short stories, novels, etc. I asked my professor if I could use a poem and a painting. She approved.

As soon as I heard the assignment I immediately thought of one of my favorite poems, Recovery of Sexual Desire After a Bad Cold by Fred Chappell:

Toward morning I dreamed of the Ace of Spades reversed
And woke up giggling.
New presence in the bedroom, as if it had snowed;
And an obdurate stranger come to visit my body.

This is how it all renews itself, floating down
Mothy on the shallow end of sleep;
How Easter gets here, and the hard-bitten dogwood
Flowers, and waters run clean again.

I am a new old man.
As morning sweetens the forsythia and the cats
Bristle with impudent hungers, I learn to smile.
I am a new baby.

What woman could turn from me now?
Shining like a butter knife, and the fever burned off,
My whole skin alert as radar, I can think
Of nothing at all but love and fresh coffee.
-------------------------

As soon as I knew I wanted to use this poem, I knew I needed a Frida Kahlo painting to team up with it. The Ace of Spades sold me, a tarot symbol, a supernatural force symbolized by a skull. I can't think of skulls without thinking of the Day of the Dead. Then I remembered Frida Kahlo's painting "Tree of Hope" and I knew this was it. The fertile, proud, healthy version of herself, perched in a nightscape next to the daytime bed of invalid Frida. No more back brace. There's a duality here, broken and virile, color and absence of color, day and night, sickness and health, and a strong theme of renewal that I see in both Chappell's and Kahlo's work. So here's what I came up with:

Desiring Frida by Marissa DeSantis:

This morning the brace is gone,
for in the night the stubborn bolts
vacated and left the blood and blister, sweat to dry,
the skin to renew.
A woman in a red dress was here,
or perhaps a fever dream
or perhaps the Ace of Spades
reversed,
a tarot skull with
chiclet teeth white as dogwood,
chattering through the forest para Dia De Los Muertos.
But I am alive
in this bed with my flag and my forsythia.
And I wave for the woman to come,
Come, I am virile, I am not asleep
I am waiting for coffee,
for this clean snow to fall and kiss
your dark eyebrow
while I touch you again
for the first time.

Holy Grounds

2007-01-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

I ask the barista which of today's blends is the darkest and she tells me that it's "Frank's Big City Blend." When I first sit down to read a collection of Kelly Magee short stories in a coffee shop with wood floors and paperbacks and perfect lighting that is so far away from the big city, a woman enters with three kids right next to where I'm spread out on a leather couch by the front window.

These kids are young--all of them over four but under nine, and all equally expressive. I wonder why a mother with kids who are obviously difficult to quell would seat them beside a studious-looking lass like myself, clearly trying to get reading done. When she gets up to order her coffee, I try, so hard, to get in a paragraph. A really long one with lots of syllables.

The youngest one, a boy in a gray knit cap and mittens, attempts to spell the word "Fox" and gives up before the "x." His mother encourages him. "What would Jesus do? He wouldn't give up, would he? He'd try his hardest."

Now I'm too involved in this family and their love of Jesus to concentrate on pages. So I move, and as soon as I stand up I hear the mother say, "Do you guys want to snag the couch?"

I imagine that every man in this coffee shop walks up to me and asks what I'm reading, and then hits on me. I smile politely, tell him I'm spoken for by a man in a town that's even farther removed from Frank's Big City, who works out harder than I'm trying to concentrate on this book. It looks like Chick Lit but it's not, I swear. I'm a smart girl. You don't know what you're missing.

I have a scratch on my right shin and I itch it, lifting the leg of my jeans just high enough so he can see my grey knee socks, and then I realize that I'm also revealing my boyish (albeit incredibly hip) tennis shoes. My toes wiggle nervously and because the tops of these shoes are nylon, I think he probably notices and falls in love with me.

I've heard this stupid Bon Jovi song three times in the past two days. I've got to befriend one of the baristas so they stop playing such awful music in here. So far though, this isn't my place. I just read here. I mean, sometimes I read here. Sometimes strange men hit on me and sometimes I get distracted by noisy children and two old ladies in matching red wool coats discussing politics in the corner where I usually hide away.

When I pull on my hat and throw my bag over my shoulder, I notice the empty coffee cup I've left on the table. It's not far to the counter, to the gray plastic bin with all the dirty dishes in it. So I pick up my cup with the half-sip lingering at the bottom and take it up there, depositing it in the bin and balancing it on top of a stack of saucers. I wait for a moment, listening across the room for the mother of three to notice and tell her children, "See? That's what Jesus would do."

Ballad of a Hipster

2007-01-19T20:25:00.000-08:00

I wrote this song tonight. The challenge was to start a song with the line "Woke up this morning" because I think everybody should have a song that starts that way. It turned into a sort of self-reflexive/social comment thing. The italicized parts are spoken!

I find that it adds to the humor of the piece.

See?

Ballad of a Hipster

Woke up this morning
feeling like a metropolitan pocket-sized version of me.
Yea I'm such a hipster.
Gonna meet my friends for some hookah and darjeeling tea.

After the shisha
Gonna head downtown to a place where they have some good shows
once in a while
and they're usually indie bands that nobody knows.

But I knew them before they were on the radio.

But after a while
it all feels the same.
A person gets tired
trying to remember all those names.

Can't see through my glasses,
at least not enough to spot all the phonies in here
who enjoy Oprah's Book Club
and offend me by drinking pitchers of domestic beer.

Yea, I prefer imported sake.

It's so hard to smile.
You might think I'm a little mean,
but I'm surrounded
by poseurs and philistines.

And when it's bedtime
I pull my vintage covers up over my head.
The four Ninja Turtles
in ironic nostalgia, crawling all over my bed.

I'm sleeping alone.
It's the price you pay when you're the coolest person you know.
I'm such a martyr.
Yea I hope I die young;
it gets exhausting looking down my nose.

I guess that's why I need glasses...

With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!

Workshop it Out

2007-01-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

I'm back in a workshop-style creative writing class. Advanced Creative Writing: Fiction & Poetry. I took Advanced Creative Writing: Poetry as a freshman with this very professor. She's tough as nails, and quite demanding, but I've put out good work under her tutelage so I'm psyched to start another semester with her. There are only seven other people in my class and I always find that smaller groups are more conducive to workshopping.

I'm posting my first workshop poem on here. Over Christmas break this year I spent a lot of days at the mall with my sister--usually I end up at the mall a maximum of four times a year. I think I went to the mall seven times in a matter of two weeks this December.

On one of these trips, I saw an elderly woman fall and hit her head in front of the cosmetics counter. She was with her daughter and her granddaughter. I don't actually know if she died or if she lived, but I wanted to write down what I saw because I can't get the image out of my head.

Christmas Shopping

I watched the old woman fall
against the trampled
marbled department store floor
in front of a dozen make-up artists,
who stirred to life like entranced mannequins.

The fragrance saleswomen rushed at her first,
angels on commission,
through a sinking overpriced haze
of floral spray.
It already smells like a funeral home.

I stood an aisle away
between racks of discounted Christmas sweaters,
the kind I give to my grandma,
who is the same age,
because I can't think of anything better, or maybe
I don’t know her at all.

Her face looks powdery and desolate,
a latex mask with eyes as wide and hollow,
a frozen front-porch grimace,
cracked lips,
parted.

Nobody heard her daughter scream for her
over the Muzak and the hard hurried footsteps
and because everything is unwittingly absorbed
in places like this.

I fear she died instantly upon falling.
That her brittle soul is mistakenly headed
for the garishly bright fluorescent light
of the cosmetics counter.
I want to scream
You're going the wrong way!
You're going the wrong way!

But instead I flee in fear
up the down escalator.

Amuse, O Muse!

2007-01-12T18:30:00.000-08:00

I wrote a new song tonight. I wanted to use the word "saline" in a set of lyrics so I set off for the task by making that word the first line of the song. After that it sort of evolved into a piece about the frustrating failings of memory.

Saline.
How your fingers taste to me
I've tried to re-create.
My senses discern and refuse to wait.

Come clean.
Do your hands ever think of me?
Do they scratch at your bodyand make you feel free?
We're safe behind eyelids,
they're curtains that hide our dreams.

Just like Ulysses I'll block my ears
I want to keep your voice right here
The sirens silenced by the din
of your soft whisper from within.

In my head there's a matinee.
You're on three screens but to my dismay
the film breaks in the projector's haste
and it warps the angles of your face.

Saline.
How your fingers taste to me
I've tried to re-create.
I think I've waited too long.
I think it's getting too late.

Sky High-atus

2006-12-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

I wrote these journal entries during my trip to visit my sister and her betrothed in Cincinnati the week before Christmas. I thought it would be an easy way to work myself back into the habit of posting in this journal regularly. The personal journal entries end abruptly, so don't expect some grand objective/retrospective look at the totality of my stay in Cinci. I actually started writing what I think may be my first novel in the middle of my regular day-to-day journaling.

12/14/06

As I make my descent into Cincinnati's Lunkin Airport from a tiny little prop plane, I'm reminded of why I'm so attracted to the water. From ten thousand feet above land, everything that's paved or settled looks so linear--just a bunch of interlocking pieces of nature, tiny terrariums subdivided and demarcated like dioramas by men. But the bodies of water are different. They are awkward and unruly, curved and seductive, rippling and sparkling circles amidst an otherwise stoic and rectangular landscape of olive drab and brown.

The water appears in different shades, the deeper, the darker; the rougher, the whiter. I'm the only passenger on this plane and I feel like a celebrity. The captain says "ma'am" to me in a slow drawl over the intercom in the cockpit. The flight attendant, Debra, offers me a sundry assortment of food and beverage, but I decline. It's only an hour trip.

I wonder what her story is as I see her black trunk shift under her seat as we make a smooth landing. Stickers from London, Vancouver, and Honolulu grace its weathered skin. She is wearing a white turtleneck and glasses like mine. I imagine that she and the steady, long-legged pilot are lovers.

To save my ears from the uneven pressure in the noisy cabin, I'm chewing a folded-up drinking straw that my friend Cory playfully presented to me two nights ago. I'm fairly positive that I left my pack of chewing gum on the living room floor before I left this morning.

I laugh audibly at a particular house, surrounded by a white picket fence that is clearly askew from up here. I can see all of your imperfections, suburbia. And they are much more calculated and precisely awry from up here. Height--distance--is a truly great objectifyer.

12/15/06

First day in Cincinnati felt a little bit like a homecoming, only the kind of homecoming where it's the people who are familiar while the setting stays foreign. Down here I get overly excited when I see restaurants or stores or streets that I remember from prior visits.

Yesterday we shopped for hours and Natalie spent a record $22.00 at the Dollar Store. We bought some fabulous puzzles, one with a mythical beast fight scene that looks something like this:

[WILL TRY TO SCAN DIAGRAM SOON!]

Unfortunately, this gift is being forfeited to the family "Yankee Swap." I'll have to beat up my kin for it, I suppose. [Update: My cousin Derek has since won the puzzle. We all assembled it on Christmas day and I will add a picture of us with it. It's fab] Anyway, we assembled a 100 piece winter-scape puzzle and started a tragically obnoxious train puzzle (500 pieces and just as many similar shades of green to contend with!) We drank champagne (good stuff, from Michigan I reckon) and then went with Seth to eat Mediterranean at a swanky place called Andy's. Delicious, delicious! We destroyed a sampler platter filled with tabouli, hummus, baba, and ludmeh (?) (I'm also definitely destroying the spelling of these names, I'm sure.) I ordered fattoush, and it was the best I've ever had in my life (don't tell the Vajskops!)

After dinner was the Over the Rhine Christmas Concert with friends Christie and David--charming folks. Christie is a truly earnest and friendly girl in an adorable tweed cap, boyfriend David snaps unlimited candid photos on his miniscule digital camera. He wears a corduroy vest that's a size too small over a boyish striped rugby.

Just passed a place called "Unicorn Miniatures!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Must go tomorrow!

?/12/06 I don't know the date

Today saw bumper sticker: "Your child is a Honor Student, Mine is a Marine." Get it? "A" Honor Student? How about "An" Honor Student? Sounds like that Marine's parents are on board the Ship of Fools.

I can't concentrate on anything in this coffee shop. There are two college-age kids in jeans and button-down shirts, with hip haircuts, who sat down and immediately began talking "business" which apparently translates to pretentious dissertation of the latest James Bond movie.

Now they're debating which Bond girl is the hottest. They're actually quite eloquent. I like the curly-haired one's Pumas.

This place is charming, but not too charming.

Now they're discussing the finer points of the VHS-DVD conflict. Part of me wants to jump in and say something clever about how the gentle hum of the spinning heads of a VCR help soothe me to sleep. I'll win them over, they'll ask me to co me out with them tonight for an art film and a beer, and then I'll decline and let them in on my "out-of-towner" secret.

The folks at this place roast their own coffee daily and it's very rich and bold, but never burnt. Today I'm drinking Guatemalan. I'm allowed one free refill. I'm a sucker not to take it.

Everyone who works here is hip--pierced, tattooed, vintage. The clientele doesn't seem to mind with their bifocals and their sweater vests and moth-eaten age. I think there's an English professor one table beyond the film geeks. He's wearing denim, clicking away diligently on his slim Sony laptop, glancing occasionally over his cluttered array of textbooks, one of which is the "Best American Essays of 2004." I imagine that he is a creative writing professor and that no one in his class gets anything higher than a "B+." He's saving his "A's" for the next O. Henry or O'Connor. I should pass this journal to him so he could...(insert self-deprecating comment here.) =) [Edit: That smiley face is upright in my journal.]

P.S. The Mocha Java is great!

On the next page, I began writing my novel.

Pointy Bangs

2006-12-06T18:11:00.000-08:00

I've been studying pictures of TomKat's Baby Suri for a few weeks now, and I finally realize what it is that's freaking me out about the thing. She looks like a miniature Liza Minelli. Don't question me on this one. Just check out the evidence:

That is all....Jazz hands!

A Seasonal Mix

2006-10-31T19:06:00.000-08:00

I'm one song away from completing this year's Fall Mix CD. I'm putting a draft of it up here, and I'll add my "liner notes" later on. You'll notice a severe lack of female representation on this one. Originally, I had some tracks from Joni Mitchell, Loretta Lynn, and the Indigo Girls on here. Unfortunately, they got crossed off (and so did a large number of perfectly qualified men.)

Right now I should be writing my Odyssey paper. I'll do it after this, I swear.

The final track is a song called "Saffron" by a local band (made up of some mates of mine) named Return of Simple. They play piano-driven pop/rock with really smart, introspective lyrics. I don't yet have their new album, but I'm seeing them play at Wilbert's downtown, so I'll pick up a copy there.

Here's the list:

1. Beck--Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes (from the Eternal Sunshine soundtrack. This movie, and this song always remind me of the fall.)

2. Cat Stevens--The Wind.

3. The Raconteurs--Steady as She Goes (acoustic version.) I know it's a pretty well-known pop song, but it felt good here and I like the unplugged version very much.

4. The Shins--Gone for Good. Again, another fairly well-known tune, but I dig it. It's a song about a transitional time and there's really nothing quite as transitional as the fall.

5. Simon & Garfunkel--Old Friends. I wanted an S&G song and it took me forever to decide which one was the most appropriate. Again here, I've included a song that lyrically speaks to the theme of change.

6. Sufjan Stevens--Romulus.

7. Iain Archer--Canal Song (End of Sentence).

8. The Decemberists--My Mother Was a Chinese Trapeze Artist. I may still strike this.

9. The Walkmen--Another One Goes By.

10. Billy Bragg & Wilco--Remember the Mountain Bed.

11. The Long Winters--Ultimatum.

12. Bob Dylan--I Want You.

13. Elliot Smith--Needle in the Hay.

14. Jolie Holland--Ghost Waltz. The only girl!

15. Ryan Adams--My Winding Wheel.

16. Iron & Wine--Naked as We Came.

17. Wilco--Say You Miss Me.

I think I just realized that Wilco is my favorite band. I was never able to answer that question before. My favorite solo artist has been Ellis Paul for the past five years or so. But I've always answered "early Police" when people asked me my favorite band.

My favorite band is Wilco. Just FYI.

The Cake Mistake

2006-10-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

Last night after a family friend's wedding, my mother told me of a ridiculously silly old wedding superstition that she learned in her youth.

When the wedding cake is cut and passed out in a wrapper or napkin for guests to take home, you're supposed to put your piece of wrapped cake under your pillow. Then, whoever you dream of in the middle of the night is allegedly the man who you're supposed to marry.

I did this, mostly as an experiment in absurdity.

I remembered my dream this morning. I had a foggy/unclear dream mainly involving one of my best guy friends. He's gay.

This is just like Prom.

Books Are [In] My Bag

2006-10-15T14:38:00.000-07:00

Today I visited Berea Library's "Friends of the Library" book sale. It was one of those rare dealies where they hand you a paper grocery bag upon entry and whatever you can fit in it, you get to take home for a mere dollar.

Days like these remind me why I should probably try to stay alive.

I thought I'd create a post detailing the many gems that I snatched up today. The sale seemed pretty picked-over, but I was able to procure a great deal of decent (and some indecent) literature. I also found a few prize CDs. Here's the grand list:

1) Dante's The Divine Comedy. A paperback prose translation by H.R. Huse, Copyright 1954. I have a copy of this'n already, but I really liked the annotations in this one. It has a lot of personality and really sweet cover art. Pitchforks a-plenty!

2) Maurice Sendak's Higglety-Pigglety Pop! or There Must Be More to Life, Paperback Copyright 1967. In this "children's" book, the hero of the story, a mutt named Jennie, renounces her possessions and goes on a journey to discover the meaning of life. Heavy, man.

3) Bob Colacello's Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up, Hardcover Copyright 1990. This actually doesn't look that great, but having a Warhol book on my shelf couldn't hurt.

4) Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s God bless you, Mr. Rosewater, Paperback Copyright 1965. I haven't read this and I'm genuinely excited about doing so.

5) Anne M. Raso's New Kids on the Block, Paperback Copyright 1989. Yea, it's an NKOTB classic with "fabulous photos inside" AKA pop trash!

6) Frank S. Caprio M.D.'s The Sexually Adequate Male, Paperback Copyright 1952. It's got case histories about impotence! Sold!

7) A gift for James. Secrets!

8) David C. Cooke's Better Bowling For Boys, Hardcover Copyright 1963. This book was owned by someone named "Nikki" who wrote his/her name on the inside cover. I always thought Nikki was a girl's name. This made it okay for me to buy a book explicitly targeted toward boys.

9) Jeremy Daldry's The Teenage Guy's Survival Guide: the real deal on girls, growing up, and other guy stuff, Paperback Copyright 1999. The irony of books with titles like these is that if you're a guy and you're caught reading them, it's probably less likely that you're going to survive a severe ass-kicking. This fascinates me so I grabbed it. My favorite section of the book is in chapter two (Surviving All the Changes in Your Body.) It's called "Plumbing (Masturbation, Wet Dreams)" and it's just after "Greasy Hair" and "Being Stinky." Awesome.

10) Munro Leaf's El Cuento de Ferdinando, Hardcover Copyright 1962. The original English translation of this children's book is Ferdinand the Bull. It's one of my dad's favorite stories, so now I can torment him by dangling a version that he can't understand in front of his face.

11) Ben Franklin's Wit & Wisdom, Hardcover Copyright ? This book is lame. It's basically a collection of witticisms from the Poor Richard's Almanack. I like Ben Franklin so I picked it up. Whatever.

12) John Osborne's Look Back in Anger Paperback Copyright 1974. One of only two plays that I got. I've never read this one and I should.

13) Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman Hardcover Copyright 1949. My favorite play! I was lucky to find it because it was mistakenly categorized as "Horror and Science Fiction." Ha.

14) The Pocket Book of O. Henry Stories Paperpack Copyright 1948. I haven't read O. Henry in a long time. I used to really admire him. Now I can revisit whenever I want to.

15) The Jesus And Mary Chain Hate Rock 'N' Roll (1995.) A CD.

16) Spike Jonze's Adaptation (2003.) VHS. Every time I go to a library sale or to Blockbuster, there's a dirt-cheap copy of this movie. I even saw a bunch of them at Marc's one day. I'm taking this as a sign. I really liked Adaptation and it was free today so I might as well own it.

17) J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey Paperback Copyright 1961. This was the prize of the afternoon. I am happy and incredibly psyched to read this one.

18) John Beecroft's Kipling: A Selection of His Stories and Poems Vol II Hardcover Copyright 1956. I always liked Kipling.

19) William Faulkner's The Faulkner Reader Hardcover Copyright 1954. He writes his own foreword in this sucka'.

20) Darby Conley's The Get Fuzzy Experience Paperback Copyright 2003. I can't believe this didn't sell before I got to it. What a score! Get Fuzzy is fantastic.

21) Grace Catalano's New Kids on the Block Paperback Copyright 1989. Ideally, I would have found two NKOTB books from different stages in their career. Oh well. You work with what you've got.

22) Sol Gordon Ph.D.'s How Can You Tell If You're Really In Love? Paperback Copyright 2001. This book looks as though it was never opened and it still has a Borders price tag on the back. This is the same author who wrote the book Why Love is not Enough.

23) Denise Johnston (ed)'s Cats, Cats, Cats--I Love Them All Paperback Copyright 1987. This is a sort of animal rights book, but the title just kills me. Don't kill the cats though,or Denise Johnston will find you and own your face.

24) Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn Hardcover Copyright 1943. Good times.

25) Moulin Rouge OST (2001). A CD. I like the soundtrack better than the movie.

26) Shawn Colvin's Whole New You (2001). A CD. Go, Shawn Colvin. I'm a folk nerd.

27) Cornershop's When I Was Born For the 7th Time (1997). CD. Track 2 = Brimful of Asha. Oh yea.

28) PUSA's Self-Titled Album (1995). I lost my copy of this years ago. Everyone had this sucka back in the day. Now I've got it again, and it's just about as scratched up as my original copy would be by this time.

29) Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, April 2000. This is really lame. I just picked it up because it was on a "free"table and it's almost Halloween so I guess I have a sweeter spot for Hitchcock these days.

I also got five free vinyl records and I made friends with two gentlemen in the record room. We exchanged trivia about the Captain & Tenille. It was swell.

Enough literature. I'm going to study math now. Eesh.

A light is waiting

2006-10-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

I realized today that Full House is absolute crap.

It's not even bad enough to be good. What was I thinking?

This is possibly one of the worst sitcoms ever created.

I can't say much more right now. I'll come back with some worthwhile analysis later on. But for now, this revelation alone is blogworthy.

Strangers in the Stacks

2006-10-05T14:18:00.000-07:00

I have a collector's nature. I keep things in plastic, I leave tags on, I save heaps of ticket stubs and theater programs, I have four closets, etc. I also revisit things. There are some books I've read at least five times, and some movies I've seen at least forty.

I also have this thing where I collect people. This man I met at a pet store when I was twelve, a girl named Amy who indexed her poems as she wrote them in the back of a lined leatherbound notebook every Thursday at Arabica in Pleasant Valley. Mark, a stocky kid with thick glasses who was hypnotized at an orientation program my freshman year and who I've been secretly observing ever since.

And today I thought of a gentleman I met at the Brecksville Library in the middle of the summer, one night after work whilst I was picking up a few essentials. Here is a transcript from my other blog giving a detail of what occurred:

I was browsing through the movies, just looking for some new films to watch because I realized I was going to have more time at home this weekend and I always like to be well-versed when it comes to cinema. I picked up a few movies and went to stand in line at the check-out. There was some sort of altercation. A woman and her two girls were having a battle of wits over whether or not their copy of "Madeline" was in fact overdue, since they had allegedly just turned it in tonight. They were arguing for a good two minutes when I started to get antsy. Now normally, I'm such an impatient person that I wouldn't hesitate to just reshelve the movies and come back another time but just as my weight began to shift away from the counter, a voice distracted me from my nervousness. "I'm sorry but I can't help noticing--are those shoes in reference to the film, "Me and you..." "Me and You and Everyone We Know? Yes they are!" I interrupted him excitedly, pleased to death that somebody had actually picked up on my reference. See, several years ago at Marc's I found a pair of flat-soled brown corduroy tennis shoes for a few dollars. I bought them, wore them a few times, but then inevitably another pair of hot new tennis shoes took their place and my brown cords got stuffed in the back of the closet. This year, however, I began wearing these shoes religiously. My wardrobe has grown to be overwhelmingly brown so they're practically essential these days. In the movie, "Me and You and Everyone We Know," the main character is a kind of performance artist. She's an intense romantic, almost to a fault. When a charming and mysterious department store shoe salesman encourages her to buy a pair of pink flats, she does, and creates a moving artwork by writing "Me" on one shoe and "You" on the other and then films her feet from above, gently caressing each other. It really is a beautiful moment in a cleverly-crafted film. So I expressed my excitement to this strange man with the well-kept gray hair, thinning, but appearing to be quite soft and smooth. It had the appearance of being pressed flat and then shaken out, which made sense to me after I noticed the shiny, sleek motorcycle helmet nestled under his left arm. In his right hand, he held a copy of the Robert Duvall film "The Apostle." I mentioned that it was an interesting choice and he explained to me that it was a revisit because he had recommended it to a friend and remembered how great it was. I thought I was the only person to frequent the library and check out films that I've already seen multiple times. We chatted. We chatted about "Me and You and Everyone We Know" and about how we weren't sure what to think of the girl for being so brazen with a man whom she just met. (Metafiction?) He smiled endlessly. His round wire-rimmed glasses caught the light so I couldn't look into his eyes the whole time. Then I finally got called up to the counter, checked out my three movies, and left. I turned around and said "bye." And then passed through the Stanley Power Assist doors into the parking lot. His bike was parked right outside to the left in the closest spot to the door. On the way out of the parking lot I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw him leave the library, looking left and right--I assume for me. I kept waiting for him to come up behind my car driving up 21. I turned before he could catch up to me and I lost him.
Today in my Religion & Film class, we discussed "The Apostle," which was the film that this strange man was checking out of the library the night we met (and the night we parted.) It's so strange that I still feel a connection to him so many months later. I was familiar with "The Apostle" before seeing it in class and before I met my stranger. Still, I wonder how much longer I'll think of that gentleman's face whenever I see "The Apostle" on a shelf at the video store or at the library, or even whenever I see Robert Duvall.

Because, you know, I see Robert Duvall a lot. That dude is everywhere.

You're my Rushmore.

2006-09-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

Upon the invocation of the t-shirt muse, I created a new piece of art yesterday with a $1.39 Jerzees cotton tee and a black Sharpie. I don't have much time to write about this'n because I have a paper to write which is exponentially more important than this, but I thought I'd post anyway.

Why, yes! It's Jason Schwartzman as Max Fischer in Wes Anderson's brilliant comedy, "Rushmore!" Thanks for knowing! Go, Yankee Racers.

A simple stencil-style design traced (I don't usually trace but I had the luxury of being able to do so since it's a thinner/lighter fabric) with a black Sharpie.

"The secret, I don't know... I guess you've just gotta find something you love to do and then... do it for the rest of your life. For me, it's going to Rushmore."

Here I mimicked Wes Anderson's handwriting to capture the youthful precociousness of Max. I wanted something that looked somewhat childish to make a striking contrast with the actual phrase.

Alright. Off to write about the Iliad. Wish me luck, lovers!

You been out ridin'....bicycles.

2006-09-08T18:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a wee little girl, I was very close with the four boys next door. We would play together almost every day and during the summer we spend hours riding our bikes up and down their long driveway, playing "garage" and "drive thru" and other such games. Anyway, one afternoon their father unveiled to them the bike that he rode before he got his first car. It was a 1982 Huffy Desperado, tan with a dark brown banana seat painted with an orange and yellow desert landscape. The handlebars curved and tilted back so when you leaned all your weight against the back of the seat, it felt like you were riding on a chopper.

Soon after the boys received this bike, its novelty wore off. They were distracted by cooler, newer models and Desperado started gathering dust and rust in the back of their barn. It stayed there until a fateful garage sale one summer day when I was in my third year of high school. I saw Desperado, marked with a price of five dollars, and vowed to save him from his life of celibacy. I took him home and gave him new tires. I oiled the chain, I put new bolts in the bar holding the seat in place, I took steel wool to the chrome and rubbed all of the rust away. I weather-treated every inch of Desperado. When I was done, the bike looked quasi-new. It looked so good, in fact, that the boys next door found a renewed interest in Old Desperado and soon I found that they had taken him from my back porch and had begun to ride him again. I was proud that I had made Desperado desirable once again, so I hardly protested.

It wasn't until this summer that I was reminded of Desperado when I began to take leisurely bike rides around the park. It would be nice to have a bike at school but I wouldn't want to bring my good bike there. It's cumbersome and worth too much money to just leaved chained in the basement of my building. Besides--most of my walking is confined to a very small area. A bike isn't completely necessary--it would just be fun. And then I thought, "what's more fun than Desperado?"

And so, dear friends, yesterday I ventured to my neighbor's house and spoke with one of the twins who is quite savvy with mechanical things. I asked if he remembered Desperado, and slowly, he recalled the splendor of this rusty relic. We ventured to the attic of the barn and found Desperado, now looking like Frankenbike, with the seat of another bicycle transfixed where the banana seat used to rest, and with a few of the wrong parts attached to his handlebars. After a good hour of labor, however, Desperado was back in business, and I pedaled him up to my car (with a bit of a running start actually--without the gears and all, it's hard to get going on that little cuss.)

Today for the first time I rode a bicycle to class. He waited loyally outside for me whilst I engaged myself in lectures on philosophy and world literature. And then we went for a jaunt around Coe Lake and through downtown Berea. My friends all seem to "get" Desperado. They appreciate him for his kitsch and for his good rattly nature. But I think other students at my school are still skeptical. I watched as one young man chained his mountain bike next to mine on the rack outside of Marting Hall. He looked quite perplexed, indeed.

I may need to get a helmet. Desperado's tires rattle a little bit because they have these weird plastic mudflap things over them and they shift when I go over bumps. Today I almost faceplanted in front of a construction worker sitting outside of Pizza King. I think I might want to get a Vespa helmet and some oversized goggles so I can look even more alien to today's modern college students. Actually, I think the next step is designing a new picture for Desperado's long and lean banana seat (which I'm confident can fit at least two people, provided their legs are short like mine.) At first I thought that a photograph of Kenny Rogers would be delightful, but now I'm considering that Hank Williams might be a little more badass.

With or without the handsome mug of an outlaw country singer gracing his seat, Desperado is my little buddy and I look forward to riding him off into many more sunsets this schoolyear.

I am the Charter!

2006-09-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

The Maelstrom is making great strides this year and the community of Baldwin-Wallace College would be wise to don their water wings, lest they drown in our massive and beastly wake.

Five years ago, a humble little group of hyperintelligent and progressive students at Baldwin-Wallace got together and felt dissatisfied with the available campus media. Back then, we were a one-paper college. We had the Exponent, a by-the-book campus newspaper with little to say. The Exponent was bad back then. It's changed since, but more about this later.

So these like-minded kids decided that it would be cool to start an underground newspaper. And just like that, it happened. Using only Microsoft Word and some pilfered office supplies, a renegade group of would-be journalists began to serve up a subversive and satirical bi-weekly magazine that kept students laughing and thinking in ways that no other campus newspaper had. This was a different sort of magazine. It was edgy but it hated being called edgy. It was different but it prided itself on uniting all of the college's bizarre subcultures.

When I was a freshman, I joined up with the Maelstrom. After nervously submitting two writing samples to the editor-in-chief, I was embraced as the youngest staff writer in their history (brief as that history was, I was proud of this feat.) My first story made it onto the front page of the year's debut issue. Ever since, I've been devoted to this publication.

Last year as a sophomore I stepped up as co-editor-in-chief with a very capable partner. I didn't want to see this thing die but it was clear that the dynamics would soon be changing drastically. Four of our strongest staff writers were seniors and they were all set to graduate. And without funding, the only way to recruit new writers would be to beg around campus. It slowly became apparent that we might need to reconsider our place on campus. Can the underground sustain us forever? Will we have to sell out? Will our demographics change? Do any of us know how to manage a budget?

For the Maelstrom to live, we need to become legitimate. And so, today I say with no hesitation, that the Maelstrom is now an official club at Baldwin-Wallace College. I'm proud of this. I'm proud because I was able to sustain something that was created by people who came before me and now it has a chance of becoming a legacy. Even after I graduate, the Maelstrom will rave on if all goes well.

I hung my first club poster in the student Union yesterday with a fellow Maelstromite. He's my friend. Everyone who writes for Maelstrom is my friend. Everyone who reads Maelstrom is my friend.

I'm not afraid of being a sell-out anymore. It's more important to me that as many people as possible are able to get in touch with the Maelstrom and become a part of it. Our ideals aren't changing. We're still a little elitist. We're still going to be irreverent. We're still going to print really offensive advice columns and declare "victory in Iraq!" on April Fool's Day. That's who we are.

I think as an officially sanctioned club we get to nominate people from our group for homecoming court. So the minute I get to ride around downtown Berea in a tiara on the back of a float, you can talk to me about selling out. Until then, I have new business to attend to.

The Wayward Spiral

2006-08-31T17:03:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up and felt like something was missing. I feel like this a lot of mornings upon waking, but usually it's just one of those "who am I and where do I belong" type conundrums that I forget about by lunchtime. Today there was something actual and concrete missing from my world and I couldn't figure out what it was.

I took my shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed. When I walked into my living room I noticed that I had left my hummus out on the coffee table overnight. So that must be it. I must have been feeling lost because I knew I had forgotten to do something semi-important the night before. It's the funniest thing too, because I can't tell for the life of me if the hummus went bad. It's got an overpowering smell to begin with so it's not like it suddenly smells rank like sour milk or something.

Anyway, I forgot about my emptiness for a while after I replaced the hummus in the fridge. Note to self: don't let any of your guests eat that hummus.

Then I packed up my books for class. Women's lit. Religion & film. Respective notebooks. Respective folders. Day planner. Journal. Journal. Journal? Bueller?

It was nowhere to be found. Not in desk drawers, not in closets, not under chairs or in my laundry basket. Not in the fridge with the spoiled (?) hummus. It was just simply gone. I didn't have time to look for too much longer so I began to walk nervously to class, feeling strangely like I wasn't wearing trousers or like I was sleepwalking the night before and unconsciously plucked off one of my eyebrows.

Now, reader, you must understand the importance of this, the mysterious disappearing notebook which eluded me so cunningly and cruelly this morning. I carry this notebook with me everywhere. I fill at least a page every day with some of my most vulnerable thoughts and musings. I've got song lyrics in it, poetry, hypothetical conversations between myself and people I love, even a really embarrassing sharpie cartoon drawing of Weezer.

What if someone finds it? I can't even imagine. I don't have my name in it. The closest ID stamp within the pages is a cartoon self-portrait that only vaguely resembles me. If someone were to find this notebook, he or she would have a field day leafing through pages and pages of my existence. He could steal all my good ideas and chastise the bad ones. He could read the most unfinished and sophomoric passages aloud to members of the English department.

The English department. Located in Marting Hall. I was in Marting Hall when I realized that literally every one of my classes this semester is in Marting Hall (the philosophy and religion departments are located here as well.) There was still an off chance that my spiral notebook could have found its way to one of the tables in the Union or the Cyber Cafe (where there are FOOTBALL PLAYERS! Eeesh!) but I've only eaten there three or four times this semester. It had to be in Marting.

Frantically, I ran up to Barb in the English office. Barb is one of those all-knowing secretaries that every institution seems to have one of. She's Superwoman. She's untouchable. She's probably got a third eye or something. Anyway, I talked to her and she showed me that the only item in the English "lost and found" was a yellow folder. But she told me to go upstairs and check the Religion office.

I've never run up that third flight of stairs faster in my life. And this is saying a lot because that third flight is a killer. The stairs in Marting are insanely steep because the engineers of this building all those decades ago must have thought that they needed to conserve space. Or maybe it was designed for the pygmy literati.

Anyway, I made it up the stairs and as soon as the secretary in the Religion Office put the defibrillator paddles back in her desk, I resumed normal breathing and from my reclined position on the floor I noticed, in a small printer paper box top under a table to my left...

my spiral notebook.

It's okay.

It's going to be okay.

I'm gonna go buy one of those child leashes now. Later.

Dig the New Digs...

2006-08-28T07:48:00.000-07:00

Here is a shot of the essence of the apartment. See how worldly we are? We're rocking an Indian throw over our decrepit recliner, a wooden Japanese sake set, a Costa Rican tablecloth (I think it's South American anyway), and out of this picture is some Chinese art that we've yet to hang. We also have a French painting which will also grace the wall somewhere.

Below is a view of John looking disapprovingly at my antique sake set.

Another view of the apartment at large...

My bed. I read and write and sleep here.

We have so many appliances. All of them are essential. Well, maybe not the ice shaver..,

Here is a shot of the kitchen, where we've got a huge fridge, a small (but mighty) stove, and much storage space.

My desk, tucked away behind a bureau. I like being hidden whilst I work.

So that's that. Come and visit sometime.

In the van, with my friend

2006-08-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

You never told me you were leaving
So I never thought to cry.
The concept of distance is deceiving
people grow closer
but that's not you and I.

Everybody says I'd love Chicago.
Maybe that's why I'm afraid to go.
I'd rather drown here in the wake you left behind,
wondering if it's better not to know.

You've got your own skyscrapers now.
I hope you never take your head out of the clouds.
I always knew you'd take off and fly
but not without saying goodbye.

It's pretty cold back here in Cleveland.
I turned my collar up today.
I passed three places where we might have stopped for coffee
back when our words still knew just how to melt the ice away.

If you happen to get carried away
by Chicago winds while you're walking down the street one day,
just think of me and I'm sure you'll be astounded
by how the ones you left behind can keep you grounded.

You've got your own skyscrapers now
I hope you never take your head out of the clouds.
I always knew you'd take off and fly
but not without saying goodbye.

This is another jealous song
But it's too late now because you're long gone.
You're bigger than this town could be
but are you so much better than me?

Are you so much better than me?
Is there something there that I can't see?

I don't know where that song came from but I really like it.

Marissa V 2.0

2006-08-16T16:12:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to dye my hair purple. I can say it's about the money but it's not. I have a friend who owns a hair salon who would most likely hook me up so that money shouldn't be too much of an issue. It's not because I'm not sure about the right color. They know their colors and they know what's going to look good on me and what isn't.

This whole thing comes down to cowardice. My fear looks funny in writing. I'm an eccentric person. I do weird things. People know this about me. A lot of people relate to me because I'm different. So why not look a little more unconventional on the outside? What difference will it make?

Why do I have such an irrational fear of being poor? I have plenty of money. Why do I suffer and moan through the afternoon without eating lunch? Why not just take a single bill out of my fattened wallet and cross the street to buy something off of the McDonald's dollar menu? Why am I afraid to eat McDonald's?

Lately I've felt like there's another person inside of me pestering my comfortable shell and making me question the way I live my life. I know that if I let that person be free I could do so many wonderful things. I might buy a truck with the money that I've been saving since I was six. I'd spend my afternoons driving around trying to find a job that would make me happy. Or maybe I wouldn't work. But I'd definitely drive. I'd jump in my car and take epic road trips across the country.

I'd drink and I'd stay out late. I'd learn, but I'd do so on my own terms. I wouldn't turn down my music at stop lights and I'd shop at actual stores---not thrift shops and markdown places. I'd make a movie--a feature length movie, and I'd make it with equipment that I bought. Top-of-the-line equipment. I'd be a Mac girl.

I'd stop being afraid of dancing. I'd learn how to swing dance and I'd get really good at it.

Maybe I would give comedy another shot. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to really invest myself in improv. I used to love it and be good at it. Confidence would never be a problem if I were the new me. Everything would roll off of my shoulders. And I'd stop worrying about impressing people. The new me would be impressive enough.

I wouldn't be afraid to throw stuff away. I don't know why I feel the need to collect, to capture and store and hoard memories. It's all just clutter. The new me would understand that and say goodbye to the extraneous.

I didn't wear socks today. I think maybe I wanted it to be easier for other versions of myself to slip out from under my feet like ringworms and take hold of my ankles, dragging and pushing me in new and exciting directions.

That's a ridiculous image, but the new me wouldn't care what you think of it.

If you give a girl a sharpie...

2006-08-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

A new nerdy t-shirt, designed by me.

This time, I actually needed to use a ruler for some of the design. But it was drawn, not traced, since tracing was impossible with this thick dark fabric.

The "A" in the logo was the hardest part. Once I got that down, I knew the rest would be easier. The "n" in "Splendor" also proved to be quite difficult, especially on the ribbed material I was working with.

I copied the back design from a cell of an actual "American Splendor" comic. It's actually one of my favorites, even though the artwork isn't necessarily the best. I tried to copy the image exactly but it's tough to do. I take solace in the fact that everybody draws Harvey differently anyway.

There's our girl, sporting her latest creation. She made it in the driveway, stretching the shirt over a big piece of cardboard. She finished just as the sun was starting to set.

And there's a nice little back view. The real splendor in this picture is that fine geek physique.

Below is a gift for a good friend of mine who really digs the movie "Sideways." No ruler was used. All the letters were drawn by hand with two Sharpies.

The front design was copied from my DVD.

Anyway, those are my latest. I'm getting pretty good at it so I think I might start taking requests. My next big project is a shot of Joel and Clem from "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I'm going to use the aerial shot of them on the ice. They'll be in the lower corner of a powder-blue t-shirt and the cracks will spread all the way up to where a pocket would be.

Before I get to that though, I might try practicing some other simpler stuff.

Goin' Cohen

2006-08-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight I finally got to see the film "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man" at the Cedar Lee Theatre. It's a fantastic tribute to one of the greatest and most underappreciated songwriters of our time. I was particularly moved by his humility, his self-deprecating tendencies, his denial of what others call his genius. His lyrics are so poetic. I'm so glad that a few of the better musicians of my generation have picked up his songbook and continued to breathe life into it because his words really are timeless. This can be a good thing when he writes about the beauty of love, or it can be disheartening and painfully real when he writes about the torture and agony of war.

Anyway, I wrote a song tonight. I almost feel ridiculous putting it after a post about how wonderful Leonard Cohen is at writing songs. I just wanted to mention that I saw the movie and this is what follows that thought I suppose. It's no Cohen. But it's the best I can do for now. The other night I had a conversation with someone about having trouble seeing myself from the outside. I realize that this is becoming more of a problem as I get closer to "freedom" from my childhood home--as I get closer to my diploma, to my possible career, etc. So I wrote this song as a conversation with myself. I tried to open up a dialogue from me to me. It's also a bit of a thank-you note to the person whose actual conversation inspired it. I don't know how much I'm going to be able to learn from this song, but it felt good to write it. I guess a lot of my songs are like those letters that you write but never send.

I was startled by your honesty
"I'm lost," you said and I could see
the mounting fear,
a cavalier deterred.

You're the center of your universe
you said to me and so I'll sing it in the verse
so when you hear it from my lips instead
you'll swallow every word.

Because
You're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

You know I've got tea and sympathy
But as long as you've got time to drink with me
Then you've got time to think about
who you want to be.

This place you're in is dark and cold
You've told me shakily it's getting old
You're bottled so you might explode
Please, take it from me.

That
you're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

For all your existential turmoil
there's somebody who can see
stones you never could have overturned alone
and that person could be me.

You're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

Another note:
Parents who buy vehicles with televisions in the headrests do such a disservice to their children. Instead of having another extraneous flat screen tv, these kids should instead be spoiled with the rich American landscape. They should count cows and license plates from different states. They should wave at proud cities as they pass through in wonderment of what is new and excitingly unfamiliar. Instead they sit dumb in front of a tiny consolation prize with unnatural color and stereo sound. Will these kids ever be impressed by the dangerous grace and balance of a towering skyscraper? Will they feel humble in the vastness of an open yellow plain? Landscapes will not exist for them! All they will know is the falseness that is projected twelve inches in front of their vulnerable, ignorant faces.

Eschew! Bless You! (Allergic to Flowers)

2006-08-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

Most girls are happy to get flowers from their boyfriends. In fact, from my observations over my years as a single woman, I've noticed that this is all that some ladies hope for from their significant others at any given time. I've actually heard things like this:

"He didn't have to take me out for our anniversary, but it would have been nice to get flowers."

"He didn't get me flowers for Valentine's Day. Isn't your boyfriend supposed to get you flowers on Valentine's Day?"

"I told him that flowers were a waste of money but that doesn't necessarily mean that I don't want them."

I'm usually of the mentality that flowers are nice every now and then but overall I think the idea of giving flowers is a fairly unoriginal cop-out. I've seen so many girls walking around with bouquets on their birthdays, on anniversaries, and on that most horrid of all the questionably fabricated holidays, Valentine's Day. And every time I see one of them, beaming ignorantly with that stupid glazed-over baby rabbit look on her pretty little face, I can't help feeling a little bit sorry.

These are girls whose boyfriends are doltish clones. Sure, they should get points for remembering, say, three semi-important (depending on your opinion) days of the year. But flowers? That's a little textbook for my taste. None of these guys would have the brains or the courage to get their girl something different.

I don't usually get flowers from my boyfriends. And the only boyfriend I had who ever got me flowers did so on creative days for interesting reasons. Example: once I was stage managing a play and he sent me a bouquet on opening night. Quite thoughtful. This is the same boyfriend I stayed with for an extra few weeks after he bought me a copy of "Synchronicity" on vinyl, because I thought a gift like that should definitely warrant a second chance.

Another fellow I dated bought me an original print of a poster for a movie about Santa Claus fighting the devil, made in the early '60s. It's incredibly rare (the film and the poster.) He still won't tell me where he got it. This was one of my birthday gifts from him. There's nothing floral about it. I love it.

I think the reason that my relationships have been flowerless is because of my bashing of the flower right from the start. When I'm being courted, I tend to verbalize my dislike for the flower for two basic reasons:

a) the guy will think I am low-maintenance, and thus, better girlfriend material.

b) the guy will think I am practical (flowers die!), and thus, better girlfriend material.

b) the guy will think I am unconventional and unique, and if he appreciates this, he is better boyfriend material.

Of course, after I finally snag the guy, I do go through times when I think, "Why would I do that? Flowers are nice. I wouldn't necessarily mind getting flowers from this fellow." And then there's the danger of ending up with a guy who is cheap and is merely dating me because he doesn't have to spend money on frivolous presents. Mostly though, I find that the man I'm with takes on the challenge of finding unusual presents for me with great fervor and tenacity.

This weekend my lover surprised me with what is probably the coolest present that he could have found for me. It's an Enid doll. One of my favorite books is the Daniel Clowes graphic novel, "Ghost World," and Enid is one of the two main characters in this novel. In 2003, Clowes designed an Enid doll and marketed it ironically as a "Hi-Fashion Glamour Doll." And now I have one. It's positively delightful.

Earlier in our courtship he thrilled me with two thrift-store records: Shaun Cassidy's Born Late, and Tom Jones's The Fever Zone. (Oddly enough, I already had the first of the two titles in my collection but we can't fault him for that--it's really absurd that I owned that record in the first place.)

This is the kind of stuff that I'm used to. That may make me sound like I'm hard to please, which is not the case at all. I really am low-maintenance. I don't like asking for anything. And usually it's because I don't want anything. I don't like to be spoiled at all and most of the time I'm perfectly happy with an extra phone call or e-mail or maybe a letter. I'm a better giver than a receiver. But I do immensely appreciate the extra effort that my fellow goes to in order to insure my happiness.

He doesn't need to wear himself out buying such weird gifts though. I kind of like lilies.

Playing the Odds

2006-08-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to try to write a song every night. That way, even if only one out of every five isn't a sappy love song, then I'll have one decent song every week. I can deal with that.

Last night I re-wrote "Enid," a song that I based on the character of the same name from Daniel Clowes' graphic novel, "Ghost World." I'm really happy with the product. It has a pretty strong melody and a decent-sounding chorus. I've known for a while that I needed to write a song about Enid but my original version was really wordy and didn't feel right. I didn't capture enough apathy in it and even the tune wasn't appropriate. Here is the new version. If I think of it later I'll post the old one--I don't have my other journal with me so I don't have the lyrics to copy.

Enid

My name is Enid.
How perfect is that?
I live in a town with some lawns
and some strip malls.

Biding my time
a bottle of hair dye
a record that spins me a lifetime
until fall.

Am I really moving?
I can't tell.
Put something soothing
on the record player.

It's hot outside,
we follow the weirdos.
We call them our people
but she doesn't seem to believe.

So maybe I'll leave
on a bus and I won't say goodbye.
I'll meet some new strangers.
Hey that's some kind of reprieve.

Am I really moving?
I can't tell.
Put something soothing
on the record player.

Is this really living?
It's just as well
with nothing to offer
but the shell
of some other ghost
inside of me.

There's a ghost inside of me
There's a ghost inside of me
There's a ghost inside of me
and her name is Enid.

Sassy Arse

2006-08-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Most of the time when I see this I take it as a warning.

The pants say, "This ass is juicy. You'd better stand back." I often follow young girls with printed posteriors the way a jainist maneuvers sidewalks and dirt roads with a broom to protect small organisms from harm. Carefully anticipating fallout, a few steps behind the behind, I shake my head in disbelief. Mostly I'm shaking my head at the nubile, soft-skinned, fleshy sexual being in front of me, her swaying arse printed with a promise. Maybe she's "FOXY" (FO on one cheek, XY on the other.) Maybe she's "SASSY" (SA on one cheek, SY on the other--the other "s" often gets lost somewhere in the middle.)

But sometimes when I'm shaking my head I'm disappointed in myself. For looking. And for wondering what my ass wants me to communicate to the world. What's my ass-essence? When I saunter down the street in the midday sun, earbuds in, closed off from the world, can my heiny do my talking for me? How transcendent is her message?

Here are some words that I think the back of my pants would like to communicate:

EXISTENTIAL--it was my choice to put on these pants this morning and the rear end of said pants say that much and more. When I walk in these pants, I'm looking for purpose. I'm in control. When I take them off, I seriously don't know what to do with myself. I freak out.

SARDONIC--maybe I don't take myself too seriously when I'm wearing my ass pants. Big deal. When I wear my sardonic ass pants, SARD on one cheek and ONIC on the other, people know that the real message is actually just tongue-in-cheek.

ESOTERIC--this will guarantee that I only get hit on in my ass pants by a particular kind of man or woman. Someone who gets it. Someone who's smarter and cooler than you.

SURREAL--my rear is dream-like, homie. Recognize.

FUTILE--sometimes this means that any attempts to attract attention to my bum by printing words on my pants are useless. Sometimes it means that your efforts to get into my pants are useless.

MANIFEST--my heiny is your destiny. There it is. Seriously, it's right there. Bam.

NARCISSIST--really, when you think about it, there isn't any other word that's better for this particular use.

POMO--maybe I'll pair my butt-talker sweatpants with a wool sport coat and a pair of thick-framed glasses. And saddle shoes. Maybe I'll be carrying old records under my arm. And maybe I'll eschew the grand narrative.

So there are my ideas for some truly original ass-pants. Look for me on the street--I'll be wearing them for sure. Just don't expect me to answer if you call out to me. I think my back end is bad by itself without my own thoughts and musings getting in the way.

They all sound the same

2006-07-31T17:49:00.000-07:00

I often get frustrated with myself because I have trouble writing songs of great consequence. I don't usually sit down and try to write songs of social or political importance. I don't say, "Hey, I should write one about freeing Tibet or about spousal abuse." Usually a good string of lyrics will pull me in and I'll just let the song happen. When I do approach a song with a particular agenda, it ends up sounding forced. So I've learned to just let my process flow freely.

That's where the problem is. Apparently my subconscious mind only has thoughts of love--that's the agenda. So even when a song starts out with a different message, love somehow ends up seeping through and coloring the final product.

"Fall Back Samantha" is a song about an abusive relationship. But it's also a love song that reveals the abused woman's perspective.

"American Splendor" is about Harvey Pekar's battle against cancer. But it's also a love song, sung to him from his wife Joyce's perspective.

"Got You By the Memory" is about landmark locations from my life being destroyed or taken away by corporate America. But it's also a love letter to the memory of some places that I've lost.

There are others that aren't love songs in a classic sense that are also somehow flavored with love. And of course, I always joke about 70% of my original tunes being written on the subject of unrequited love.

I know it shouldn't bug me. If you can write love songs, you should write love songs. But sometimes I wish I were more versatile. Right now I'm in the best relationship of my life so it seems every time I pick up a pen something saccharine pours out onto the page. And then I try not to vomit on top of it, telling myself that maybe it's salvageable. Maybe I can pull something bigger out of some of those amorous little nuggets.

For now, here is another love song. At least it's something:

Beneath the bruises
that you left
on my neck
I feel my pulse and know just what it's there for,
what it's there for.

In my room at night
I rifle through
my records
and throw out all the songs that you don't care for
you don't care for.

For you
for you

When you're not here
you're here.
I hear your footsteps
on the stairs and at my door,
at my door.

And when you are
I smile
and realize that I've got
one more cup to pour,
one more cup to pour.

For you
for you

When you leave
you take the color
I paint by numbers
on a calendar where days all lead to you.

In my dictionary
all the synonyms
for need and want are all defined
by one word and that one word is you.

It's you
it's you

You're the coffee grounds
that I swallow down
get me through the day.
You're the traffic signs that tell me where I'm going to.

You're my tylenol.
You're my Wailing Wall and
when I've gotta fall
you're my favorite kind of parachute.

That's you
that's you

The Latent Functions of Pie-Making

2006-07-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

I wrote a new song tonight. It just happened. It's the product of about five minutes. This is a good thing because for the past two months I've been slaving away at about three songs that are still unfinished and my usual method of songwriting is to just crank out about five songs in three days. So the fact that I wrote this one so quickly might mean that I'll have a good songwriting spurt. Whee!

Here are the lyrics. It's probably one of the simplest songs I've ever written, especially the chorus. I like it alright though.

There are a hundred miles between us
Try explaining distance to a pair of idle hands
Try to cool the fire of a late-night conversation
Next time I see you I'm gonna have a list of demands.

I tried so hard
I tried so hard

In my dreams you nibble at my neck
Like you're some sedated shark
Thrashing covers as we turn and glide
We're so steady in the dark.

But I wake up cold without your head to hold
And my bed looks way too wide
I guess I just can't make another night without you
There's nothing but a pillow on the other side.

I tried so hard
I tried so hard (2x)

It's good to have a muse. Anyway, I'm just glad I got to use a shark in a song. One time as a joke I improvised something called "The Ballad of Mr. Quint" where I used the chorus of "Show Me the Way to Go Home" between the verses. So I obviously sang about Jaws in that one.

I think the next song I write should have flapjacks in it or something equally absurd. We'll see...

Play "Misty" For Me

2006-07-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

I come to work early every day. It always feels good to sit in my car for a few minutes before somebody comes with a key to open up the building. I have time to collect and examine runover thoughts from the previous night, do a bit of reading, actually chew my breakfast, and generally take some time to enjoy the early moments of a new day.

Yesterday morning, because of a doctor's appointment that ended at 8:30, I was incredibly early for work. I got there at 9:00 and technically we don't open until 10:00 so I knew it was going to be a while. I reclined the driver's seat in my mom's Toyota Corolla, which I've been driving during the few days my Echo has been in the shop. I manually rolled down the windows, and laid back with my current book club read--Connie Schultz's "Life Happens."

I was really enjoying myself, reveling in the glory of being scarcely a pinky finger away from the end of the book. I had stopped popping my head up to look for the boss's car in the parking lot. I was determined to finish the book this morning. And I knew I would.

Then out of nowhere, I was jilted from my seat by an offensive knocking at the half-open window on the passenger side. I jerked forward, startled, and saw a young man, maybe thirty years old, leaning towards the car smiling at me. He was a man of medium build with bright green eyes, a purple button-down shirt, a braided belt, and he had smooth sandy brown hair that he wore long like a student. If it weren't for the scar that crept down along the right side of his smile, he wouldn't have seemed creepy at all.

I suppose this is why I wasn't opposed to saying hello and conversing with him. "You look comfortable there," he said, and I could almost hear him wink although I was reluctant to look him in the eye. "Are you reading?" I nodded and told him that I was in a book club. "You came to work early just so you could read, didn't you?" I laughed and told him that I did because I wanted to finish before my friends and I met to discuss it.

Then it happened. He leaned back from the window just slightly. At this point I was looking right at him when he spoke.

"So where's the Echo today?"

I closed my book. My eyes narrowed and my knuckles tightened. I felt like I was in that moment in a bad horror movie--the one where you finally know who the killer is. This is the moment where the orchestra strikes suddenly and you jump out of your skin in spite of yourself. That one sharp fiddle squeals and everything feels eerie and dissonant. This is how I felt. A strange man knows what car I drive. I've never seen him before, and he knows I normally drive a Toyota Echo. And he's pointing it out to me. Be cool.

"It's in the shop. Oil leakage." And then I added in a tone of voice that's meant to sound coy but probably sounded nervous and frightened, "How do you know I drive an Echo?"

"I work upstairs at the juvenile center. I see you coming to work a lot. I've never had the chance to say hello." The business I work at is housed beneath a juvenile detention and rehabilitation center. So he works with the criminally-minded youth. I hope and pray that they haven't given him any ideas.

Boldly, I offered my hand to him, and my name. He returned the gesture.

"Anyway, I thought I'd just come by and say hello. I saw you with your little book there and figured I'd make a smart-ass comment. I'll talk to you later."

He'll talk to me later? What is that? And how condescending of this man I don't know to say "your little book." What is he reading right now? War and Peace? The complete works of Shakespeare? The dictionary? Where does he get off calling my book "little?" And color me old-fashioned but a person who calls himself a "smart-ass" just after an introductory handshake is no gentleman.

Needless to say, I went from being creeped out and scared witless to being offended and annoyed. He walked away. I continued reading until I finished my book and then I locked my car and headed towards the door, shooting paranoid glances at the cracks in the blinds of the windows above me.

On my list

2006-07-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of making lists. I've done it my whole life. It keeps me organized on a day-to-day basis, and making lists helps me define myself and my interests in a really anal-retentive fashion that started to become charming after Nick Hornby (and especially after John Cusack) made it that way in "High Fidelity." Now I can make lists all the time, almost immediately when prompted by others or when challenged by my own mind (which usually happens because not too many people really care enough to ask me to list my top five of anything.) For instance, if you asked me what my top five flavors of Rosati's Frozen Custard are, I'd say:

1) Key Lime Pie
2) Birthday Cake
3) Higbees Chocolate Malted (So Classic)
4) Apple Pie Ala Mode (Which is a redundant name because, duh, it's "ala mode"--it's ice cream.)
5) Peanut Butter and Banana (Always listed as "An Elvis Favorite" on the calendar. And as far as I'm concerned, if Elvis does it, I'm doing it.)

Or if you were wondering about the top five songs I don't want played at my wedding:

1) Abba "Dancing Queen" (Also number one on my top five most hated songs list.)
2) The Village People "YMCA"
3) Kool & The Gang "Celebration" (Madonna's "Holiday" is a much more tolerable alternative.)
4) Diana Ross/Lionel Richie "Endless Love"
5) Marcia Griffiths "The Electric Slide"

Or if you asked me the top five records I'd like to get frisky with if it were physically possible and socially acceptable:

1) The Police "Outlandos d'Amour"
2) The White Stripes "Get Behind Me Satan"
3) The Black Keys "Rubber Factory" (Great wordplay here...)
4) Elvis Costello "Elvis Is King"
5) Wilco "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"

So now it's time to add a new list to my repertoire.

In a blog entry posted by a woman in my boyfriend's comedy troupe several months ago, she wrote of our courtship:

"A friend of mine is in the beginning stages of a relationship, the part where everything is magical and great and you still notice little things (like how they bite their lip or check the mirrors when they drive, not the little things like how freaking loudly they chew.) The woman my friend is interested in actually poetically noted the "angle of his jaw" or something sweet like that in a post bursting with the iambic energy of a blogger in love."

Looking back, she couldn't have been more right. I'm past that overly cautious, selflessly obliging, respectful period in our relationship. It's time to put everything out on the table. This post is for James. We've been together for six months now and all-in-all everything's peachy. But a relationship is only as good as the sum of all its parts, right? All of its completely annoying, frustrating, and at times, mildly infuriating parts.

So, per our conversation tonight, lover:

The top five most obnoxious things that James does:

1) He tries to force food upon me in tasteless ways in public places. This happens a lot with baked beans, which is strange because how many times are you really in a situation where you get baked beans with your meal? I can't even enjoy my food in peace without him trying to make a pass at me with a heaping spoonful of the stuff. It's like the old parenting trick where you tell the kid to open the hatch so the plane can fly in. Only it's not cute. Sometimes the beans come in a quaint little crock that I have to comment on and draw his attention to. And that's when he perks up and goes in for the kill. The jerk. Stop feeding me.

2) He reads from a book called "Magnificent Monologues For Teens." Okay, so he only did this once, but he kept it up for a long time and still references it when we chat. We were just lying in bed one day and he reached over and pulled it off the shelf and proceeded to read aloud, in character, some of the most juvenile acting monologues I've ever heard in my life. Nothing that I did could distract him from this book. Nothing. I had to lie there and listen to a kid named Jared try to blackmail his teacher into giving him an "A." And then a troubled girl called Susan or something who didn't know you could get raped by your boyfriend. I'm not going to get this hour of my life back.

3) He works out. And he likes to talk about it. Not in great detail. He just likes me to know that he works out. Here is a simulated conversation that is likely to take place on any given weekday:

M: So how did work treat you today, Mister?
J: It was really dead today. Really slow.
M: Did you do anything else?
J: You know. I woke up, got coffee, went to work, went to the gym and worked out.
M: That's cool.
J: Yea I worked out so hard.
M: That's cool.
J: Seriously I was wailing on my guns. I worked out so hard. So hard.
M: Rock on.
J: I've told you I work out, right?
M: I don't think you've mentioned that a hundred other times, no.
J: Well I do. I work out. Hard.

I'm tired of this black hole in our daily conversation. It sucks us in every time. I'm going to have to stop asking him about his day on days I think he might have time to go to the gym.

4) He is really bad with directions. Granted, I'm not the best at giving directions either, and I tend to forget how to go to places I've been to a million times. I'm sure there are countless little proverbs and fables that tell me not to throw rocks from my glass house or whatever. But say there's actually a glass house, okay? And James knows where it is. And he drives there all the time. You'd think he' d be able to tell me how to get there in fairly simple terms. With street signs and road names and landmarks and stuff, right? Not so much. The one time I was actually frustrated with him almost to a point of anger was the time I was stuck at his apartment and didn't know how to get to the coffee shop he was going to for his radio show. I got the weirdest directions ever. And one time I needed the address of his workplace so I could mapquest it (after I learned that the James version of the map was better used as a placemat or coaster) and he couldn't provide that. Boo hiss.

5) He doesn't like my idea for a magnetic compass. This was the one invention I thought of that I think might actually be plausible and helpful to people of the world. Math teachers, anyway. I won't post the idea on this blog since it's pretty much public domain and I don't want some leech stealing my genius idea, but trust me when I say that even though it has limited appeal and seems a bit simple and maybe even unnecessary, it would make the world a better place. And it's damn crafty. But when I pitched this idea to him in bed one morning, he shot me right down. I was pretty supportive of his hot air balloon movie concept--I even helped him cast it (all hypothetically of course--I still think Adrien Brody would be killer as the brooding hot air balloon pilot.) So when do I get the boost I deserve?

That's my list. Actually, I really had to stretch to think of a fifth item. And of course there's a follow-up list. There has to be. A sappy rebuttal. You saw it coming:

1) It's kind of cute that he tries to feed me. Call it an Oedipus thing, but sometimes I appreciate the almost paternal gesture. And sometimes when we're together we forget to eat so when he's trying to feed me, it means that I'm getting fed at that moment, which is a good thing.

2) He seemed really happy and entertained when he read from that book. And it was funny at times. I guess I don't have much of a rebuttal for this one. It was pretty annoying.

3) I appreciate his physique--he's very fit and strong. And I guess I'd rather hear about him working out hard than hearing about him drinking heavily and eating giant bags of potato chips while playing Halo 2 on his couch or something.

4) I mostly just get frustrated about directions because usually if I'm lost it means that I'll be spending less time with him and that's a bummer.

5) My idea for a magnetic compass is brilliant. And I stand by that.

Of course, this is all in jest. Simple tom-foolery. The only reason I did it at all was because it would be pretty hard to narrow down the top five best things about him.

When did I ever become this sappy? I'm losing my edge, man. I'm getting soft in my old age. Anyway, at least I don't have a Cosby Sweater yet, right?

Pictures of Me

2006-07-08T21:33:00.000-07:00

This is a picture post. I love blogspot for allowing me to share these photos with you, free of charge. Thank you, blogspot. Huzzah to you!

Firstly, here is a detail of part of the design I drew in Sharpie on my t-shirt the other night.

And here is another section of it. That's Thora Birch as Enid in "Ghost World." I wanted to draw a cartoon of the live action movie instead of a cartoon of the actual graphic novel. I think it turned out pretty well...

And there is the full product. Sorry about the weird layout here. Anyway, you get the idea. It took me about an hour and a half to complete it. Not bad. I was watching "American Splendor" while I made it. Nerd alert!

Here is a shot of my new guitar. I'm pretty sure she's a girl but she doesn't have a name yet. Suggestions are appreciated but I reserve the right to tell you that they are stupid or to completely ignore you.

There is her head. Gorgeous, yes?

And this is the sexy body. I haven't been able to keep my hands off of her. Keep the snide remarks regarding my sexuality to yourself. This is a different kind of love entirely.

Speaking of sexy bodies, here is the prize of this entry. It's me in a pink dress. This doesn't happen...well, ever. So enjoy it. That's a vintage cotton dress from the 60s--it used to be my mom's I believe. It's got a few white birds stitched onto it which you can almost see in this picture. I'm in love with it. I wore it to see "Wicked" at the State Theater last week. I have to find more occasions to wear it. I simply must be seen in it again. I look strange in a pink dress, no?

Anyway, that is all for now. I have a few more pictures of debauchery and frivolity that I must share but it's completely late and I'm fixin' to go to the zoo tomorrow with my buddy and pet the sharks.

Peace,
Marissa

I'll sell it all...

2006-07-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

I want this guitar:

The love of my life

Last year we had the acoustic version of it in the store and I fell in love with it. I would try to play it at least once a week when there was downtime or when I finished my work early. Sometimes I would punch out and just sit there and play it for a few minutes, maybe a half an hour. It was perfect. The way it felt in my hands, the softness of the neck, the easy action, the full sound, the gorgeous inlays, the ruby red pickguard that was shaped like a cloud of smoke. Everything about it was right with me. The reason I talked myself out of buying it time and again was that it wasn't electric/acoustic. I couldn't play it at shows. This was a cop out, of course, because I could always rig a pick-up to it if I really wanted to spend the money on it. But I already had three guitars at the time. It was impractical, no matter how wonderful this one was.

I actually sold the guitar last fall. I played it for a customer and he loved the sound. He took a few runs with it and I eyed him up and down, watching the curve of his hand around the guitar's neck, the way his forefinger and thumb plucked the soft strings. I watched him the way a mother eyes a new babysitter with her child as she reluctantly passes out the front door, worrying all the way down the driveway, expecting the worst, wanting too much for someone else's happiness and safety.

The guy returned the guitar a week later. He claimed that the pickguard was loose. And it was, a little bit. But how could he think that this guitar wasn't good enough? This situation only made me feel like the guitar actually belonged to me. Maybe we fit together. The more I think about it, the more I realize it might have been a sign.

Here's an even bigger sign: We got the electric/acoustic version of this guitar in our store this weekend. My heart is breaking right now. I want to sell my three guitars for this one guitar. I want to sell my first guitar. My FIRST guitar. I feel like such a child for wanting this so badly. I was just saying last night that I'm going to need to buy a new car soon and here I am foolishly craving the Washburn J28SCEDL. I played it this morning and my heart pounded. My face got hot. My eyes burned. I want this.

She's Crafty

2006-06-27T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm about to design another t-shirt for myself. In the past, I've only made shirts with text. I usually use sharpie, printing the text first on a sheet of paper, and then transferring it by hand to my t-shirt. I've got one that says "Turning Suburban" which I made for my character in the film I worked on this spring. I made another one the other day on a neon green tee that says "Jukebox Hero."

If this shirt turns out to be any good, I'll post a picture of it on here later. I don't know why I feel the need to post this right now, because if it ends up being hideous then whoever's reading my blog will pester me to see it. I should really not say anything about it. Don't ask, don't tell, right?

Whatever. I'm making a shirt. Give me leave.

Out of town

2006-06-25T15:53:00.000-07:00

I just got back from Cincinnati today. Apparently the day after I left Brecksville, the town flooded. There was a freak thunderstorm that lasted for a few hours that poured tons of water onto my hometown and left quite a bit of devastation in its wake. Our gazebo was in danger of floating away. Waters gushed six feet deep or higher throughout the suburb. Kids were paddling around on surfboards where sidewalks used to be. This is what they tell me. I didn't hear about any of this, oddly enough, until I piled into my parents' van after a long weekend of sweating in the dry Cincinnati heat. I was completely disconnected from all of it.

I went down on Wednesday night to see my sister. An engagement party was in the works for Saturday so because my parents would have to come down anyway, my mom drove me and I met my sister in Columbus so we'd only have one car down there.

She lives in a house with her fiancee and his roommate. She moved in with them when her roommates moved out. It was stupid for her to pay rent on the place when she's going to move in with her fiancee in May anyway. The house is alright on the main floor. Nice kitchen, lots of space. Upstairs is tricky because all three bedrooms are connected in the middle and separated by a sliding closet-door type of mechanism. I'm sure this makes for some interesting situations in the later hours of the night. I'm just saying, it all seems a bit "Three's Company" for my taste.

Their roommate is a smart guy. At least he seems smart, but he also seems a bit unmotivated. It makes me wonder if he's a philosophy major. He works at this hip sushi restaurant called Aqua (he quit his old job as head waiter at some five star restaurant or something because it had no benefits.) The guy seasons his Ramen noodles with his own spices. Seriously. And his spice rack is incredible. He has fennel. I want a spice rack with fennel. Anyway, he mostly lounges around in his shorts until early evening and then ducks out to work in all black and a pair of green checkered Vans slip-ons. Cool dude.

It's hot in the house. The morning after the third night there, this proved to be catastrophic. I woke up in the middle of what I'm pretty sure was a heat stroke. I basically laid on the bathroom floor shivering and being sick for about an hour until I got up enough strength to scour the house for some kind of medicine. Excedrin on my sister's nightstand. Thankfully, there were no hallucinations this time so I stayed on the couch under a Bengals blanket until my fever broke and then promptly drank about a gallon of water to regain my strength. Enough about the heat.

On the second night my sister and I passed up free tickets to see Rusted Root. We shopped and grabbed dinner at a Thai restaurant called Bangkok Bistro. The food is supposed to be served on a spiciness scale of 1-10 but I guess the chef must have had some loose wrists or something that night because my four tasted like her seven which tasted like her eights of meals in the past. Either way, it was delicious and it cleared my sinuses right up.

We rented a terrible movie called "Tennis, Anyone?" (Seriously, Donal Logue--I don't know if I can forgive you, man) and popped it out after about forty minutes to watch "Walk the Line." This made me nostalgic for my fellow who called almost on cue in response to my long-distance pining. What a guy.

The next day included more shopping. And then a Greek Festival.

Something about this night really got me. My sister has been dating her fiancee for seven years and I think it wasn't until that night at the Greek Festival that I finally started to feel like I actually know him. We walked there from his parents' house and on the way he told me that all of the negative traits that my sister has are ones that I don't have. He started calling the two of us Yin and Yang and encouraged my sister to spend more time with me to study my behavior and emulate it closely. I told her I'd make her a tape that she could listen to while sleeping. They both laughed at this. I felt like I was in a movie for a moment. Like he might pull me aside and tell me that I was the woman for him, not my sister. A ridiculous notion, of course, but it made me chuckle to think of a scenario like that.

At the Greek festival he knew everyone. At least twenty people anyway. The Greeks know how to party. The men walked around with two $12 bottles of wine while their women played cheap carnival games for even cheaper prizes. I'm told that there is traditionally a rope climbing wall where drunk Greeks fall off and embarrass themselves. Everyone in my party was extremely upset at its absence this year. Maybe somebody died.

On the way home from the festival there was a bit of a fight. It was the first time I've ever seen my sister's fiancee get fired up and fight back with her. My sister isn't always the most agreeable person (this is a huge understatement) and usually he is completely easy-going and opts to let her have her way or say or eat wherever she wants or whatever. But this time I felt squeamish in the backseat of his car. I wanted to cup my hands over my ears and tuck my chin into my knees until it was over.

Oh yea, our bridesmaid dresses are celadon, which is this indescribable sort of green. I call it asparagus. I don't know much about dresses which makes me a weaker writer. I'll have to study up on the terminology and update you later. Or I'll just find the website and post a link.

On Saturday there was an engagement party. I was convinced that it would be awkward for me but I was totally comfortable. I played this Southern Ohio-bred game called cornhole and won six straight with my sister's man. I drank bourbon slush and got better and then it got dark and I got worse. I actually remembered peoples' names. I mingled. My brother let me have half of his beer at the end of the evening. (Read: I now feel like I've crossed that line where I have an adult relationship with my siblings.)

Last night I had to stay in a hotel with my mom and my dad and my brother. It was sort of surreal. I felt like I was on one of our old family vacations. My dad snores like a beast so I got no sleep whatsoever. It's funny--even in his sleep my dad is a competitive freak. My brother would start to snore just a little bit and he would get exponentially louder. It's no wonder I'm so fiery--I was raised by Vince Lombardi.

On the way home we passed a place called Rob's Western Palace. There was a horse on the roof. Classin' it up.

I've arrived home just in time for the city fireworks display, which will mark the end of our three-day home days extravaganza. It was almost canceled because of the flood but our mayor assumed that people would need some kind of relief. I wonder if the firecrackers got wet. I may call the library this week and see if they need help cleaning out stacks. They may be closed for a month--they were horribly waterlogged.

I also plan on heading to the Salvation Army this week. I just cleaned out both of my closets and all of my drawers and my bed is a breeding ground for old unwanted clothes. I can drop these off and get some new ones. I intend on dressing like Annie Hall at work one day this week. I really want to convince them that I'm insane. I'm sure there are benefits to being the crazy person at work.

A chord, accord, this chord, discord

2006-06-13T11:00:00.000-07:00

There were moments when I'd look up at him, bent over his guitar--a perfect Taylor with pointed abalone inlays and a marbled red pickguard that rolled and peaked beneath the sound hole like the crest of a tsunami. It was a wedding present that probably would have taken me three weeks of work to pay for. I'd see the thin goatee curl from his bottom lip and under his chin, the top of his head nodding rhythmically in a hypnotic, almost sleep-inducing manner. In these moments, I mistook harmony for love. I felt our voices blend and flourish. His was rough and weathered, strong and textured. Mine felt soft and unassuming at times, then thick and full when suddenly emboldened by his timbre.

I felt him react to my voice. I felt our pulses form a union. Our notes clung to each other passionately, floating with ease through cracks in the boards of the heavy wooden ceiling above our heads, slowly closing in, feeling comfort in present company. There were no others in the room. We were strangers on a train, brothers separated at birth, the shifting wind. I felt like we were contributing to the pull of the tide--as if each of the notes that joined seamlessly from our lips were fragments of thread in some giant quilt of meaning that could wrap this world in comfort and warmth and peace.

This was love at times. It was unexpected, unlikely, invigorating, fluttering love and I was swept into its wake, surrenduring to the current, to the centrifugal force that kept pulling me closer and closer to the neck of his guitar as it rocked and tugged seductively.

Ho-Ho Hobag

2006-05-30T14:16:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, earlier today I made a flashpoint decision. I performed an action of what I thought would be little consequence. It wasn't one of those things that you think about so much while you're doing it, but immediately afterwards you get washed over by a huge tsunami of regret and it takes awhile for your conscience to settle down again. I didn't run a red light, I didn't have unprotected sex, I didn't even pay a hobo and a hooker to fight each other and then stuff their dead bodies in my trunk afterwards.

I ate a Ho-Ho.

Rachel and I were tired of shipping. We were working hard and decided that we'd like to grab some lunch. Pooling together a handful of coins that we gathered from under floor mats of our cars, hidden pants pockets, and cracks in the sidewalk, we headed out to Taco Bell. I had a bean burrito (89 cents) and Rachel had two soft tacos (1.49 or something like that.) It was all very economical.

We came back and I opened the fridge to put in a warm can of Dr. Pepper that was soupifying in my car from my late night trip to Franklin. And there they were. The package was opened, torn down the middle, revealing two sumptuous Hostess snack cakes nestled together like a pair of cream-filled baby bunnies--baby bunnies that begged to be consumed in the wake of cheap Americanized Mexican fast food.

My cohort and I took the Ho-ho's. I asked her whose they were and she mused that they were probably Chuck's (our boss, and the owner of the fine establishment that currently employs yours truly.) I said that they looked like they had been in the fridge for a while and somehow, in an unspoken agreement, we ended up noshing on the things before we could even make it down the stairs to our office. They were good--a little dry, but chilled to perfection. It wasn't until after we ate them that my companion started to frighten me a little bit. "Chuck's gonna be so pissed when he can't find his Ho-Ho's." She kept saying this. At first I was scared to the max but after things stayed quiet for awhile, I calmed down.

We didn't think much of our escapade until we heard a scream from upstairs. "Where are my Ho-Ho's?" a voice shouted out. And then without warning, "WHO ATE MY FREAKIN' HO-HOs? I'M CHECKING THE CAMERAS AND WHOEVER TOOK THEM IS GETTING FIRED!"

We were screwed.

Quickly, we composed ourselves and snuck out the back of the store and across the parking lot to the Sunoco, a place where everybody knows our name. Unfortunately, they only had the Little Debbie brand of chocolately snack roll and I was told that wouldn't do. We then ran across the street to Walgreen's where we found a large box of them for $3.69. Of course, considering the fact that we had to pool loose change together to be able to afford lunch, there was no way in hades we were going to be able to buy that box. We ran back across the street to the store where Rachel grabbed her debit card. On the way out, we were being hotly pursued. Or maybe it just seemed hot because it was a good 88 degrees outside and I was wearing a blazer. No matter. The point is that our boss and the victim of our gluttonous little scam was nothing less than shaking his fist at us as we ran back across four lanes of traffic. He screamed "Rachel!" from the curb the way Marlon Brando screamed "Stella!" in the rain in "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Rachel charged the Ho-Ho's and while we waited in line we thought of excuses--how we were going to explain this to Chuck. In the end, we came back and returned him a box of Ho-Ho's, laying on a thick bold-faced lie so ridiculous that it was obvious that we stole the original Ho's, but charming and self-effacing enough that nobody could ever be angry with us. Because we're smooth like that.

I can't believe I was concerned about being fired over communally eating a Ho-Ho but I'm not the slightest bit worried about being canned for blogging on the job.

I wrote down a dream in invisible ink

2006-05-29T19:39:00.000-07:00

Almost five months ago I documented an event in this journal that I saw as being a mere event, an occurance, a random and harmless mark on the timeline of my adulthood. A man kissed me in a bar. He made me feel desirable for one evening. I stared at the ceiling all night and wondered what it meant. And I tried to talk myself out of thinking too much. It wouldn't happen again. It was nice. He wouldn't visit. It was so nice. But you wouldn't hate him if he didn't call again.

But it was really nice.

And it's still really nice. Understatement. Everything is understatement these days. My vocabulary seems weak and unimpressive, my once agressive gait has turned to a lighter stroll, accented by bounces and flicks as my heels and my toes burst with excitement against the lining of my tennis shoes. I feel taller. I feel lighter.

He won't skip this entry because it's all about him.

I never would have been able to predict this. Happiness in the world is completely imbalanced tonight. It's all mine.

Gimme Culture

2006-05-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am hosting my very first Culture Night.

Last year my three surrogate sisters decided that they weren't brilliant enough by themselves and that they needed to share their own discoveries and insights and excitement with each other once a week during the summer.

Here was the template:

One person hosts. It is up to this person to choose a menu and to open her kitchen to the others. Once the menu is chosen and the ingredients are readied, the others join in helping to prepare the meal. The idea here is that everyone will now know how to prepare a different kind of meal from what they are accustomed to cooking. Usually this meal includes a salad, a main course, and dessert. It needn't be complicated or exotic, as long as it's tasty. And experimental cooking is also welcome.

One person chooses a book. A week in advance, a book is determined and each person obtains a copy of said book and reads it. This book becomes the heart of dinner table discussion.

The last person chooses a movie. After dinner and discussion of the week's book, the third person shows a film that she feels is important or just worth seeing.

Last year I was unable to participate most of the time because I was playing open mics almost three times a week and even if I was free on Wednesday nights (the usual time slot) I generally hadn't had enough time to read the book the week in advance.

This year it's different. I'm gonna share culture with my sisters and get some back.

I went above and beyond tonight. It's my first time hosting and I want to make a good impression.

Each place setting has a pair of chopsticks and a sachet of pomegranate oolong tea. My meal has a cantonese theme.

The first dish is a barbecue chicken lettuce wrap which is essentially chicken in hoisin sauce with water chestnuts and shitake mushrooms and ginger. This may be accompanied by slices of mandarin oranges if I have time to run back to the store.

The main course is chicken stir-fry with bamboo shoots, mung sprouts, water chestnuts, shitake mushrooms, and a traditional cantonese sauce that is incredibly sweet and tasty.

For dessert, homemade fortune cookies. I've never tried making them before but I hear it's fun. I'll serve them in a bowl of vanilla ice cream and garnish the dish with the chocolate-dipped pocky that I picked up at the Korean grocery last weekend.

Between each dish, I am serving some authentic Japanese sake. Last week I bought an antique wooden sake set and I've been dying to use it.

I don't know what the movie is tonight, but the book was "Freakonomics." I may comment on this book later. It did mention Stetson Kennedy in one chapter and although I was aware of him earlier because of his relationship with Woody Guthrie, I never looked into his history very much until after I read "Freakonomics." So now I'm reading his book "The Klan Unmasked."

See how much more cultured I am already?

Bring it on.

This is not cohesive

2006-05-14T09:35:00.000-07:00

I introduced some friends of mine to Rosati's Frozen Custard yesterday.

We were supposed to meet there at two o' clock. I left early because I had some errands to run--gas station, library. I ended up arriving there about ten minutes early.

As soon as I pulled in I saw two friends of mine in the rearview mirror--they were just leaving with their bowls full of birthday cake custard. He was wearing his Mets jacket which he always wears in this kind of weather but now he's got a reason to wear it with pride (even though now he spends a lot of time making sure that I remember how long he's been wearing it--he's definitely not a sheep.) I got out of my car and had a nice chat with them, a chat that was slightly interrupted by some more folks I know pulling into the driveway and saying hello.

Eventually they all left and I retired to my car to wait, as my friends were running a little bit behind. (I am generally obsessive about being a few minutes early for things though so it's not their fault.) I was leaning against the back bumper of my car when I felt a strong sense of belonging come over me. My feet are planted, my friends are here, my favorite custard flavor arrives like clockwork every summer. The girls behind the counter know me.

The only thing different is the price of the custard--it's up 30 cents. I don't know how I feel about that. I actually felt hardcore walking up to the counter with $1.60, all ready to pay, and then I totally got inflation'd. No matter. It's still delicious.

Later in the day I went to my favorite consignment shop and they remembered me there as well. It feels good to make an impression on people, even if that impression is "Why does this girl keep coming here every freakin' week? Is she honestly this pathetic?"

----------------------------------------

There's something about Chinese food. I see it, I smell it, it's mentioned, and I need it. I get insatiable cravings that won't be ignored. So last night when I was at the Giant Eagle and I passed a stack of cans of water chestnuts, the free-association gnomes that live in my head started screaming "Chinese! Chinese!" in a frighteningly shrill falsetto.

I drove to South China Wok first but SCW is expensive and I decided that I didn't necessarily need their white garlic sauce. So I went a few extra miles to Mom's Wok where the lo mein is $3.25 instead of $5.75. Actually, I opted for sauteed vegetables and a veggie spring roll for a grand total of $4.50. Take that, sucka! I went home, poured the contents onto a plate, dipped my fortune cookie in vanilla ice cream, and seeped some fresh Japanese Cherry tea.

I don't know why I feel the need to write about this actually. Last night it seemed more important. There was this formula that I considered:

1) House to myself
2) Nobody calling me back
3) Listening to Elliott Smith in the rain
4) Reading Dave Eggers whilst waiting for my Chinese
5) Entertaining the idea of being alone for the rest of the night eating Chinese food on the floor by myself like they do in the movies.

But then my friend came over to watch the new episode of Degrassi and anything that I could have written that would have any sort of merit just sort of took a holiday.

I think I just wanted to post in here again so I don't forget about it.

It's a Film!

2006-04-30T19:43:00.000-07:00

I went into labor at about 10:30 this morning and finally, tonight at 7:32, I gave birth to a beautiful baby film. She was about 43 minutes long and weighed about as much as a standard DV tape.

Unfortunately, she was born premature so there were a few imperfections when she came into this world, but after a few more hours of minor surgery, I couldn't be more proud of her.

Her aunts showed up today to celebrate and were on hand to experience the miracle of cinematic life. It seems like only yesterday we were clamoring over the storyboarded sonograms that depicted what our little girl might look like upon entering the universe, but we never could have imagined her blossoming into something so wonderful.

Now she is nestled in comfortably on the corner of my desk, taking in the air and the light around her (but not too much light--I'm carefully regulating the temperature that her sensitive little film is exposed to.

In two days I will be ready to share her with everyone who supported me during my pregnancy over these past nine weeks (give or take.) I'm also very thankful to those people who were there during her conception--from now on, I'm calling Cassie, Kirsten, and Katy my sperm donors.

Enough of this ridiculous extended metaphor. I'm going to do other work.

The Cast Breaks a Leg

2006-04-28T20:39:00.000-07:00

So I'm almost completely finished with my first attempt at a feature-length film. Of course, it's not actually a feature-length film anymore, now that I've spent hours upon hours in the editing suite, slaving over 8 DV tapes or more of footage. It will probably be an hour long. But we're calling it feature length because you can't expect too much more in a period of only six weeks.

The film is titled "Everybody Else is Everybody Else" and in many ways it sort of defies any sort of explanation but I'll try, dammit:

A mockumentary-style character study that examines the hypocrisy of countercultural behavior amongst college-age Americans.

There it is. The nickel tour of my film. And now I'm going to post bios of all the folks who helped make it happen:

This is me, Cassie Averell, Kirsten Paine, and Katy Taylor. The four of us engaged in a communal writing process while developing our screenplay. I did the majority of the writing with the help of their brilliance. To create this film with only four people in control was quite a feat--especially when all of us are engaged in a lot of other stuff. Our schedules were insane during this past month.

THE CAST:

Shawn Gaines as CRAIG MILES HUFFINGTON III. Craig is a whiny rich boy who fakes being poor.

Alyssa Weldon as ANA. Ana is anti-everything. She'll protest anything that moves and most things that don't.

Gary Thobaben as GARY. Gary is a pretentious intellectual. He smokes more than he reads.

NOT PICTURED: Marissa DeSantis as PEGGY SUE, the audiophile who seeks out bands that nobody will ever hear..ever.

David Magnus as CRAIG MILES HUFFINGTON II. Yea, this is CRAIG's overbearing father. With the help of stage makeup, facial hair, and low camera angles, he looks a lot older on film.

Steel Burkhardt as STARBUCKS BARISTA. In a climactic scene, this barista's cheerful demeanor becomes intolerable to angsty ANA.

Scott Ramage as RECORD STORE LOYALIST. In the third of four black and white vignettes, this character holds a candlelight vigil in front of his favorite record store, now out of business.

Adam King as GOTH BOY. A well-mannered suburban teen goes through a frightening transformation one morning in the first of four interlaced vignettes, shot in black and white.

NOT PICTURED: Cassie Averell as WAL-MART PROTESTOR. Self-explanatory, only in the style of a southern baptist minister. (Vignette 2)

NOT PICTURED: A. Boe as LITERATURE ELITIST. She knows her stuff...and you're an idiot for not knowing it as well. (Vignette 4)

Jack Winget as HOMELESS VETERAN. Poor old bum gets in the way of CRAIG's master plan. You'll understand when you see the film.

LP Colodangelo as TENURE PROFESSOR. In a beautifully executed lecture on The Great Gatsby, this professor gets sassy and proves that GARY doesn't really have it all figured out.

Kirsten Paine as THRIFT STORE CLERK. She doesn't quite understand CRAIG'S need for dirty clothes, but she tries.

Joey Scale as GARY'S FRIEND. He's truly loyal, despite his obvious disinterest in GARY's endless philosophical rants.

Gus Curry as TAVERN MUSICIAN. In a particularly sexy scene, my character PEGGY SUE, gets a little hot and bothered by his acoustic set and ends up getting in a really uncomfortable situation.

Clairvoyant Roommate OR The Day I Outgrew MTV

2006-04-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

This afternoon my lovely roommate and I were reclined on the futon watching a bit of the ol' Vh-1 Classic, as is customary for us. We often enjoy taking brief little breaks together to reconnect during the day betwixt our normally stressful schedules.

After a few forgettable videos, a new one hit the screen and suddenly there was a long establishing shot of a dreary and rocky coastline. Before the name of the artist came on the screen, my roommate said, "I hope it's Wilson Phillips!" I laughed, thinking that this was a completely hysterical yet totally unlikely notion. Indeed, it was not Wilson Phillips at all, dear reader, but a ridiculous new-wave balladeer who wanted to be Robert Smith at times but who ultimately ended up looking more like Rick Astley (I attribute this to his high-flying poof of a hairdo--it looked like a squirrel made of steel wool was perched on his head.)

The video was ridiculous. There were women standing on the shore in these strange cheesecloth shrouds that looked like beekeepers' helmets. We were so disturbed by the image that we quickly switched the channel and ended up on MTV-2, the next channel down.

In this video, there was a band of screaming young men dressed in dark button-down shirts getting tangled up in microphone cords and getting hit with pieces of glass being blown at them by a fan in a white room with black arrows painted on the walls. I think this was the concept of the video. There were, however, additional flashes of various animals getting eaten by other animals and then warping (I use the term "warping" generously here--they really just used jump-cuts) into people doing everyday activities. The first time this happened, we saw a lion pouncing on a running gazelle and then a girl was jumping through a sprinkler in the gazelle's place. I hoped that the lion would eat the girl as well, but alas, I was sorely disappointed.

My roommate and I were not familiar with the band. We kept looking at each other, feeling very confused and frustrated. Then suddenly, on the screen, the words "The Elite 8" were printed on the screen. "Oh," I said, "This band must be called The Elite 8." Roommate seemed satisfied with this statement, however, later we would both divulge our confusion regarding the discrepancy between the name of the band and the number of members in it (4.)

So the video ended and all of a sudden on the screen it said that this was a new video from Taking Back Sunday. Yea, that was the actual band. Not "The Elite 8" which was apparently the name of the show that it was on. Roommate and I gave each other high 5s because obviously we're ready to be moms now that we have no idea what the kids are watching on the MTV.

We switched back to our comfort zone on Vh-1 Classic where Julian Lennon was just wrapping up and all of a sudden something miraculous happened:

Again, there was a shot of a rocky coastline in the early evening and all of a sudden the first strains of "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips resonated boldly from the television set. Yes, there they were in all their glory, rolling around on the beach with their breezy beachwear and their matching bowl cuts. And Carnie Wilson before the stomach stapling! It was all there! Roommate and I celebrated to the max.

It was all very "That's So Raven."

The book of my life.

2006-04-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

I'm getting dangerously close to filling another journal.

I began keeping a journal during my senior year of high school. My aunt Noreen bought me a small notebook covered in maps and drawings of the moon during different phases when I was in a play a few years prior. I finally bit the bullet and wrote my name on the inside cover the day I found out that I needed to keep one for my creative writing class. Then I covered it with some favorite quotes of mine.

I ended up using the journal three or four times for actual assignments. It became a lot more personal in the end. I filled it with song lyrics, poetry, prose, and a few sketches. I never really used it as a typical "journal" like you'd see in the movies. I wasn't asking, "Are you there, God? It's me, Marissa," in slanted cursive. My journaling was a form of spontaneous artistic expression. It became a part of my arm. My right fist closed around it so that my knuckle whitened as I moved through the hallways between classes.

Eventually I had to get another journal. It so happened that a teacher of mine gave me one as a graduation present. It took me longer to fill that one, as it had more pages which were larger as well. I'm seven pages away from filling it. It's bound by a spiral, which is great for songwriting because it won't close up if I need to look at it whilst I hold my guitar. The cover is rustic-looking with pictures of pineapples and other things you'd find on an island. I wrote "I can think of nothing but love and fresh coffee," a quote by the poet Fred Chappell from his poem "Recovery of Sexual Desire After a Bad Cold." On the inside cover, for whatever reason, I wrote in capital letters "THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT TO:" and then wrote my name and address beneath it.

Although the writing in the first journal is pound-for-pound a lot less respectable than some of the things from my second journal, I've noticed that in the second one I give up a lot on things that I can't finish right away. It's full of a lot of concepts, whereas the writing in my first journal was complete. And even if it wasn't the best, it was something concrete and resolute.

My third journal started getting filled simultaneously with my second; I needed to keep a journal for my stress management class last semester. My professor encouraged me to use that journal for daily recollections and musings--not necessarily for art's sake, but more for my sake so I would have something concrete to look at and reflect on weekly in regards to my personal life. Now that journal is almost full. The notebook that I used was also from my aunt Noreen. It has mosaic coi on it in pastel colors.

I realize now that I've never bought a journal for myself that went to any practical use. I've bought little notebooks for myself and a few friends have bought them for me but there are some notebooks that I just cannot write in for some reason. My second notebook was one of them--for some reason it felt like there was some miscommunication between my pen and the lined paper. It was heartbreaking for a while before I found a muse who helped me get over that block.

So now I'm in the market for a new journal. Today I must have opened and re-opened and felt and fondled and smelled about forty different notebooks. None of them seemed right. I guess my physical criteria are as follows:

Must be portable
Must have subtle cover art
If the cover art is not subtle, I am often taken with classic-looking or antiquarian designs, especially those of an Asian, Indian, or even European persuasion
Must have a good texture
Must have darkly lined pages
Must be tall enough/wide enough so that I can write a poem comfortably on one page
The little ribbon marker is a plus, but not necessary
No magnetic covers--those things are hard to open
Simplicity always wins over extravagance. After all, it's what's inside the notebook that's important
No multi-colored pages. White or off-white
Printed on recycled paper
No obnoxious or distracting watermarks. If they're on the upper or lower corner of the page, that's fine.
No specially printed spaces for writing the date or anything like that.

See? I'm not picky. Not picky at all. Buy me a journal. I dare you.

Kiss on my List

2006-04-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't made a good list in a long time. I think I need to. I was watching "The Wedding Singer" today and I watched the Adam Sandler/Drew Barrymore kiss for the first time with the sound off. Yea, take your mind out of the gutter--the only reason I turned the sound off was so I could see if the kiss had the same brevity without the swelling orchestral strain of "Grow Old With You" in the background. And it totally did! So today, for all of my [4] readers, a list of my favorite screen kisses:

1) Adam Sandler/Drew Barrymore in "The Wedding Singer." (1998) What made their kiss in the doorway of Julia's house so incredible was because there was no immediate release or resolution. You knew they were perfect for each other and the looks on their faces showed that they finally knew it too, but then Glen walked in and suddenly you realized that there were still a good forty minutes left in the movie. That sounds so unromantic, but that's what made the kiss so great. It started out as an experiment "for educational purposes" and turned into something more. And Drew Barrymore smiles during the entire thing. This movie is one of my favorites, so naturally it has a lot of clout with me. Also, I like the 80s very much.

2) Bill Murray/Scarlet Johansson in "Lost in Translation." (2003) I hear a lot of people complaining about this film not going anywhere and every time I see Bill and Scarlet kiss and finally find each other in the streets of Tokyo, I couldn't disagree with these fools more. There is so much implied in this tender, innocent kiss. And not knowing what he whispers in her ear makes their last moment together even more tantalizing. It also fuels my "older man/younger girl" fantasy.

3) Lady/Tramp in "Lady & the Tramp." (1955) Seriously, this is classic. I don't really feel that I need to justify its place on the list. It's actually creepy to think of all of the couples who actually imitate this scene in life though.

4) Maggie Gyllenhaal/James Spader in "Secretary." (2002) After Lee's hunger strike, it's so satisfying to see her finally win the affection of her boss and dominant partner, Edward. Their courtship preceding the kiss is quite an anomaly. It all started with a strange over-the-desk spanking incident that we thought would turn into nothing more than some good old-fashioned S&M office nookie. But when Edward stops giving Lee the business and kisses her with such gentle conviction, "Secretary" stops being creepy and gets romantic...without losing its edge.

5) Clark Gable/Vivien Leigh "Gone With the Wind." (1939) So what if it's a likely addition to the list? There's a reason some things are considered "classic." The way Rhett ravages Scarlett during the violently passionate kiss at the bottom of the stairs borders on disturbing, which is why I like it so much. I like the danger in it. I like the power that they have over each other and the struggle that they both go through to exert that power. It's strong! "You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."

6) Kevin Spacey/Mena Suvari "American Beauty." (1999) We keep waiting for Lester to wake up as he pulls Angela in and finds himself dangerously close to living out his feverish fantasy. Even with all of the mounting tension and the subtle fear in Angela's eyes, the kiss seems so deserved. It's like watching the Trix rabbit finally get his cereal. The rain in the background and the streetlight glow across their faces provides the perfect setting.

7) John Travolta/Uma Thurman "Pulp Fiction." (1994) It's never a good idea to try anything funny with Marsellus Wallace's wife. But after that hot twist sequence at Jackrabbit Slim's, I'm so glad that Vincent Vega moved in on the lovely miss Mia. Their kiss in the doorway of the Wallace home is dangerously romantic, and sexy as Steve Buscemi dressed as Buddy Holly asking if you want it burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell.

8) Eugene Levy/Catherine O'Hara "A Mighty Wind." (2003) The only thing mightier than the wind in this movie is the tension between Mitch and Mickey at the reunion concert at the end of the film. When you're a movie and a huge chunk of your plot emphasizes the importance of one little kiss, it better be a good one. And nobody is disappointed. Well, actually, we are disappointed a little, but in a good way. Seeing the has-been Mitch and Mickey kiss again is heartbreaking and fulfilling at the same time.

9) Marlon Brando/Kim Hunter "A Streetcar Named Desire." (1951) So how do you follow a soaking wet Marlon Brando screaming "Stellllaaaaaaaaa!" in one of the most legendary moments in cinematic history? Seal it with a kiss, dude. And make it a hardcore, disturbingly rough and sensual one. The fact that Marlon Brando exudes sex in this film doesn't hurt at all. Not one bit. Mmm Brando.

10) Molly Ringwald/Michael Schoeffling "Sixteen Candles." (1984) Honestly, the thing that really gets me soft about this kiss is the whole presentation of it. I didn't really believe that Jake and Sam had the potential to be a long-term couple in the harsh environment of a public high school in the 80s. But the two of them leaning over a birthday cake while sitting comfortably on a hardwood floor--it's just so precious. It's how every sixteen-year-old girl should get to celebrate her birthday. I think I actually went sledding. But there weren't any guys as cute as Jake Ryan at my school anyway.

11) Tobey Maguire/Kirsten Dunst "Spiderman." (2002) This kiss really raised the bar. Not only is it the best kiss in any superhero film ever, but it may be one of the most creative and unusual screen kisses of all time. I actually think it was a bit overrated but I can't really ignore its significance. And I really appreciate the trust that exists between Mary Jane and Peter Parker here. Even though she doesn't know who she is kissing at the moment, Mary Jane respects the webslinger enough to protect his identity. She only pulls the mask down only enough to expose his lips. To see a superhero that vulnerable (in costume!) is incredibly sexy.

12) Winona Ryder/Angelina Jolie "Girl, Interrupted." (1999) Finally traveling together outside of the confines of the mad world of Claymoore, two beautiful women share an innocent kiss that seems to seal their already understood bond. You can see the admiration and awe in Susanna's eyes. Lisa no longer seems dangerous at this point in the film, which only makes it more powerful when she turns on Susanna. Of course, the weed sort of mellows things out a bit. But really, it is a beautiful moment.

13) Ralph Fiennes/Julianne Moore "The End of the Affair." (1999) We know that the love affair between Bendrix and Sarah is doomed from the beginning of the film, but there is certainly an intense glimmer of hope when he catches her in the rain and pulls her under his coat to kiss her. It is such a heavy dose of old-fashioned romance that for a minute you forgive both of them for their infidelities. A few moments later, he throws her passionately against the hard wall of an alley and you beg for more infidelity.

14) Geena Davis/Bill Pullman "A League of Their Own." (1992) Bob returns home from the war to Dottie just as she's given up hope. His name might be boring, but the kiss that he shares with his lady is anything but. Here, we see a new side of the headstrong, independent Dottie Henson. They're both sobbing and kissing and it's such a great cathartic moment of bliss and gratefulness.

15) James Caan/Marlon Brando "The Godfather." (1972) This man/man moment carries a lot more weight than any kiss shared by the cowboys on Brokeback Mountain. Actually, any one of the kisses of betrayal in the Godfather series could have made this list, but just seeing Sonny bent so low, the look of disgust on Don Vito's face...it's such a powerful still. Not a kiss that I'd want to receive, but it sure made for great cinema. Actually, Michael kissing Fredo in Part II might be a better choice here now that I think about it. "I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. You broke my heart."

The 15th Slot is pretty open for now. I'd like to keep it that way until I can think of one that really belongs there. Of course, I've considered the famous kisses from "Casablanca," "On the Waterfront," "Rear Window," "Titanic," etc. I'm trying to keep this list free from too many clichés but I guess I can't deny what is already accepted as being great.

Suggestions are always welcome...

Fast Fish--or--a Brief History.

2006-04-11T18:24:00.000-07:00

It was a slow burn. Steven Spielberg reached into my head and tugged a beaded chain inside my brain when I was four years old. I was watching "Jaws" and my mind lit up so fast and hard that my ears burned. I wasn't afraid of his black eyes or his giant teeth which were bigger than my hands at the time. I kept taking baths and I learned how to swim with the other kids who were scared of being eaten. I learned the scientific name--Carcharadon Carcarius. I learned about the great white shark with the fervor of a mad scientist ten times my age. And then I learned about other sharks.

Two years later my ears still burned. I was six years old and I would still beg my mother to rent a different movie from the "Jaws" series every time she took my big brother and sister to the video store. There were no other movies. My reality was Mr. Quint's crassness and Chief Brody's reluctant heroism. I had thought Hooper was cute. He may have been one of the first celebrities that I was attracted to. Richard Dreyfuss. Strange, I know. But I knew the characters and I loved them. I knew every single line without exception. And there's nothing more precious than hearing a six-year-old little girl say, "Smile, you son of a bitch!" at family gatherings. I'm sure I had no idea what I was saying.

When I was ten I was still actively immersed in an obsessive world of shark-mania. I wanted to be a marine biologist. I participated in the Swim for Diabetes event every year and swam 200 laps each time so I could obtain a free pass to Sea World of Aurora. That Sea World is closed now but while it was here, I anxiously awaited its spring opening every year.

I liked boys but I wasn't the kind of girl who needed to like boys. I didn't matter. I was unattractive and awkward and I cared too much about strange things like sharks so that I scared most of the boys my age away. Older men thought it was cute that I was so clever and precocious. So I developed an interest in them as well but without the same enthusiasm that I gave to my finned friends of the sea.

It was during those years that I could feel most like myself in this one particular place. Each summer I would take trips to the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo with my family or with my cousins or with the boys next door and their mother. And each time I would look forward to the sweaty climb up the twisted wooden ramps that led to the Primate, Cat, and Aquatic Building at the zoo's highest point, and my favorite place on Earth. I would start slowly, then begin to skip, and then I would sprint up in the shade of the towering trees, feeling my young calves burn while my hands flailed around in nervous anticipation. I was on my way to the shark building.

I always waited to see the sharks. I'd save them for last. And each time I would plop down on the carpeted stairs to catch my breath and watch them swim around their deep, circular tank in the green glow of the saltwater. The tank was special, but nothing too spectacular. The walls were brown and ancient-looking and there wasn't a whole lot of room to swim, compared to other tanks I'd seen. Still, this place was sacred. I was attracted to it, enamored even.

There was a huge ugly purple grouper, bigger than me for most of my youth. And there were the sharks. Always two blacktip reef sharks, smooth and fierce-looking with intense, wide white eyes and catlike black slits. The whitetip reef shark was the king of the tank, long and fast, prone to napping on the bottom and then being stirred by the movement of the large nurse shark, a docile, monk-like bottom-feeder. There was always that stout-looking horn shark with his beady starless eyes and rounded fins.

Sometimes I would step forward and lean against the glass, trying to think myself into the tank, tracing their straight and sleek, wakeless paths with my fingers. I saw the water spiraling steadily above them and dreamed of diving in. Sometimes to get a closer look I would kneel beside the tank and peer at them through one or all of the four portholes, about a foot and a half in diameter, cut in the sides for viewing from different angles.

During my adolescence I started feeling lonely. At times I was depressed. I gained weight, I grew more awkward and uncomfortable in my own skin. And while the other girls were getting their first kisses and more, I felt unworthy of such affection. And I felt unlikely too. It was unlikely that I would be kissed or hugged or accepted by the boys my age.

So I sat, alone, and dreamed in front of the shark tank, of a boy who might come up to me right there and kiss me. In front of the blacktips, the whitetip, the nurse shark, the horn shark. He'd pull me close and I'd feel safe. I wasn't afraid of the sharks, of course, but he'd still protect me.

I came close a few years ago. I was in love with my best friend and I had an opportunity. We were standing there, stupidly, parallel. And I didn't kiss him. I feared that the fantasy had built up dangerously in my mind and that I would be disappointed. So much depended on this kiss because it would be our first. So I waited. I waited for another two years.

I often dreamed after that day that I was being proposed to in front of the sharks. I dreamed that a faceless lover of mine was diving with me at the bottom, stroking the nurse shark. I dreamed that this same lover might actually want to stroke me. The fantasies grew more lascivious and seemed less attainable.

Could I really find a man who would love me and want to touch me and want to kiss me and still know about this bizarre obsession that grew in my mind from childhood? Would he know to hold me in front of the shark tank?

And he did.

He let me wait a little longer, even. We walked around the building, casually observing the other lesser animals. The rising tension within me bubbled and burned within my ears. I felt varied degrees of frustration as we took circuitous routes around my shark tank. There were moments when I could see it from the corner of my eye but I averted my gaze. It was a game. A sexy, quiet little game within me. And it felt good to share with this man--this perfect, indescribably wonderful man.

We finally approached the sharks and I was struck by how changeless the tank seemed. There was another female blacktip shark. The grouper's once bright purple color was faded. But he was just as large--maybe larger, because usually these things seem bigger when you're younger, but he looked the same to me. My lover asked me to tell him about the sharks and I did. I don't remember what I said. I was hypnotized again by the glow of the tank, the serenity that overtook my body. I was reconnecting. I was dreaming a little too.

When he grabbed my hand and led me around the corner, my heart sank. I feared that I wouldn't get my kiss. I couldn't understand why he hadn't done it. My feet felt heavy and I was scared until I had the nerve to ask him where he was taking me. He thought there were more sharks. I wish there were, dear, but there weren't.

I led him back to the other side of the tank to look through the portholes and he knelt down beside me to peer into the clear green water. I knelt down and saw the nurse shark and the horn shark and the whitetip reef shark. I projected myself along with him into the water. I felt light. I felt as if I was floating until I became aware again of the weight I was placing on the toes of my tennis shoes. I turned to see him looking at me and I felt instantly as if the ground beneath me dissolved--as if the intensity of his gaze were suspending me over a dangerous abyss beneath my feet. We were breathing underwater. And then he kissed me. And I felt everything. I had eight senses.

After the kiss we stared at each other and I felt faint. I imagine that this is what it might feel like to time-travel or to fall suddenly in an anti-gravity chamber at the pull of a lever, or to break the sound barrier. I did not know where I was in relation to the universe anymore. Because this was a new universe. It consumed me. It wasn't until two days later that I wondered if the kids on the other side of the tank could see us through the glass of the portholes on the opposite side.

I don't know what I did to deserve this. I sustained that dream for so long. I thought it might have gone the way of everything else from childhood--I would never be a marine biologist, Sea World closed, I stopped talking to the boys next door. This one lingered though.

And it will linger in my memory. The best kiss of my life. The only lasting dream of mine that finally found fruition. I'm still glowing. It's as though the green water is surrounding me, glistening and wetting my eyes so that I must blink to rid them of the tears, to make sure that I am not merely dreaming once again. When I close my eyes at night the inside of my eyelids remind me to keep my waking reverie alive. It's real, they say. It's real. It's real.

Later in the evening he nibbled on my neck and I woke up this morning with the mark that he left. I smiled at myself in the mirror, imagining the scar story I'd tell to Quint and Brody and Hooper in the belly of the Orca. I hummed "Show Me the Way to Go Home" as I brushed my teeth, smirking all the while.

The Golden Age of Musical Chupacabra

2006-04-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

"Chupacabra"
Sing to the tune of "Oklahoma" from the Broadway show, "Oklahoma."

Chuuuuu-pacabra, see the blood go seeping from the vein!
When you use your teeth you bite so sweet
That your victim can scarcely feel the paaaain.
Chuuuuu-pacabra, Every hombre down in Mexico
Has a pitchfork set in case you get
a craving for sangre or for bone!

There aren't any goats in the land
So now it's human blood you demand
And when we say, "¡Ojó! ¡Qué lástima y mál!"
We're only sayin'
You're pretty mean, chupacabra! ¿Chupacabra, qué tál?

Chuuuuuu-pacabra he's got wings so he can fly up high
And then swoop down low just when he knows
there's a victim who's caught his rabid eye.
Chuuuuu-pacabra doesn't care if you're type A or B
And if you have AIDS it's a-okay
because the cells inside his bones are t!

There aren't any sheep in the land
So now it's human blood you demand
And when we say, "¡Ojó! ¡Qué lástima y mál!"
We're only sayin'
You're pretty mean, chupacabra. ¿Chupacabra, qué tál?

A Cow Tale

2006-04-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

I wasn't feeling well today so I closed my blinds and retreated into a heap of blankets with some looseleaf paper and a pen in the fashion of a true poet. I put on a pair of sweatpants which is notable because I never wear sweatpants. If you've seen me in sweatpants, then you know me on a very intimate level. Then I put on one of my favorite t-shirts. It's brown and it has a Rubik's Cube on it and it says "ADDICT" in bold letters next to the Cube. Anyway, nobody cares what I was wearing.

I wrote a letter to my boyfriend because I couldn't think about doing anything else at the time. Then I found a poem that I wanted to share with him so I crossed the street to buy a stamp and make a photocopy. While I was there I grabbed a bottle of grapefruit juice which I've never had in my life, and an apple. I figured I could use some vitamin c since I'm pretty sure I'm getting a cold.

When I came up to the copier, an attractive young man was standing at the candy counter across from me and he said to the lady:

"Do you have any Cow Tails? For some reason I really feel like eating a Cow Tail." The lady told him that they were sold out. Poor kid. However, being the great observer that I am, I was able to help this young man get some Tail.

Earlier in the day I passed a table where some students were selling tickets to a campus concert. The musician who is coming is named Josh Gracin. So needless to say, I won't be attending. Still, I noticed on my way past the table that there were three Cow Tales lined up along the edge of it along with some flyers advertising the concert.

"There are some Cow Tales on that table over there. They aren't tied down. You should just take one." I suggested to the kid, nodding in the direction of the three individually wrapped chewy, milky caramel treats. At first he seemed reluctant. "I don't want to steal somebody's Cow Tales," he said.

That's when the lady behind the counter stepped things up. She trotted right up to the table and picked up the three treats, reading a little label that was printed on the back of one. It was an advertisement for the concert!

"See? They want us to take the Cow Tales!" I exclaimed excitedly. So I sat down with the kid and we ate Cow Tales together. So did the lady from the candy counter. Eventually, the young lad introduced himself to me. I told him that I had seen him around and he said something like, "Yea, I have a tendency to hobble around here," and gestured towards his left leg.

Now, of course I noticed this man's walk. I notice everything. I knew that he always wore a leather jacket and that he had those glasses that turn to sunglasses in the light. He also had blonde hair that he slicked back in spite of its natural curl. This isn't creepy. I just see things. A lot of things. Still, I told him that I hadn't noticed his hobble. I wanted to see what he would say. "Well, I'm glad I pointed it out then," he said in a self-deprecating tone.

We talked for a bit longer and then bid each other good evening. And it was a good evening.

Now his hand is on your shoulder

2006-03-29T13:07:00.000-08:00

This day is inspired. It's positively stimulating.

At first I was unsure about the possibility of today being a good day. I woke up with my face about an inch away from the wall and I freaked out because all I could see was beige for a few seconds and I had no idea where I was. I took some cold medicine last night and it knocked me out quite effectively so I was probably in a really deep sleep.

The weather made today. I actually had to play the Electric Light Orchestra's "Mr. Blue Sky" after I got back from my first class.

Earlier this week one of the boys in my class made sushi for everyone which was delicious. He made three kinds which he wrapped in nori (seaweed.) I opted for the veggie, which is usually my style. Tuna and crabmeat were the other choices. The stuff was actually quite good. It was a little weird eating sushi and soy sauce at 10:40 in the morning but it was a delightful treat. Today a girl brought in homemade samosas. That was a lot more unusual in the morning than the sushi. Indian spices aren't really good during the breakfast hours. Just so you know. But it was still very good.

I generally prefer Middle Eastern cuisine to Indian cuisine. I tend to appreciate the subtlety of their spices moreso than the taste bud blitz that a lot of Indian food is known for. Earlier today I had an intense craving for kofta. I'd never think to season ground beef with cinnamon but I'm very grateful that someone did.

Right now I'm heading out to meet with one of my actors for the film I'm working on. We're shooting his scene tonight and I have to get him to fill out a consent form and make sure his wardrobe is good and stuff.

I'm wearing my boyfriend's shirt right now. It's very comforting.

The circle of warmth

2006-03-21T19:57:00.000-08:00

This year's senior class gift at my college is called The Circle of Warmth.

It's essentially a massive firepit lined with bricks that members of the senior class are currently purchasing. It's a shady way to get the project done--coercing poor college students into handing over their cash in the name of a false promise of some sort of brick-lined firepit legacy. These kids are vulnerable. They don't know where they're gonna be next year or the year after that. They need to hold onto something *ahem* concrete here on campus. Might as well be a glorified chunk of clay at the edge of a hole in the ground.

The location of the Circle of Warmth (which actually sounds like an embarrassing stain on the front of a young boy's pants on the first day of school) is right in the middle of this beautiful section of lawn that I cut through daily to avoid the haste of the sidewalk. They're breaking up my lawn.

I like fire as much as the next girl. Actually, I really like fire a lot. Some might say that I like fire to a fault. But I can't imagine having a good time around a fire that's smack in the middle of the lawn facing the grease dumpsters behind the student union, the tennis courts, the student activity center (which looks like Auschwitz!), and one of the freshman dormitories. The whole point of having a bonfire is to escape into the mystery and seduction of the night sans apprehension. So how am I supposed to travel forth into a parallel nighttime universe of fire-inspired wantonness and lust while a bunch of haggard cafeteria workers stare across the lawn at me during their smoke breaks?

I want my bonfires to be in the woods in secret. I want to feel free to throw random items into the raging flames just to see what colors they make. I want to make out and carry on. I want to dance like those chicks from "The Crucible." I want to make out with John Proctor from "The Crucible." I mean, I understand that he's a fictional character but hypothetically speaking, that's the kind of thing that I would do around my bonfire.

And I certainly wouldn't engrave inspirational messages on a bunch of overpriced bricks around the pit. If I did they would say things like "Devo RULES!" or "I like rice cakes!"

My point is, this Circle of Warmth (or COW) completely goes against everything a good firepit stands for. And I don't want to take any part in it. And I will ardently oppose any event that takes place in this future firepit.

I hope that my senior class gift is a bookcase or a sapling.

U-Haul My Heart

2006-03-19T20:48:00.000-08:00

The other day I was snuggling with my sweetie and I began to tell him that he was like one of those rentable storage units. He interrupted me before I could justify the statement. And to be honest, at the moment I didn't really know where I was going with it. I just wanted to talk my way out of it. But now that I've had some time, I've really found ten ways that my partner in love is like a storage unit. I am changing his name to a pet name that I have given him to protect his identity. Becuase who wants to be linked to the creepy blog girl who compares her boyfriend to a storage unit?

1. When I'm with him I invest a lot of myself in him--my time, my energy, my own physical being. In this way, I store a large part of myself within the confines of Puma's heart. I would similarly store large quantities of my belongings in a storage unit.

2. When I am with Puma--that is to say when I invest these parts of myself in the storage unit that is Puma--I feel safe and secure. I feel like I can store anything in him. I can tell him everything and give him everything that I have and it will all remain completely unassailable. If I were to store my belongings with a reputable storage unit company, they would also be secure in this way (in a much more physical, literal sense of course.)

3. There is plenty of space in my relationship with Puma. Not only do we have much space between us, but we also respect one another's independence. Many storage units offer lots of cubic feet for spacious and comfortable storage. They are also often found in long strips, side by side, separated only by thin walls. In this way they share a close connection and an architecturally sound bond but they are still separate entities. Puma and I are related in a similar fashion.

4. Sometimes you only get to visit your storage center once in a long while. Maybe you have nowhere to put the stuff and then you find room or you buy a new place with more space to fill. And then you open up the metal storage unit door and you see all of the incredible things that you forgot that you had. And you're overcome by this wave of happiness and nostalgia for the things that you loved so much that you haven't seen for such a long time. I love Puma in this way. I only see him once in a while and when I do I am instantly reminded of how much I live for his touch and all of the wonderful ways that he loves me and I forget how I ever lived without these things in my presence for so long.

5. Often there are discounts for longer stays in storage centers. If you put your stuff in them for a long time, you save money. When Puma stays with me for an extended period of time, or I with him, we save money on gas and tolls.

6. A storage unit is not lactose intolerant. Coincidentally, Puma is also not lactose intolerant. I am. In this way, I am not like a storage unit.

7. When you get your own storage center, you get a matching key and nobody else has that key. It's yours, especially for you. I have given Puma the key to my heart for him to use at his discretion and I feel like I have the key to his. I'm not sharing with anybody. I don't want anyone stealing my stuff.

8. Squirrels often keep their nuts in storage units. Not necessarily in the big industrial ones that people pay for, but they actually do a fair amount of accumulation in special spaces. Squirrels also like nuts. I am nuts about Puma.

9. Many storage units offer optional temperature control so that the items inside can be safe from the elements. Again, we're dealing with an issue of safety and security here. When Puma is around, everything feels safe. Additionally, however, Puma does have the ability to control my temperature. If I were a vinyl record being stored within Puma the storage unit, I'd probably be in danger of melting because he is an incredibly dishy storage unit and I would likely be feeling a little hot and bothered inside him. (Provided that vinyl records have to deal with the raw aching heat of human sexuality.) When I am not with Puma I feel a little bit cold. His voice is my thermostat though. And when he speaks to me on the phone my temperature rises and I feel comfortable again. Sometimes even a little bit balmy.

10. The doors on storage units are often made of jointed strips of metal that curve and roll up slowly when they are opened. Sometimes they take a lot of time and strength to get into. My courtship with Puma was like this slowly rising storage unit gate. The promise of good stuff on the inside was gradually revealed each time I made contact with him. And as I got to know him, everything inside of him that makes him the incredible man that he is became increasingly apparent to me. Eventually the door was completely open and I saw everything that he had to offer and I passed through the threshold that the storage gate allowed me and I immersed myself in his love...or the sundry items that were stored beyond his door. There might have been an antiquated green sofa in one corner or an old rocking horse and a crib. Or just a bunch of comic books and action figures.

I feel like there is so much in store for me and my fellow. There will definitely be more awful puns too.

The best band of the world

2006-03-15T16:02:00.000-08:00

I just found a blog on blogspot that is dedicated to Evanescence. It's in Spanish but my spanish skills are somewhat limited, especially when it comes to translating the excited and probably nonsensical rantings of an Amy Lee-obsessed Los Angeles teen blogger.

So for now I'm waiting on some friends from Notre Dame.

Yesterday I revisited "Reality Bites" and I feel like at this point in my life I'm ready to evaluate it for what it really is. When the movie came out, I was eight years old. I saw it a few months after it came out on video--my sister got it for her birthday and we watched it together. What I remember most about seeing it for the first time was that everyone in the movie reminded me of my sister--especially Winona Ryder's character. I didn't get anything they were talking about but I fell in love with it because the characters reminded me of the cool people that my sister hung out with. And I thought Ethan Hawke was cute.

I've watched this movie several times since and now it carries extra weight with me. Especially now that I get what's happening. But mostly I feel like this movie is really important to me and to other people for the same reason it was important to me when I was a kid. The characters captured the essence of Generation X (which is a term that I am reluctant to use, but oh well) and the film itself speaks really strongly of a particular time in history.

"Reality Bites" is different than a film like "American Graffiti" which profiles a specific pocket of time in retrospect. Ben Stiller made "Reality Bites" about a group of grungy college graduates in 1994...in 1994. If the film were to be made next week, it would be completely different because we'd have the ability to objectively evaluate culture in the early nineties. Ben Stiller took what he knew about himself and the members of his generation and exploited that information. It works.

I guess this is why I like films like "Reality Bites" and "Swingers" and "Slacker"--even "American Beauty" is one of these films in many ways. It always fascinates me when directors and writers are able to step back and realize certain aspects of their own humanity at a specific and current point in time. "Swingers" has been dismissed as a cult film because of the way it looks at the short-lived swing revival of the nineties. But it also explores some pretty timeless stuff. There will always be guys picking up girls in bars, trying to make names for themselves, and attempting (with difficulty) to move on from failed relationships. All of this stuff just happens to occur in the underground bars of LA in 1996. So maybe there's swing dancing and shameless homages to Quentin Tarantino. It happens.

Isn't it good...

2006-03-13T15:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I need days like this:

I woke up today a half an hour before my alarm was set to buzz, completely alert and ready to attack the day. Of course, I took advantage of the extra thirty minutes of sleep that I was awarded. And even though I would have slept to the alarm had I not woken up, it felt like a special treat to get that "extra" half hour.

I read about the economy in China. The numbers and the acronyms that assaulted me in Chapter 5 of "Understanding Contemporary China" were almost as numerous as bicycles in Beijing.

Before class I had a scare about a particular assignment that caused me to buckle down and get to work on it and a bunch of other things. So fear was the driving force behind my accomplishments this afternoon but at least things got done.

Everything else that happened today is secondary to the way the weather is making me feel. I jumped on picnic tables today. I skipped on the sidewalk. I hopscotched over the engraved bricks at the side of the Union. I'd never read those bricks before and some of them are quite amusing. My personal favorite was "GOD BLESS AMERICA AND BW!" There was one brick that said "Carpe Diem!" so I jumped up onto this new shiny picnic table that they put up over break and began to recite "O Captain! My Captain!"

The breeze is so refreshing. The ground is wet but the sun is shining. Even now it still feels like the sun is shining.

I mailed a letter today. If you've never mailed a letter before, do it. As soon as I dropped it in the box I got nostalgic for a time that I never really got to experience. I've never known days without phone calls. I lived more than half of my life without e-mail but now I don't know if I'll be able to function normally in society without it. My grandma used to send me letters. They'd be printed on these little sheets of white paper--just a few inches up and down. They were always eight and ten pages long and she wrote in this great pointed script that slanted at such an extreme angle across the page. I felt like I was on some great adventure, just moving my eyes along the text.

Those were the only letters I ever got. My cousin Meryl and I wrote to one another a few times but those were rare occasions. So this year I've sent more letters than I have in my entire life. I think I sent four to Kevin last semester and I got a few back. It's really cool to open your mailbox and to see something personal. I hand-wrote this particular letter. Hopefully the recipient will be able to read my handwriting. I'm kind of a slob but I tried to be neat.

Anyway, I have to see a lady about some sweatpants. How archaic is that?

Moments in the Woods

2006-03-11T12:50:00.000-08:00

I traveled to the West Side Market with my mom today. Basically it's a year-round outdoor produce market in downtown Cleveland. I hadn't been there since I was a kid. I remembered getting stepped on amongst aisles of shouting vendors and mountains of strange fruits. I remembered the piles of pink meat under glass, the vacant eyes of the speckled silvery fish on ice. I remembered getting lost and feeling scared.

Not much has changed. In fact, nothing has changed. I'm aware of more now I guess. Today when I passed the bloody piles of meat I didn't think to myself that I didn't want to eat meat ever again. I thought that I would try to dismiss the image so I could keep enjoying ribs and burgers without remorse. Of course, later at Half Price Books my cashier proudly sported a hat that said "VEGAN" across it so I immediately flashed back to those awful slaughterhouse images of my afternoon at the market.

Anyway, I had a moment with one of the vendors. He was relatively young I guess--maybe twenty-some years old. He was Puerto Rican and he had a really suprising smile. It kind of caught me off guard as I passed. So I smiled back and caught myself lingering there in that moment. So a few seconds later when I broke my gaze I turned back to see that he was still watching me. For some reason I winked. I don't ever wink. It felt good to do it. I knew I'd never see him again. I wasn't that attracted to him. I wasn't going to buy fruit at his stand so it's not like I would have gotten a discount for flirting. I told my mom about what happened and she made fun of me.

So my mom bought some cabbage, I suppose for St. Patrick's Day. I got some mangos and encouraged my mom to get some garlic because it was decently priced and looked delicious. And really, garlic is one of those things that you just need to have around the kitchen at all times.

I wanted some pomegranates but they were really expensive. I hate that! People keep saying how good they are for you and how awesome the juice is but who wants to spend three dollars on a piece of fruit? Not me! But the seeds are so good! Garr! A lady heard me get excited about the delicious-looking starfruit and she asked me what it was like. So I described it to her. I felt cool. Ask me about fruit! Ha.

So back to Half Price Books. I'd never been there before but we passed it so we went in. This place is my toy store. I seriously had so much fun. It's all used books and a few new ones and they're so amazingly priced. I bought a novel called "The Last Cigarette" for 89 cents. It's pretty good so far. I'm only about40 pages in. I'll report back later. I looked at the store for a few items for my sweetie but nothing was good enough. And no Jackson Caine! I was angry.

They also had vinyl at this place and used CDs and tapes. I was thisclose to buying a Color Me Badd CD but for some reason I didn't think it was worth two dollars. Color me crazy...

My mom said that some kid was macking on me in the bookstore and following me around. I usually don't notice if men are showing interest in me. I wish I would have seen what he looked like because I always think it's funny when guys notice me. I guess I looked available today? Who knows.

Strike on the tinder, ho!

Then I'm a Philistine.

2006-03-09T22:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight I saw the Violent Femmes at the House of Blues in Cleveland.

I like the Femmes but I don't know a lot of their music--just a small sampling. And they have a pretty big repertoire so I guess I sort of expected to feel a little alienated at their show tonight. A friend of mine has a connection at the House of Blues and he offered tickets to me, my roommate, and another mutual friend of ours.

The Femmes were really polished. The middle of their set lagged terribly though. It wasn't until the end of the show that they really kicked it into gear and at that point my mind was in a completely different place.

I've never felt more isolated at a concert in my life. Usually I get really lost in the music and I can ignore the crowd around me and just enjoy the art. But tonight I was distracted by every little thing. I was constantly aggravated my the traffic patterns of the surrounding crowd. I got shoved in every direction by people who couldn't just have a drink at the bar--they had to keep milling in and out of the standing section. At least nothing got spilled on me. Eventually I just moved to the back of the venue against the wall. I couldn't see a thing from there so I got even more distracted and I began to observe specific people in the crowd.

There was a young couple to my left. The woman had dark knotted hair and bushy eyebrows and she hung dangerously from her lover's shoulders, totally drunk and oblivious to the fact that he was looking through her the entire evening. He kept his hands on her waist which gyrated obscenely against the natural rhythm of the music. I think he was trying to hold her in one place.

There were two young girls behind me who kept stepping on the toes of my Chucks. This was unfortunate because my feet were already uncomfortable to start with--don't ever wear Chucks for extended periods of time. I'm pretty sure they were a couple as well. I didn't get a good look at them but they were both fairly attractive indie girls which made me think that they were genuine for some reason. One of them had loosely braided blonde hair tied back haphazardly into a ponytail. I didn't see much more. At least I don't remember much more.

Another couple stood in front of me. I'm think that the man is a sociology professor at my college. He kept smiling at me which I'm sure his date appreciated. The two of them swayed a lot which didn't make much sense, given the genre and general driving pace of the music. I guess certain things slow down when you're in love or something. Or you want them to. So they swayed. I caught myself swaying with them a few times. He kept heading over to the bar and bringing her more drinks. Honestly I can't imagine how much he spent on alcohol that night.

I guess I just focused on the couples in the crowd tonight because I was feeling jealous of them. It's really funny actually. When I didn't have anyone I was always jealous of couples I saw together in public. Then for a while I got over that and I was jealous of people with iPods in public. Now I have an incredible man in my life and I'm back to my old ways again.

I'll take what I can get for now. I'll revel in the nightly phone calls, the delightfully irrelevant (and often irreverent!) voicemail messages, the occasional e-mails that get filed into a folder called "Sap." I'll wait a week or so between visits. I can do that. It's getting harder though. Spending those two nights and odd hours with him made me realize just how much I love being around him.

I'm happy though. I'm so happy. I don't know what to do with myself. I danced earlier tonight. So maybe I'll start dancing more now.

Still thirsty!

2006-03-04T20:45:00.000-08:00

List of the day's beverages:

9:00 AM: One Diet Coke--I started my day with a cool can of my favorite soda.

12:25 PM: One glass of water, one smoothie--I enjoyed a smoothie alongside a hummus Pita Wrap at Aladdin's Eatery after a day of scouting locations. I scheduled a day of shooting at Record Revolution in Coventry. (Yay for first choices!)

3:00 PM: One cup Guatemala--I actually have a Starbucks gift card (eesh!) so I asked Sam to meet me at our local shop for a cup. I treated. She had caramel apple cider. I tried the Guatemala. I noted a woody aroma and taste in what was a surprisingly elegant and bold cup of coffee. Later I found out that Guatemalan is known for that woody presence. Yay for my sensitive palette! Also yay for being with Sam. She rules.

5:00 PM: One Canada Dry--I came back to the casa and played through some of my songs. I like drinking Canada Dry when I sing because it is refreshing and it leaves a nice coat of syrup on my throat--diet drinks don't do that. I played through "Mad World" (the Gary Jules version), "Such Great Heights" (the Iron & Wine version), and one of the songs I wrote for my guy.

7:00 PM: One cup Caruso's Jazzy Java--I saw a coffeehouse-style play tonight. My friend Mike was in it. I went by myself and so I felt hip and important. I rocked pinstripes and tucked in my designer blouse. I felt totally artsy and intelligent. I even took notes in my program. Well, actually it was mostly prose that had nothing to do with the production. I had this drink before the show.

7:30 PM: One cup Caruso's Columbian--Since I love Columbian, I tried a cup of this before the show as well. Yes, I am a caffeine junkie. Bite my face. This one was rich and playful just like I like my Columbian to be. Kudos!

9:00 PM: One cup Caruso's Hylander Creme--Mmm. I had this at intermission between the two plays. Both plays were stage adaptations from old radio shows. ("Sorry, Wrong Number" and "The Hitch Hiker.") This cup was flavored with toffee and butterscotch or something I think. Delicious, and a perfect compliment to the slice of carrot cake that I ordered.

11:00 PM: One glass Shiraz--Since my mother was an usher at the theater where I saw the plays, I went with her to the theater. She works with a kid named Rob who is in a band called Return of Simple and they were playing at Wilburt's downtown tonight. So we went there. Rob graduated from BW and the other kids in the band go to BW. So there were a lot of folks from school there. My friend is the band's photographer so I rapped with her for a while when she wasn't shooting. Two of my really good guy friends were there and I spoke with them. The wine was good. I'm a big fan of shiraz.

So I've measured my day in beverages. Tomorrow it might be snacks. Or songs. I don't know.

PSH!

2006-03-03T12:47:00.000-08:00

March is my favorite month for film. We've got the promise of the Oscars, the Independent Spirit Awards, the death of the February movie lull, and the Cleveland International Film Festival. That being said, here are my Oscar predictions for this year. This is truly a crazy year for the Oscars--lots of underdogs and huge discrepancies between movies that should win, and movies that probably will. (Thanks a lot, Ang Lee.) So I may not do as well this year with my picks. My record was set last year with 14 predictions out of the 20-some major ones. The year before it was 13. This year I've seen all of the nominated movies except for Transamerica and Munich. And of course I haven't seen some of the documentary shorts and foreign shorts and whatnot because I live in Cleveland and those movies usually take about a year to get here.

Best Motion Picture--Brokeback Mountain (But Crash should win)

Best Actor--Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote

Best Actress--Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line

Best Supporting Actor--George Clooney, Syriana (But I believe that Paul Giamatti should win)

Best Supporting Actress--Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener

Best Director--Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain

Best Adapted Screenplay--Larry McMurty & Diana Ossana, Brokeback Mountain

Best Original Screenplay--Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco, Crash (But it would be so kickass if The Squid and the Whale won)

Animated Feature--Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit

Art Direction--Memoirs of a Geisha

Cinematography--Brokeback Mountain (But Good Night and Good Luck should win)

Costumes--Memoirs of a Geisha (All those kimonos!)

Documentary Feature--March of the Penguins

Documentary Short Subject--God Sleeps in Rwanda (total shot in the dark)

Film Editing--The Constant Gardener (A total underdog but I'm sticking by it. Crash will probably win.)

Foreign Language Film--Tsotsi (South Africa)

Make-Up--Chronicles of Narnia

Original Score--John Williams, Memoirs of a Geisha (If Gustavo Santaolalla wins I will hit someone. And it might be you. Or Ang Lee.)

Original Song--It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp, Hustle & Flow

Short Film (Animated)--The Moon & the Son: An Imagined Conversation

Short Film (Live Action)--Six Shooter

Sound Editing--King Kong

Sound Mixing--Walk the Line

Visual Effects--King Kong

Better Than the Dentist

2006-03-02T22:41:00.000-08:00

The day was long. I made it a point today to be where there were people but for the most part I felt isolated and anxious, even when I came across good company.

I've been spending a lot of money on coffee lately. This is foolish because I could easily get a coffee maker for my room and get free coffee from my mom. But I've become so comfortable heading down into the basement of the union with my little punch card. I wait impatiently in line behind a few of the same sorority girls and philosophy majors who feel the need to order tedious custom drinks with names like "Mocha Monkey Meltdown" and "Orange Mango Paradise Smoothie." (The sorority girls are always sincere. The philosophy majors order to be ironic and take delight in giving their silly orders condescendingly to the barista behind the counter.)

My barista is tall and sturdy. He's got thick black glasses like mine and a chin that sort of curves upward at the tip which makes him look like he's smiling even when I know he's not. His green apron clings to his belly and when he leans forward I see it tighten around him.

I order a 16 oz cup of Columbian when I can. Sometimes they don't brew Columbian so I have Irish Creme or Costa Rican. On Tuesday they were out of Columbian so I waited nervously in a chair trying to concentrate on Lawrence Ferlinghetti while my hands shook unsteadily for their next caffeine fix. When the pot was finally brewed it was too hot to enjoy. So I waited some more. My barista fills it to the top every day. He stopped asking "Room for cream?" about two weeks ago. It was a big step for us.

Anyway enough about coffee. Tonight I had a Lifetime movie marathon. People lied about coming but we still had a decent turnout. The dialogue in those movies is priceless. I would love to have a job writing Lifetime Original screenplays.

In a few short days the roommate and I are going to be heading down to Beaver County. I'm overwhelmed with anticipatory excitement. I always feel amazingly clean and happy after a good road trip and this one is particularly special. Roommate, the open road, and two incredible gentlemen lie just beyond the horizon. Then there is the Violent Femmes concert this Thursday night with Mr. Green and roommate.

I'm having difficulty going to sleep. I don't think my heart wants to stop racing for anything right now. And it's not the caffeine. I'm sure of it. It's got to be the Devil's Sting.

Una Mezcla

2006-03-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

One day I'll record my system for making mixes. It's a complicated process but I think it has the potential to blow minds.

Right now I've got my CDs laid out in front of me on the floor. Windows Media Player and iTunes are both open. There's a spiral notebook to my right and it's filling up quickly with little notes and question marks and sloppily scrawled arrows and stars.

The mix CD is a perfect way for me to express myself. I have an incredibly eclectic collection of music that I love sharing with/imposing on other people. As much as I enjoy knowing that other people are listening to music that I love, I also think that I'm a pretty generous and considerate mixer. The reason it takes me so long to mix is because I spend a large amount of time thinking about which songs the recipient of the mix would truly appreciate.

I once got a mix from a friend who didn't get it. I took two days flipping through my collection and creating a compilation of stuff that I knew he would really enjoy. And in return I got a generic disc full of current radio sap with a few of those "obscure" songs that everyone knows. And then I found out that he gave the same mix to his girlfriend the next day. So I still haven't listened to it. He, on the other hand, thanks me over and over again for introducing him to new music that he'd never heard of and that he really appreciates. I will never recycle a mix.

I always wonder if I take it too seriously but then I just tell myself that it's a hobby and people have a tendency to get really into their hobbies so it's okay. And usually the receivers of my mixes are happy with them.

The mix that I'm working on right now is tricky.

Crazy Love

2006-02-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

A List of Today's Better Stuff:

1. Excellent cup of Columbian. I went to the Cyber Cafe to hang out with Kirsten, Mia, and Dan and I conceded to what I thought would be a mediocre cup of coffee. It was actually delicious--a medium roast with a rich presence and a charming (and weirdly nutty) aftertaste.

2. Room Decor. I decided earlier today that I'd like to hang some imported burlap coffee sacks around my half of the room. I'm working on getting some from Costa Rica and some from Columbia, my favorites. Figuring out where to hang them will be an issue. But they will make our room look so much more worldly. We already have a creased National Geographic map behind our futon. Let's kick it up a notch.

3. I wash my hands of "The Laramie Project." After an entire year, I am finally finished with this play. Unfortunately I misplaced the script before I had the opportunity to cite it at the end of my paper. Eesh. I didn't even get to say goodbye!

4. Hearing his voice. Little Bunny got a phone call from her Puma today. We talked about ham cubes at Ponderosa and Poison t-shirts and whatnot. Nothin' but a good time.

5. Quality time with Ellis. I finally have my guitar back at school after a terrible musical dry spell. I played through some of my old songs and it felt so great. I'm in love again. I just moistened a washcloth and rolled it up in the case to keep it from drying out. Such a drought in this room. I'm reminded of the song that I wrote from a translation from this Indian text: "The monsoon had come and was gone for a song/The rivers are dry as these hours are long." Just a little excerpt. The original text was about a woman waiting for her lover to return after the monsoon season. I adapted it to describe my creative drought. I think that was the lyric--it looks wrong logistically or something. Whatever. I pay my own bills.

6. Having a party. Roommate, Mia and I are planning a party for this Thursday night. At the library today we found a Lifetime DVD combo pack--"Mom at 16" and "Too Young to be a Dad" so we're going to borrow a projector from our hall and show them in one of our lounges on a big screen this Thursday night. We're making everyone wear pajamas and we'll probably carry on like a bunch of idiots. I'm excited:

Christine: I'll bring the nailpolish!
Me: I'll bring Tiger Beat!
Adam: I'll bring...testosterone!

And alas, I have discovered the missing sleepover ingredient that I was lacking in my youth.

7. Toxic B-Movie Meltdown! I bought two awful B-movies today at Marc's. One of them is called "The Bat" starring Vincent Price and Agnes Moorehead (I know, right!). The tagline is "When it flies, someone dies!" Then I got "Jekyll & Hyde: The Musical" starring David Hasselhoff on DVD. Wicked awesome.

I need to find the two books that I misplaced. This is really strange. What's my problem?

Wrapped Up in Books

2006-02-25T08:48:00.000-08:00

I had one of those perfect mornings today. My alarm sounded at 9:00 but I was still feeling lethargic so I turned it off and slept for exactly five more minutes. It was great. Then I rolled over and grabbed Rita Dove from my bookshelf. I spent about a half an hour turning her pages under my heavy down comforter with my cat nestled beside me in one of its thick white billows. The introduction that Ms. Dove wrote for her anthology was a sort of childhood recollection that reminded me so much of myself when I was younger. Shy and precocious and fuelled by literature. She did all of the same things I did--memorizing all of the titles on the shelves and being able to spot the new additions every week, beaming excitedly over a stack of books "chin-high" at the circulation desk.

I was so inspired that I felt motivated to head over to my library. I took a very nice, quick shower (I usually try to stay under seven minutes--water conservation and all) and had a cup of fresh black coffee. Then I threw on a sweater vest and my sister's old Airwalks and headed off to be a bookish little nerd.

There was a Friends of the Library Sale today so I headed in there first and looked through all the titles for some gems. I actually found a lot of great stuff but I didn't feel like spending too much money today because my funds are kind of tight lately since I don't have regular income at the moment. I found "Love Liza" on VHS for fifty cents. Since I'm in love with Philip Seymour Hoffman, I bought it. The movie actually is very well done but completely depressing. Still, it was fifty cents! And it's Philly! Then I took a chance on a novel called "Death Rat!" by Mike Nelson. It looks completely hysterical. The cover looks like an old 60's b-movie poster and the inside of the jacket described what could be a truly delightful literary romp. The prize that I found was a copy of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers which I've been meaning to read for some time now. So now I have this giant list of books that I need to get through. I think this summer I'm going to try to read one or two a week--I'll make a calendar or something.

There was a big case with a bunch of the classics in it and I was paging through Ptolemy and Aquinas and then I really wanted to crack open Plato so I did and there were about three little cards tucked inside the front cover. So I started to read them. They were these really personal love notes from this guy named Paul to his lady, Deb. Some of the things he wrote made me blush. Actually, it sounds like they had quite a tumultuous relationship. Two of the cards said things like "Deb, I love you I love you I love you I love you. I never ever ever meant to hurt you that way. Please keep me" and he also quoted a song--I'm sure of it--but I couldn't place which song it was. I just knew that the words sounded way too familiar to be original. Then in one of them (a valentine) Paul said "I can't want to see you in that new teddie that you've been telling me about. You're so beautiful. Please wear it tonight." It was crazy! I kind of wanted to take the cards out of the book and carry them around and maybe use them in a poem or something. But I felt like a creep reading them in the first place so I just tucked them back in. I don't know how you could give away a book (especially Plato) without leafing through it or anything. Maybe Paul and Deb broke up and the books were a gift from Paul so Deb wanted to throw them out so she wouldn't have to think about him when she looked at her bookshelf. After all, the cards were addressed to her and they were obviously very comfortably tucked in that gathering place inside the cover.

So anyway I went into the library after that and picked up a few things:

Southern Culture on the Skids "Mojo Box." A guy I was in a play with recommended this band to me. I couldn't remember how I'd heard of them when I saw this CD on the rack but now I remember that it was him. I kind of miss him so I picked it up. He has a folk radio show now. They probably don't ever play Southern Culture on the Skids.

R.E.M "Automatic for the People." My sister had this CD growing up and I used to steal it. So now I'm gonna burn my own copy.

Rocket From the Crypt "Group Sounds." I'm actually revisiting this album. It's fresh. Good summer music--they definitely sound like a bunch of hard rocking Californians.

R.E.M. "In Time: The Best of R.E.M. 1988-2003." What can I say? Michael Stipe's voice makes me feel human.

Sam Cooke "Portrait of a Legend 1951-1964." Anyone who doesn't like Sam Cooke doesn't know what it feels like to love.

Then I picked up a giant book called "In Style: Weddings" upon my mother's request because of my sister's wedding. I felt really weird carrying it around. Usually when I'm at the library I try to give off an "I'm a young intelligent single woman" vibe just in case a charming gentleman wishes to discuss the finer points of whatever CD or book or film I have tucked under my arm. So today I have this HUGE coffee-table-sized book with WEDDINGS in giant letters onthe front cover. I can't hide it. Actually I can't even tuck it under my arm because it's so big. So for a while I feel like a bride-to-be which is pretty funny because all I'm doing is floating in and out of rows of bookshelves with little conviction in my step and frankly with nothing important on my mind. I'm sure that in a couple of months I'll be a little less carefree when my duties as Maid of Honor start to stack up. But for now I guess it's kind of cool to casually tote a book about weddings without worrying about how napkins are going to be folded and which flowers are going to be in season and which gifts are appropriate to give to the wedding party.

For now, I am going to settle in and get some studying done. Then I think I'd like to go thrifting. I feel so calm today.