This is pretty abbreviated and full of me not trying to be literary at all. It's been a long day, and I mostly don't want to forget anything.
Anyway.
Today started with waking up to my alarm clock and hitting the snooze button for an hour and a half. After a shower, I checked my phone. I had a voice mail from David Henry Sterry. He is, apparently, an author of some renown. Since I rarely take a chance on new authors, I haven't heard of him until I read a craigslist add advertising a position as an intern - someone to do computer type stuff and organize. In return, he helps that person get a foot in the door in the publishing world. I immediately jumped at that opportunity - needing a foot in the door, and maybe some mentor ship with my writing, since I'm basically just winging it all.
So I wrote up a cover letter and posted my comic of 4 reasons why I'm better than the competition (see previous post).
He said in his message that that was "one of the funniest things [he has] seen in a while". Luckily he had only called 10 minutes earlier, so I called him right back, and we decided on a time and place to meet. So, I'm am very excited because even if this leads to not getting the internship, there is a chance that he could still point me in a better direction than where I'm going right now (which is, let's face it, nowhere).
He said on the phone that he wants to discuss goals with me - where I see myself in 1 year or 5 years. I don't even have to think about it. I don't know where I "See" myself, but I want to be a published author in 1 year, and hopefully, by 5 years, living by my writing. Deep down, that's all I've ever wanted.
We /could have/ met today, but I had to go to my cousin Michelle's bridal shower.
We picked up my aunt, and went to the Staaten.
The Staaten is not a cheap place. It is one of the fancy party places on Staten Island. Michelle and Nicole both had their 16th birthday's there. I got a guitar and a sushi dinner for my 16th birthday.
The food was excellent. Manicotti, then salad, then the main (I had Salmon, and it was roughly the size of a whole salmon. Neither my mother, nor myself could finish ours. I don't think anyone finished their dinner).
The gift ceremony was long and boring - but it always is, because who wants to watch someone else get gifts? I don't. I only want to see them open mine so I know I done good.
Back at my Aunt's House, the boys were playing cards, "The Old Farts and the Young Tarts" as my dad put it. All the older gentlemen did what they were used to - dealer chooses the game. They played typical, boring poker - 5 card stud, draw, 7 card, 3 card poker, and the one's my father taught them - 739, Acey-Deucy, and Follow the Queen.
The Old Farts howled. Some of them literally. When they weren't making elephant noises.
The Young Tarts played a very serious, and quiet, game of Texas Hold 'Em, a poker game I quite enjoy, but worry about when people are silent. I took to watching the old men play their games. They were loud, obnoxious, and just fun.
Before the fun though, there was a bit of a sad sad thing that happened. Carrying boxes and baskets into the house, my mother (not me) my mother dropped our leftover salmon. As much as I want to weep for that - the salmon that could have been my dinner tomorrow instead of the chicken my dad will probaably make (or the salad I'll have to make if he cooks anything other than fish or chicken) now lies in the bottom of a garbage pail. *sigh*
The room where we put the bridal gifts filled up so fast - Michelle got so many nice things that my mother and aunt's said they all wanted a shower - that there was barely room to walk in it. Thankfully half of the presents went to Scott (her fiancee)'s house.
We did laugh a lot during the poker game, but not so hard as the last 45 minutes of the night when all the ear scratching, howling, and barking had a reason.
Apparenlty it was funny to take a box from Micheal's (a bakery... a really nice bakery) and fill it with cookies bought at a local convenience store. The convenience store, however, was PetCo.
It wouldn't have been so funny if so many people hadn't eaten the cookies.
Trust me, it was funny. Maybe you had to be there. Maybe I should just stop typing and put up some quotes tomorrow when I'm not sleepy.
28 July 2007
27 July 2007
I Continue to Feel Numb
I think it's a bit strange that, while I love my story, an am immensely proud of it, that the two rejections I've had do far haven't stung me nearly as much as people say it should.
I get the rejection letter, read it, and sigh, delete it, and just find another market, so extremely sure that someone's going to accept it.
Should I feel more down than I do. Sure, it's a bummer, but it's nothing that's going to stop me from sending the story out, because, while I can't read my own words and it embarrasses me, I'm still so proud and sure of this short story that someone rejecting it is more their loss than mine.
Maybe I'll feel differently 20 rejections down that line.
I get the rejection letter, read it, and sigh, delete it, and just find another market, so extremely sure that someone's going to accept it.
Should I feel more down than I do. Sure, it's a bummer, but it's nothing that's going to stop me from sending the story out, because, while I can't read my own words and it embarrasses me, I'm still so proud and sure of this short story that someone rejecting it is more their loss than mine.
Maybe I'll feel differently 20 rejections down that line.
25 July 2007
The Hanson Affair
Yesterday was a good day.
Though it's funny to think that yesterday actually started out as a misery since I couldn't get to sleep. Not out of excitement for the possibility of seeing the band I've held a torch for, and defended adamantly these past 10 years, but because the Harry Potter Event of '07 kept me up until 5am when I read it, and my sleeping pattern got really screwed up.
Since it was 6 am, I decided it was better if I didn't fall asleep. Going to sleep now would have been suicide for my first real chance in 10 years to get an autograph that I so desired.
Now, I know it's entirely possible to send a letter to the proper places to get an autograph, but getting an autograph by mail is, in my opinion, just sheer laziness. I always liked hearing autograph stories, and being able to see them write their names and to, dare I dream, shake their hands in person, is a much more worthy experience. It also means I get to get out of my house all day, which I don't always do since I can't always find an excuse.
At 9am I watched my favorite 9am morning show. It was really just luck that they happened to be on. My luck in seeing Hanson on TV or just randomly checking their website on the even of a new album release or something else exciting, is nothing sort of miraculous. In fact luck was how I even got into them at first.
In a sad chapter in my life (the chapter would probably be titled "Empy Bus Stop" if I even wrote book about my life) my grandmother had a stroke. When it happened I was in utter shock. The after school, I waited at the bus stop which was sincerely lacking my grandmother, whom, after a misstep on my part, always made sure I got on the right bus to get home. It had been months since that incident, and I knew what bus to get on (and know that bus's route better than any other bus), but she still insisted on coming, buying me lunch (since Wednesday's were half days), and making sure I got on the right bus. At that moment when she wasn't there, I suddenly realized how this small little routine was something I deeply cherished, and tried not to cry all the way home.
Depressed I went up to my room and changed clothes. It was too silent, and so I did the only seinsible thing and turned on my stereo. I couldn't find a CD I wanted to listen to, and Classic Rock wasn't doing it for me, so I fiddled with the stations, something I never did, and found z100 - which was, at the time, the best source for pop music for a pre-teen who needed to be in the know. I'm sure it still is the premiere source for all things popular, but since the music scene has changed from some good music, mostly homogeneous music, and rap songs that were, while not my taste, unique, dance worthy, mostly fun to pretty god awful music, scenester "rock" groups that really aren't all that talented, and homogeneous rap songs that are only entertaining to people like my friend and I are who listen to things for their lyrics. The lyrics of these aren't good, only funny in how bad they are. But, back then I listened to it for the first time in my life, and a song had just ended. I could tell because something was fading out into that .03 seconds of dead air before a new song. The song that came on was "I Will Come to You".
It was even greater luck that I saw the music video for "I Will Come to You" - it was Thanksgiving, and my grandma was still in the hospital. It wasn't that we usually spent Thanksgiving with her, it was that she was still in the hospital, and we couldn't call her. And this had all happened a few days, maybe even a week after my birthday. That's when I turned MTV on, just a few minuted before we had to leave for my Aunt's house for dinner (which is a whole other point to write about). It was involuntary. I was probably hoping to see the video, but it was nothing conscious in my mind. I did see the video, and it did make me cry - not a long, loud drawn out cry, but that soft, wiping tears from you face cry - because the whole premise was a girl going to her grandmother's.
So my friends, it was not "MMMBop" that made me tune into Hanson, but rather, by accident, hearing a slow, melancholy song, that acted like a reassuring friend in my time of need, that made me into a teeny-bopper. And yes, I was a teeny-bopper.
I watched their performance on the show, and went to take a shower and get changed. I found out the night before that they would be performing in the city to promote their new CD, released that day, as long as I bought the CD.
I called my best friend to see if she wanted to come to the city with me. I knew she wouldn't want to see Hanson. She hates them. I don't know why, and often I try to sneak in here and there a few of their later songs, which have matured in sound and nature and are much better - they remind me so much more of the classic rock I grew up on.
Somehow she always catches me.
It was with a bit of disdain that I snapped on a purple wristband, marking me, basically, as "late" and, maybe even "unworthy". I could only get the CD signed, I wouldn't be able to get to see them perform, which I was only able to see once in my life - At the Continental Airlines Arena, 9 years ago.
It was a good night of course, and getting to hear them live was a treat, and my present for graduating from 8th grade. I went with my other Hanson-fan friend (Hanson being the only thing that our friendship was really about), and practically freaked out when, at the end of the show, they took out water guns, and I was lucky enough to get a few drops on my Hanson shirt. It was funny, but all through that night I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was the first time I knew what it meant to feel that. My inclinations on feeling that I'm being watched have always been spot on, so I wonder still, to this day, who was it that gave me a weird paranoid feeling when I wasn't paying attention. The little fangirl in me says that it was Isaac - who had the unfortunate distinction of being the only person to turn their head away as I looked up. I know it wasn't. I stopped dreaming and wishing it was a long time ago. But until the day I die, I will always remember the concert.
But, the purple wristband did mean I could get my CD signed. I have wanted an autograph for 10 years. Paying, and leaving, my friend and I walked around Chinatown, and got a nice lunch and bubble tea, until I went back up town. We discussed such things as Role playing, whether love is merely biological, or if there's something more to it, our opinions on our friends' selected significant others, what we should do for Halloween, and, of course, Harry Potter.
Before we went our separate ways, she asked me about what I wanted them to write on my CD. I gave it a few moments thought and realized that, while it was highly unlikely I'd be able to get my CD personalized, since there were going to be a lot of people there, I'd want them to personalize it with either "Jillers" "Keep on Keepin' on" various references to me being awesome, or else have them write something like "U R liek TTLY G8" or something else stupid like that.
I took my position at the end of the line - around the corner and by a small restaurant called "Le Marais Rotisserie" which reminded me of some of the small cafe's I'd seen in France. I went over to look at the menu, noted the prices as being something I'd expect from a Midtown "Trying to French" restaurant.
I waited online for about 5 hours, writing 19 pages worth of story, and found myself thinking "I should tell than 'thank you' since this has been like my most prolific day in writing history."
There was an odd dream-like feel about the whole thing. I tried to get a picture of the band, though I was less interested in that than a random water bottle I found, and subsequently kept. It was empty, which meant, as someone who is cheap and hasn't gotten to start their new job yet, I could stop at a water fountain and have free water (which actually tastes better than pricey bottled water). Soon, I became disinterested in getting a picture of Hanson, and more intent on getting cool pictures of the crowd there. The huge crowd interested me because, even though I'm a Hanson fan, I assume that there's only about 20 of us in any given area. I didn't realize, cynically so, that they still drew a huge crowd.
I kept my iPod on through the whole line process, the girls behind me were crying and shaking and screaming. The people in front of me were a rather lovely-dovey couple that I preferred to not here, and I just, generally, don't deal well in spaces occupied by thousands of people. Had I been there to see the show, I'd have coped better, but I know my limitations, which involve me not taking very well to people surrounding me, and me not being able to escape. It's some sort of phobia. I'm pretty sure it falls somewhere under the heading of Agoraphobia. Thankfully I don't get panic attacks. If I'm not in a crowded public setting where I'm in the midst of a crow with someone I know, I tend to space out. All logical thought goes from my head, and I notice things that aren't the people around me. My breathing also changes. Not in a big hyperventilating type way, just a small, subtle "I'm breathing faster" type way. I also tend to start to sweat. I don't know if that's due to the fear, or because with so many people jammed into one space, air conditioning or not, it's going to get really hot.
Besides my very slight phobia, I also hadn't slept in over 24 hours, nor had I eaten in about 10 hours. I was grumpy. I noticed a lot of people had their CDs out, or he booklets in the case out to a certain page. I had wanted each one to sign one place each - one on the back of the CD front case - so that I'd see it, all backwards, and through the cover, one on a page in the booklet, randomly opened, and one on the CD itself. I had a really good reason for that, but it seemed like I wouldn't be able to get that. And the body guard was saying how they'd only sign one thing, and wouldn't personalize anything. I fumbled through the booklet for the spot that was best for three autographs that I had seen other people open up to - the center picture of all three of them spread across two pages. I stowed my writing book in my pants - the way that I do, with one cover, literally, down the front of my pants, and the other one hanging outside. I fumbled with the book until I was up there, and, of course, didn't say anything.
First was Taylor, who smiled and asked how I was. A witter, calmer, almost home and far removed from the excitement of the day, would have said something like "I don't know - a bit blase about the whole thing" or said something about needing to wash off the layer of grime I always seem to build up when I come to the City. But no, I did that "Fine, how are you?", with this huge, dumb ass smile on my face. Separated from the crowd I could breath. Faced with these people - my age - who are a million times more talented than I could ever hope to be, whose music helped me through a really hard time in my life, I could only smile and think in the back of my head that "They're really here, and really shaking my hand".
They smiled the way I'm sure they smiled at all their fans, but it wasn't a "Smile for the cameras" smile. Their smiles, their hand shakes, all of it was genuine. It seems stupid to think that I could be able to tell people apart from their handshakes, but, no, I can.
On Easter when my cousin brought over her boyfriend for the family to meet, and I shook his hand, my instinct was 'Con artist'. He may not have been a con artist, but he was a dick in the end. Handshakes are a way to tell people apart. And I know the handshakes I don't like.
My words were all "thankyous" and smiles, smiles I couldn't control and have rarely experienced, and I shook their hands, and it was a moment that was electric. Shaking hands with someone famous is a connection to that person. I don't know how other people feel at that moment, but at that moment I realized how very real these men were, and how they are very real people. They'll go to wherever they're staying, and probably tuck their children into bed, and kiss their wives goodnight. Being as religious as it seems that are, they'll probably take a few moments out of the night to thank God and offer up a prayer which, at their ages now, and having had the opportunity to explore the world and cultures I've only ever read about, will be genuine. Maybe they'll read a book, maybe they'll just fall asleep, holding their loves close to them.
I walked out then, I felt happy and relieved, and, while I walked the same, I felt like I was skipping. I didn't want to hold up the line and have one of their guards move me along. I got what I came for, and was thankful for it. The autographs I waited 10 years for.
But, I'll wait for another opportunity. My obsession with famous people has nothing to do with lust, or greed, but a sincere interest in being their friends. Not so I can say "I'm friends with so and so" but because their public lives are so public that people forget they have a private life. That life is so special to famous people, and autographs and pictures make us think that, for a brief moment, we were part of it. I take out my picture of me and Hugh Jackman and say "I met him" as if really saying "I know him". I look at my autographs from the Hansons, and say "I got their autograph" which really means "I looked them in the eye and spoke to them, and they, for a minute saw me and nobody else".
While I didn't get any pictures of the brothers, I'm ok with that. I figured out long ago that pictures are so we can tell other people where we've been, and who we've seen. Given the opportunity, I'll take a picture, but the real memento, for me, is the memory. The memory stays long after I'd lose the photo, and it's not the photo that makes me smile, it's that one, small moment, the one where they look you in the eye and offer out their hand.
Though it's funny to think that yesterday actually started out as a misery since I couldn't get to sleep. Not out of excitement for the possibility of seeing the band I've held a torch for, and defended adamantly these past 10 years, but because the Harry Potter Event of '07 kept me up until 5am when I read it, and my sleeping pattern got really screwed up.
Since it was 6 am, I decided it was better if I didn't fall asleep. Going to sleep now would have been suicide for my first real chance in 10 years to get an autograph that I so desired.
Now, I know it's entirely possible to send a letter to the proper places to get an autograph, but getting an autograph by mail is, in my opinion, just sheer laziness. I always liked hearing autograph stories, and being able to see them write their names and to, dare I dream, shake their hands in person, is a much more worthy experience. It also means I get to get out of my house all day, which I don't always do since I can't always find an excuse.
At 9am I watched my favorite 9am morning show. It was really just luck that they happened to be on. My luck in seeing Hanson on TV or just randomly checking their website on the even of a new album release or something else exciting, is nothing sort of miraculous. In fact luck was how I even got into them at first.
In a sad chapter in my life (the chapter would probably be titled "Empy Bus Stop" if I even wrote book about my life) my grandmother had a stroke. When it happened I was in utter shock. The after school, I waited at the bus stop which was sincerely lacking my grandmother, whom, after a misstep on my part, always made sure I got on the right bus to get home. It had been months since that incident, and I knew what bus to get on (and know that bus's route better than any other bus), but she still insisted on coming, buying me lunch (since Wednesday's were half days), and making sure I got on the right bus. At that moment when she wasn't there, I suddenly realized how this small little routine was something I deeply cherished, and tried not to cry all the way home.
Depressed I went up to my room and changed clothes. It was too silent, and so I did the only seinsible thing and turned on my stereo. I couldn't find a CD I wanted to listen to, and Classic Rock wasn't doing it for me, so I fiddled with the stations, something I never did, and found z100 - which was, at the time, the best source for pop music for a pre-teen who needed to be in the know. I'm sure it still is the premiere source for all things popular, but since the music scene has changed from some good music, mostly homogeneous music, and rap songs that were, while not my taste, unique, dance worthy, mostly fun to pretty god awful music, scenester "rock" groups that really aren't all that talented, and homogeneous rap songs that are only entertaining to people like my friend and I are who listen to things for their lyrics. The lyrics of these aren't good, only funny in how bad they are. But, back then I listened to it for the first time in my life, and a song had just ended. I could tell because something was fading out into that .03 seconds of dead air before a new song. The song that came on was "I Will Come to You".
It was even greater luck that I saw the music video for "I Will Come to You" - it was Thanksgiving, and my grandma was still in the hospital. It wasn't that we usually spent Thanksgiving with her, it was that she was still in the hospital, and we couldn't call her. And this had all happened a few days, maybe even a week after my birthday. That's when I turned MTV on, just a few minuted before we had to leave for my Aunt's house for dinner (which is a whole other point to write about). It was involuntary. I was probably hoping to see the video, but it was nothing conscious in my mind. I did see the video, and it did make me cry - not a long, loud drawn out cry, but that soft, wiping tears from you face cry - because the whole premise was a girl going to her grandmother's.
So my friends, it was not "MMMBop" that made me tune into Hanson, but rather, by accident, hearing a slow, melancholy song, that acted like a reassuring friend in my time of need, that made me into a teeny-bopper. And yes, I was a teeny-bopper.
I watched their performance on the show, and went to take a shower and get changed. I found out the night before that they would be performing in the city to promote their new CD, released that day, as long as I bought the CD.
I called my best friend to see if she wanted to come to the city with me. I knew she wouldn't want to see Hanson. She hates them. I don't know why, and often I try to sneak in here and there a few of their later songs, which have matured in sound and nature and are much better - they remind me so much more of the classic rock I grew up on.
Somehow she always catches me.
It was with a bit of disdain that I snapped on a purple wristband, marking me, basically, as "late" and, maybe even "unworthy". I could only get the CD signed, I wouldn't be able to get to see them perform, which I was only able to see once in my life - At the Continental Airlines Arena, 9 years ago.
It was a good night of course, and getting to hear them live was a treat, and my present for graduating from 8th grade. I went with my other Hanson-fan friend (Hanson being the only thing that our friendship was really about), and practically freaked out when, at the end of the show, they took out water guns, and I was lucky enough to get a few drops on my Hanson shirt. It was funny, but all through that night I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was the first time I knew what it meant to feel that. My inclinations on feeling that I'm being watched have always been spot on, so I wonder still, to this day, who was it that gave me a weird paranoid feeling when I wasn't paying attention. The little fangirl in me says that it was Isaac - who had the unfortunate distinction of being the only person to turn their head away as I looked up. I know it wasn't. I stopped dreaming and wishing it was a long time ago. But until the day I die, I will always remember the concert.
But, the purple wristband did mean I could get my CD signed. I have wanted an autograph for 10 years. Paying, and leaving, my friend and I walked around Chinatown, and got a nice lunch and bubble tea, until I went back up town. We discussed such things as Role playing, whether love is merely biological, or if there's something more to it, our opinions on our friends' selected significant others, what we should do for Halloween, and, of course, Harry Potter.
Before we went our separate ways, she asked me about what I wanted them to write on my CD. I gave it a few moments thought and realized that, while it was highly unlikely I'd be able to get my CD personalized, since there were going to be a lot of people there, I'd want them to personalize it with either "Jillers" "Keep on Keepin' on" various references to me being awesome, or else have them write something like "U R liek TTLY G8" or something else stupid like that.
I took my position at the end of the line - around the corner and by a small restaurant called "Le Marais Rotisserie" which reminded me of some of the small cafe's I'd seen in France. I went over to look at the menu, noted the prices as being something I'd expect from a Midtown "Trying to French" restaurant.
I waited online for about 5 hours, writing 19 pages worth of story, and found myself thinking "I should tell than 'thank you' since this has been like my most prolific day in writing history."
There was an odd dream-like feel about the whole thing. I tried to get a picture of the band, though I was less interested in that than a random water bottle I found, and subsequently kept. It was empty, which meant, as someone who is cheap and hasn't gotten to start their new job yet, I could stop at a water fountain and have free water (which actually tastes better than pricey bottled water). Soon, I became disinterested in getting a picture of Hanson, and more intent on getting cool pictures of the crowd there. The huge crowd interested me because, even though I'm a Hanson fan, I assume that there's only about 20 of us in any given area. I didn't realize, cynically so, that they still drew a huge crowd.
I kept my iPod on through the whole line process, the girls behind me were crying and shaking and screaming. The people in front of me were a rather lovely-dovey couple that I preferred to not here, and I just, generally, don't deal well in spaces occupied by thousands of people. Had I been there to see the show, I'd have coped better, but I know my limitations, which involve me not taking very well to people surrounding me, and me not being able to escape. It's some sort of phobia. I'm pretty sure it falls somewhere under the heading of Agoraphobia. Thankfully I don't get panic attacks. If I'm not in a crowded public setting where I'm in the midst of a crow with someone I know, I tend to space out. All logical thought goes from my head, and I notice things that aren't the people around me. My breathing also changes. Not in a big hyperventilating type way, just a small, subtle "I'm breathing faster" type way. I also tend to start to sweat. I don't know if that's due to the fear, or because with so many people jammed into one space, air conditioning or not, it's going to get really hot.
Besides my very slight phobia, I also hadn't slept in over 24 hours, nor had I eaten in about 10 hours. I was grumpy. I noticed a lot of people had their CDs out, or he booklets in the case out to a certain page. I had wanted each one to sign one place each - one on the back of the CD front case - so that I'd see it, all backwards, and through the cover, one on a page in the booklet, randomly opened, and one on the CD itself. I had a really good reason for that, but it seemed like I wouldn't be able to get that. And the body guard was saying how they'd only sign one thing, and wouldn't personalize anything. I fumbled through the booklet for the spot that was best for three autographs that I had seen other people open up to - the center picture of all three of them spread across two pages. I stowed my writing book in my pants - the way that I do, with one cover, literally, down the front of my pants, and the other one hanging outside. I fumbled with the book until I was up there, and, of course, didn't say anything.
First was Taylor, who smiled and asked how I was. A witter, calmer, almost home and far removed from the excitement of the day, would have said something like "I don't know - a bit blase about the whole thing" or said something about needing to wash off the layer of grime I always seem to build up when I come to the City. But no, I did that "Fine, how are you?", with this huge, dumb ass smile on my face. Separated from the crowd I could breath. Faced with these people - my age - who are a million times more talented than I could ever hope to be, whose music helped me through a really hard time in my life, I could only smile and think in the back of my head that "They're really here, and really shaking my hand".
They smiled the way I'm sure they smiled at all their fans, but it wasn't a "Smile for the cameras" smile. Their smiles, their hand shakes, all of it was genuine. It seems stupid to think that I could be able to tell people apart from their handshakes, but, no, I can.
On Easter when my cousin brought over her boyfriend for the family to meet, and I shook his hand, my instinct was 'Con artist'. He may not have been a con artist, but he was a dick in the end. Handshakes are a way to tell people apart. And I know the handshakes I don't like.
My words were all "thankyous" and smiles, smiles I couldn't control and have rarely experienced, and I shook their hands, and it was a moment that was electric. Shaking hands with someone famous is a connection to that person. I don't know how other people feel at that moment, but at that moment I realized how very real these men were, and how they are very real people. They'll go to wherever they're staying, and probably tuck their children into bed, and kiss their wives goodnight. Being as religious as it seems that are, they'll probably take a few moments out of the night to thank God and offer up a prayer which, at their ages now, and having had the opportunity to explore the world and cultures I've only ever read about, will be genuine. Maybe they'll read a book, maybe they'll just fall asleep, holding their loves close to them.
I walked out then, I felt happy and relieved, and, while I walked the same, I felt like I was skipping. I didn't want to hold up the line and have one of their guards move me along. I got what I came for, and was thankful for it. The autographs I waited 10 years for.
But, I'll wait for another opportunity. My obsession with famous people has nothing to do with lust, or greed, but a sincere interest in being their friends. Not so I can say "I'm friends with so and so" but because their public lives are so public that people forget they have a private life. That life is so special to famous people, and autographs and pictures make us think that, for a brief moment, we were part of it. I take out my picture of me and Hugh Jackman and say "I met him" as if really saying "I know him". I look at my autographs from the Hansons, and say "I got their autograph" which really means "I looked them in the eye and spoke to them, and they, for a minute saw me and nobody else".
While I didn't get any pictures of the brothers, I'm ok with that. I figured out long ago that pictures are so we can tell other people where we've been, and who we've seen. Given the opportunity, I'll take a picture, but the real memento, for me, is the memory. The memory stays long after I'd lose the photo, and it's not the photo that makes me smile, it's that one, small moment, the one where they look you in the eye and offer out their hand.
20 July 2007
When it Rains....
So, what are the four words my parents so desperately wanted to hear come out of my mouth that I can now say with some degree of certainty? I found a job.
Sure, there are downsides to this job. It's very, extremely, part time. Pay is about 30 bucks a night (I'd only be there 3 hours anyway). And the job is at nights.
Of course there are some good things about the job. I'd be working in a theater - sure, it may only be ushering, but it's still in a theater. I'd be seeing new, interesting, non-homogenus shows. I'll probably see guys in dresses - which, since leaving Purchase, I've sorely missed. The job's at night, so my tendency to sleep until 2pm isn't such a bad thing.
I'm just excited about this - because I know it's not a lot of money, but I'd be working in a theater. And while I love video games and all things geeky, I view them as more of my hobby, whereas the theater, and the arts are much more of my passion. So, this will be a great experience for me.
Of course I'll have to get another part time job to supplement this income, but now I won't feel so completely trapped by that job, which I did feel while I was at TRU, because that job insinuated itself so much into my life, that there was barely time for anything else. Good for the wallet, bad for my sanity. You get into a retail job, that becomes your only job, and you say to yourself "It's just temporary" temporary until when, you don't know - but 7 months later you know you didn't mean to be there that long, and you don't have any time to pursue anything else you want.
But now I have this ushering job, at a small kind of off-off-off Broadway Theater (off). It's not much, but it seems like it'll be more of an injection of inspiration for me - while I work a horrible retail job, I'll still have this other theater job to go to, that will remind me of who I really am, and what it is I want to do in life.
I didn't ave that last time in TRU, and when it became too claustrophobic (among many other reasons), I quit.
Anyway, so, good thing 1 - I gots me a job bitches.
good thing 2 - The new Harry Potter movie is great. Even better than the book.
Number C - The Last Harry Potter book comes out this Saturday, and I've had my pre-order since March
It seems almost supernatural that 3 good things should occur all at once for me, but, hey, maybe my fortune is changing?
Though it does seem mean of me to gloat about this, and be happy and mirthful, when I know Adj has had a hard week. I'd call her, but when I called her yesterday to see if we were still on for Harry Potter, she said sure, but when Jev called me later, he said she wasn't feeling up to it - so, if something's wrong, or she's sick, and she wanted to tell me about it, I'm sure she'd call - I don't want to pressure her into telling me something she doesn't want to. When she feels better, and more up to socializing, she'll let me know, and I can't push that.
But, I'm still gonna' squeal about all this goodness around here, and do the little jigs I've been doing when no one's looking.
Because when it rains, it pours, and I've always been one of those people who like to run around and dance in the rain.
Sure, there are downsides to this job. It's very, extremely, part time. Pay is about 30 bucks a night (I'd only be there 3 hours anyway). And the job is at nights.
Of course there are some good things about the job. I'd be working in a theater - sure, it may only be ushering, but it's still in a theater. I'd be seeing new, interesting, non-homogenus shows. I'll probably see guys in dresses - which, since leaving Purchase, I've sorely missed. The job's at night, so my tendency to sleep until 2pm isn't such a bad thing.
I'm just excited about this - because I know it's not a lot of money, but I'd be working in a theater. And while I love video games and all things geeky, I view them as more of my hobby, whereas the theater, and the arts are much more of my passion. So, this will be a great experience for me.
Of course I'll have to get another part time job to supplement this income, but now I won't feel so completely trapped by that job, which I did feel while I was at TRU, because that job insinuated itself so much into my life, that there was barely time for anything else. Good for the wallet, bad for my sanity. You get into a retail job, that becomes your only job, and you say to yourself "It's just temporary" temporary until when, you don't know - but 7 months later you know you didn't mean to be there that long, and you don't have any time to pursue anything else you want.
But now I have this ushering job, at a small kind of off-off-off Broadway Theater (off). It's not much, but it seems like it'll be more of an injection of inspiration for me - while I work a horrible retail job, I'll still have this other theater job to go to, that will remind me of who I really am, and what it is I want to do in life.
I didn't ave that last time in TRU, and when it became too claustrophobic (among many other reasons), I quit.
Anyway, so, good thing 1 - I gots me a job bitches.
good thing 2 - The new Harry Potter movie is great. Even better than the book.
Number C - The Last Harry Potter book comes out this Saturday, and I've had my pre-order since March
It seems almost supernatural that 3 good things should occur all at once for me, but, hey, maybe my fortune is changing?
Though it does seem mean of me to gloat about this, and be happy and mirthful, when I know Adj has had a hard week. I'd call her, but when I called her yesterday to see if we were still on for Harry Potter, she said sure, but when Jev called me later, he said she wasn't feeling up to it - so, if something's wrong, or she's sick, and she wanted to tell me about it, I'm sure she'd call - I don't want to pressure her into telling me something she doesn't want to. When she feels better, and more up to socializing, she'll let me know, and I can't push that.
But, I'm still gonna' squeal about all this goodness around here, and do the little jigs I've been doing when no one's looking.
Because when it rains, it pours, and I've always been one of those people who like to run around and dance in the rain.
14 July 2007
Industrious
Being unemployed, with a less than stellar resume, and next to no calls for interviews, having an industrious day in which things are accomplished needs to be measured in a different way.
For instance, on a day when I would have work, if asked "did you accomplish anything today?" I could at least answer "I went to work and didn't get fired." It's not much, but it is something.
On any given day when I am unemployed, when asked if I've accomplished anything, I usually answer "No".
After all, I don't think most people see "Day dreaming and staring into space for a couple of hours" as an industrious day.
So, instead of that, I usually say something like "I started outlining a few new story ideas I had".
Equally "Staring at my email's inbox hoping, and waiting by the phone for some employer to email/call me back" becomes "Sent in a bunch of applications for jobs".
"Sleeping all day" becomes "I wasn't feeling good at all this afternoon, so I rested".
So, on a day where I slept till noon, watched The Transformers (cartoon), and looked for places to submit my writing, I've ended up describing it as "Researching a market for my stories and poems, and submitting a couple, while editing a few other pieces I'm working on".
Of course, some people may come from a family where they don't ask you "Did you accomplish anything today?" in a sarcastic way that means "So, you just lay around the house all day again didn't you?", and are, therefore, not forced to find a way to defend yourself; but that's not my house.
For instance, on a day when I would have work, if asked "did you accomplish anything today?" I could at least answer "I went to work and didn't get fired." It's not much, but it is something.
On any given day when I am unemployed, when asked if I've accomplished anything, I usually answer "No".
After all, I don't think most people see "Day dreaming and staring into space for a couple of hours" as an industrious day.
So, instead of that, I usually say something like "I started outlining a few new story ideas I had".
Equally "Staring at my email's inbox hoping, and waiting by the phone for some employer to email/call me back" becomes "Sent in a bunch of applications for jobs".
"Sleeping all day" becomes "I wasn't feeling good at all this afternoon, so I rested".
So, on a day where I slept till noon, watched The Transformers (cartoon), and looked for places to submit my writing, I've ended up describing it as "Researching a market for my stories and poems, and submitting a couple, while editing a few other pieces I'm working on".
Of course, some people may come from a family where they don't ask you "Did you accomplish anything today?" in a sarcastic way that means "So, you just lay around the house all day again didn't you?", and are, therefore, not forced to find a way to defend yourself; but that's not my house.
13 July 2007
Something I've Noticed
Since my brother moved to Muskegon, Michigan, my mother has spent much of her time reading facts about Michigan, watching the weather, and taking notice of any even that happens in Michigan.
I learned that in Michigan, the blind can legally own a gun, and hunt with it without any supervision.
I felt compelled to tell my mother.
We were in Arizona when I found this fact out, from reading a book. I don't know if it's a actual fact or not, but I trusted the author enough to not lie about something that important, and so, put the book down and hollered at my mother, who was swimming in the lukewarm pool. I had just gotten out, and was waiting to get my body temperature up enough to go back in and have the water feel cool.
"Hey mom, did you know that blind people can hunt in Michigan?"
"Yeah."
She swam to the side of the pool and held herself steady above water on the ledge, alternating the bottom arm because the cement around the pool was hot.
"Well... isn't that weird?"
I asked this, rather unsure of myself because her frank response caught me off guard.
I was expecting this to devolve into jokes and sarcasm, or at least one slightly of color joke, before she went back to swimming.
The fact that she took this as a common thing, not worth noticing, worried me. I don't know if it worried me for my mother, or for myself.
If blind people being allowed to hunt freely, without an aide, was just another everyday occurrence, worth a barely audible "Yeah" which was more of a "So what? Let me get back to swimming" then maybe there was something wrong with the way my brain worked.
She went back to swimming, and I continued reading my book, until the glare of the sun got too hot, and I felt myself cooking from the inside out. I jumped in and the blind man shooting randomly wherever he wanted, calling it "hunting", and getting away with it, was quickly forgotten.
Until today, when I thought of something that bothered me. My mother was watching a TV show about beach homes, and I was thinking about how just a week ago we were all in Arizona, in a 4-star hotel, sitting poolside, drinking cold beers, and looking forward to my cousin's wedding. I noticed that there was a girl on the television who acted shy and demure about her two piece suit.
This interested me, which I told m mom about:
"You know what else I don't understand?" I asked her, having just realized something that I didn't "Get". I forget what it is now because my mother agreed with me.
"What?" she asked absently, looking at her crossword puzzle book while the show went to commercial.
"Why do these girls act so shy and demure about showing their bodies off, and yet still wear a two piece bathing suit?"
She shrugged and mumbled an "I don't know" answer which really meant "It's not something I think about because it makes sense to me" and went back to her book, and then the program, stopping any further conversation in its tracks.
I guess it's how my mind works. I guess I'm just a weird person. I think about these things when they cross my mind. They don't seem to be on anyone else's minds . So, I worry about my own state of mental health, because if everyone else seems to think it's perfectly normal for shy, demure people, insecure about their bodies, to wear a two piece bathing suit, or for blind people to be allowed, legally, to hunt without a guide, then why don't I?
I learned that in Michigan, the blind can legally own a gun, and hunt with it without any supervision.
I felt compelled to tell my mother.
We were in Arizona when I found this fact out, from reading a book. I don't know if it's a actual fact or not, but I trusted the author enough to not lie about something that important, and so, put the book down and hollered at my mother, who was swimming in the lukewarm pool. I had just gotten out, and was waiting to get my body temperature up enough to go back in and have the water feel cool.
"Hey mom, did you know that blind people can hunt in Michigan?"
"Yeah."
She swam to the side of the pool and held herself steady above water on the ledge, alternating the bottom arm because the cement around the pool was hot.
"Well... isn't that weird?"
I asked this, rather unsure of myself because her frank response caught me off guard.
I was expecting this to devolve into jokes and sarcasm, or at least one slightly of color joke, before she went back to swimming.
The fact that she took this as a common thing, not worth noticing, worried me. I don't know if it worried me for my mother, or for myself.
If blind people being allowed to hunt freely, without an aide, was just another everyday occurrence, worth a barely audible "Yeah" which was more of a "So what? Let me get back to swimming" then maybe there was something wrong with the way my brain worked.
She went back to swimming, and I continued reading my book, until the glare of the sun got too hot, and I felt myself cooking from the inside out. I jumped in and the blind man shooting randomly wherever he wanted, calling it "hunting", and getting away with it, was quickly forgotten.
Until today, when I thought of something that bothered me. My mother was watching a TV show about beach homes, and I was thinking about how just a week ago we were all in Arizona, in a 4-star hotel, sitting poolside, drinking cold beers, and looking forward to my cousin's wedding. I noticed that there was a girl on the television who acted shy and demure about her two piece suit.
This interested me, which I told m mom about:
"You know what else I don't understand?" I asked her, having just realized something that I didn't "Get". I forget what it is now because my mother agreed with me.
"What?" she asked absently, looking at her crossword puzzle book while the show went to commercial.
"Why do these girls act so shy and demure about showing their bodies off, and yet still wear a two piece bathing suit?"
She shrugged and mumbled an "I don't know" answer which really meant "It's not something I think about because it makes sense to me" and went back to her book, and then the program, stopping any further conversation in its tracks.
I guess it's how my mind works. I guess I'm just a weird person. I think about these things when they cross my mind. They don't seem to be on anyone else's minds . So, I worry about my own state of mental health, because if everyone else seems to think it's perfectly normal for shy, demure people, insecure about their bodies, to wear a two piece bathing suit, or for blind people to be allowed, legally, to hunt without a guide, then why don't I?
12 July 2007
"My LItte Guinea Pig"
I can't imagine how often those words are spoken in other people's homes, but in mine, it's probably twice as much.
My father is in the wrong line of work - we all agree he should have been a chef. I imagine he'd be like a Gordon Ramsey, without the assault charge. He also probably wouldn't yell as much, but he'd say the same things... without the accent.
When you hear the words "Guinea Pig" in my house, my family is usually taste testing something my father concocted. 9 out of 10 times it's really good. In my 22 years of life I have only tasted one bad thing he's made, and that's only because I don't like raspberries.
Many times, when I'm being called a guinea pig by my father, I'm usually taken by surprise. Like now, I just went downstairs to get a glass of water, when my father enters the kitchen says "Ah, my little guinea pig" and makes a bowl of food for me - inside the bowl he put a little basket of baked Parmesan cheese, flaky and golden brown. Inside he put a lettuce mixture - you know, the green and red lettuces that come in a bag? and then he topped it off with two spoonfuls of a shrimp salad - the shrimp are tiny and covered in a mayonnaise sauce, with red onions and little tomato bits. I don't know what else he added to it. I imagine some horseradish, since there's a bit of a kick at the end. Then a little lemon was squirted onto it. It /is/ a little mayonnaisey, like my mother said. But it's still really good. The textures play on your tongue, and the taste just fills your mouth.
It's really good.
If this were served on a square plate, with a fancy fork, on a candlelit bale, it'd be worth like 10 bucks.
My father is in the wrong line of work - we all agree he should have been a chef. I imagine he'd be like a Gordon Ramsey, without the assault charge. He also probably wouldn't yell as much, but he'd say the same things... without the accent.
When you hear the words "Guinea Pig" in my house, my family is usually taste testing something my father concocted. 9 out of 10 times it's really good. In my 22 years of life I have only tasted one bad thing he's made, and that's only because I don't like raspberries.
Many times, when I'm being called a guinea pig by my father, I'm usually taken by surprise. Like now, I just went downstairs to get a glass of water, when my father enters the kitchen says "Ah, my little guinea pig" and makes a bowl of food for me - inside the bowl he put a little basket of baked Parmesan cheese, flaky and golden brown. Inside he put a lettuce mixture - you know, the green and red lettuces that come in a bag? and then he topped it off with two spoonfuls of a shrimp salad - the shrimp are tiny and covered in a mayonnaise sauce, with red onions and little tomato bits. I don't know what else he added to it. I imagine some horseradish, since there's a bit of a kick at the end. Then a little lemon was squirted onto it. It /is/ a little mayonnaisey, like my mother said. But it's still really good. The textures play on your tongue, and the taste just fills your mouth.
It's really good.
If this were served on a square plate, with a fancy fork, on a candlelit bale, it'd be worth like 10 bucks.
11 July 2007
First Post
It's just ridiculous really. I need a blog. I don't know why. I mean I kind of have one, but, you know, it's kind of meh. I like the feel of this place better.
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