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.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Marissa V 2.0
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.
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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
If you give a girl a sharpie...
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.
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.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Goin' Cohen
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Eschew! Bless You! (Allergic to Flowers)
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.
"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.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Playing the Odds
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Sassy Arse
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.
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.
Monday, July 31, 2006
They all sound the same
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
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
Thursday, July 27, 2006
The Latent Functions of Pie-Making
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...
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...
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Play "Misty" For Me
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.
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.
Monday, July 10, 2006
On my list
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?
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?
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Pictures of Me
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
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
Monday, July 03, 2006
I'll sell it all...
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
She's Crafty
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.
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.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Out of town
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
A chord, accord, this chord, discord
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Ho-Ho Hobag
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 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.
Monday, May 29, 2006
I wrote down a dream in invisible ink
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Gimme Culture
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.
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.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
This is not cohesive
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.
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.
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