So here's my big question of the week. Is it that hard to not be a dork?
Something set me off on this philosophical musing but I can't remember what. I have some serious concerns, however.
Here are some ways that people surprise me with behavior I can only label dorky. Also, dorky is a really ridiculous word if you use it more than twice in a blog. It suddenly looks absurd. Is it even English?
A) I can't remember what happened, but don't hold an eternal grudge against me. Like, say I said or did or DIDN'T do something that bothered you. I no longer remember, plus, remember, for a while there I was pregnant and if you've never been around a pregnant woman OR equally, if you've never BEEN a pregnant woman, well then you wouldn't know, would you. I will tell you. Everything is a bit more insane when you're pregnant. You can't rely on the normal course of things, like the sun rising, the sun setting, etc., because pregnancy throws all that to crap.
So say we had an appointment and I forgot, WAY back when I was pregnant. Might have been because I was pregnant. And you might not have known, because, if it was in the beginning, well, how could you have known? I wasn't tell everyone. Or, say I, in an attempt to be polite, returned a book to you before I finished reading it because I didn't want to forget. Well, might have been because I was pregnant and I was trying to sell my house and you had no way of knowing that because I was keeping that shit a secret. So, really, let's bury the hatchet. I didn't know it would destroy the mutually decent feeling between us and I couldn't really explain at the moment.
Yes, so there is that. Pregnancy. Wow. Really rough. Not that I think a person should just be able to use that excuse carte blanche, because that's annoying. But I'm using it here. Because. It's true.
B) There was something else. Some things. Hard to remember. Not enough sleep. Baby keeping me up all night. Memory shot to hell.
Oh yes. Please. For the love. THE LOVE. Don't let your dog crap in my yard. That's right. Yes, for sure we share the same teensy plot of land in front of our houses, but maybe you can either pick up the poop like responsible people do (with the inside-out bag) or you can monitor your dog and restrain him from pooping on my side of the lawn. See, I have a kid, and when summer comes, I'd love to let him play in the grass, but with your dog crapping all over it, I don't see that happening.
So. Please. Don't a crappy crap neighbor. Don't be a total dork and make me loath you.
I should probably go talk to this neighbor. I just hate confrontation. Is there a passive-aggressive way to deal with this? I mean, besides writing about it here?
C) Don't be a dork and ignore me like this is high school. I know. I was just talking about being passive-aggressive, so how I can make this type of request? I'm not sure how it works, but I'm doing it.
So yeah, maybe I always liked you way more than you liked me. How am I to know? Let's just not play games and accept stupid FB friend-requests and then proceed to ignore any other communication. For the love. That's just stupid. Unfriend me, because I don't care THAT much about it, and so I'm not under the illusion that the lines of communication are open and we are friends, or, um, I don't know, write back?
I mean. Really. Facebook. I get it, I understand that it's easy to forget to do something (see A, for example). I'm just saying, why even HAVE Facebook if you're never going to use it (and that leads to me getting paranoid because you haven't acknowledged me and I want to write a little rant like this).
Wait. I actually know the answer to that because I'm constantly threatening to delete my account and then never do—I don't use it enough and I'm always putting my foot in my mouth and offending someone. But still, I don't delete it. Because I might miss out on something awesome. Like, I don't know, suddenly Facebook gives everyone a free Mac or Ipad or something. Or the great Millennium is first announced on Facebook. That could totally happen.
And that is why I want to delete my Facebook account (but haven't).
Hmm. That's it. For today. I guess. Wow. I usually have so many more complaints. Welp. Now I feel mysteriously satisfied and empty. Like, I could just go through the rest of the day totally mellow, despite that had to wake up every two or three hours last night and am therefore very tired and head-achey.
Huh. Who would have thought. I only had three complaints today.
Amazing. Huh. Well then. I guess I'll just go over here, in this corner. And sit. For a while. Huh.....
*Silence*
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Monday, April 09, 2012
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Mercenary Team Deathmatch: How Call of Duty Relates to Life
I realized last night while playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (online) that my life can be expressed in the experience of Mercenary Team Deathmatch.
Oh sure, sometimes I feel quite stupid that I've just spent an hour or two running around a fictional universe shooting fake people. But it's become a compulsion and as we all know, there is no refusal from within the grasp of compulsion.
A couple weeks ago I got arrogant and downloaded the new map pack from the Playstation Network. It costs $15 and it gives you access to several new locations for the slaughter-fest (spell check didn't like slaughterfest. I agree, it should not be allowed to enter the lexicon as a compound word. Too offensive).
I didn't think before I downloaded it that the only people who'd be downloading it are the real junkies. Addicts. These are the players who have devoted days—not hours—to the game. There are 70 levels a player can progress through and then, just to make it interesting, the game developers introduced what's known as Prestige leveling. That means that once you get to 70, you can start all over and progress from level 1 to level 70.
For those who are repulsed by video games, or who just don't understand them and who have no grasp on the particulars of Mercenary Team Deathmatch, it's simple: I'm on a team. Me and my team shoot the guys (or girls) on the other team.
It sounds boring, but if you like amusement park games where you target shoot or anything similar to that premise, you'd love online deathmatch. It's challenging. You run around trying to be stealthy and outsmart other humans who are much more inventive than a mere AI.
It sounds boring, but if you like amusement park games where you target shoot or anything similar to that premise, you'd love online deathmatch. It's challenging. You run around trying to be stealthy and outsmart other humans who are much more inventive than a mere AI.
Not only that, the guns are accurate representations of actual guns in the real world. And since I enjoy gun stuff, I find that part of it compelling also.
Oh sure, sometimes I feel quite stupid that I've just spent an hour or two running around a fictional universe shooting fake people. But it's become a compulsion and as we all know, there is no refusal from within the grasp of compulsion.
A couple weeks ago I got arrogant and downloaded the new map pack from the Playstation Network. It costs $15 and it gives you access to several new locations for the slaughter-fest (spell check didn't like slaughterfest. I agree, it should not be allowed to enter the lexicon as a compound word. Too offensive).
I didn't think before I downloaded it that the only people who'd be downloading it are the real junkies. Addicts. These are the players who have devoted days—not hours—to the game. There are 70 levels a player can progress through and then, just to make it interesting, the game developers introduced what's known as Prestige leveling. That means that once you get to 70, you can start all over and progress from level 1 to level 70.
I know. It's a sickness.
There are special insignias next to your player name to identify what level you are, and there are even more special insignias to indicate how you're an insane moron who's Prestiged fifty thousand times. Because, to be gluttonous about it, you can do it more than once. Generally these players are unstoppable. And I hate them.
So I'm only on my first time. Level 67 or something. But I still suck. And here's the thing: a lot of your success depends on how well you know the maps, or the layout of the environment the game is in. Because if you're very familiar with it, you know what the other team will be doing. Surprise is a powerful weapon.
And this is how it's just like my life.
Quite often as I'm shooting someone (in the game—I feel I should specify that so as not to be mistaken for a serial murderer), I'll run out of bullets before they're dead and I have to reload. During that time, the opponent kills me. OR, another player from my team will step in and finish off my opponent, which gives me only an ASSIST in my stats menu. So when the game finishes and the stats are onscreen, inevitably I have a very low number of kills, and seven thousand assists.
See how it's like my real life?
I'm always just a step behind, or, while the real good crap's happening, I'm caught reloading. Or, before I can draw a bead and pull the trigger, my opponent has lightning reflexes and I'm dead.
So I respawn and lo and behold, the game puts me near the guy who just killed me, and he kills me again. And again. And before I can get anywhere or do anything, I've been killed ten times in a row without inflicting any damage on a single foe.
It's frustrating. I can never quite improve because the moment I start to get better, some bigger fish swims up, devours me, and spits out my bones. There's ALWAYS a bigger fish. I can never get comfortable. The moment I do, a swarm of evil soldiers or militia-men runs around the corner and slaughters me and I flounder helpless like a My Buddy doll wielding a useless Lego gun or some such nonsense.
And this is just like my life. Exactly like my life, in fact. No, but it's a fantastic metaphor, and it illustrates nicely the way I'm always a step behind. Some of us are mediocre at everything. I'm mediocre at everything because I lack the capacity to focus with laser-like precision because I'M ONLY HUMAN.
Harry.
But it's good. Because, as I was thinking this morning, do I seriously think those whom I perceive to be on top don't sweat bullets every time they make a career decision? Especially people in a fly-by-night industry like publishing, music, television, or film?
I was thinking about Garth Brooks, for some odd reason, choosing from the billions of demos that were most likely made just for him. Back in the day he was IT. I bet the choice gave him ulcers. I bet he worried that he wasn't picking the hits. I bet it's hard to tell which song will rock number one for fifty weeks, and I know because I hear some of the demos that run through Nashville and I think, dang, that's good.
And you know, no matter how high you get on the ladder, you always feel like you're struggling like hell to make it, and if you don't, you're either a moron or you're blind and I don't understand you. Life's a battle. A war zone. Mercenary Team Deathmatch.
So I hope you have a good team. I hope I have a good team. I know one thing, I need larger magazines and a steadier hand. And maybe a new controller. I think this one's broke. Heh heh. Excuses excuses.
____________________
Related Posts:
How Dragon Age: Origins Interferes with Real Life
Infamous and Flying in Video Games
I'm always just a step behind, or, while the real good crap's happening, I'm caught reloading. Or, before I can draw a bead and pull the trigger, my opponent has lightning reflexes and I'm dead.
So I respawn and lo and behold, the game puts me near the guy who just killed me, and he kills me again. And again. And before I can get anywhere or do anything, I've been killed ten times in a row without inflicting any damage on a single foe.
It's frustrating. I can never quite improve because the moment I start to get better, some bigger fish swims up, devours me, and spits out my bones. There's ALWAYS a bigger fish. I can never get comfortable. The moment I do, a swarm of evil soldiers or militia-men runs around the corner and slaughters me and I flounder helpless like a My Buddy doll wielding a useless Lego gun or some such nonsense.
And this is just like my life. Exactly like my life, in fact. No, but it's a fantastic metaphor, and it illustrates nicely the way I'm always a step behind. Some of us are mediocre at everything. I'm mediocre at everything because I lack the capacity to focus with laser-like precision because I'M ONLY HUMAN.
Harry.
But it's good. Because, as I was thinking this morning, do I seriously think those whom I perceive to be on top don't sweat bullets every time they make a career decision? Especially people in a fly-by-night industry like publishing, music, television, or film?
I was thinking about Garth Brooks, for some odd reason, choosing from the billions of demos that were most likely made just for him. Back in the day he was IT. I bet the choice gave him ulcers. I bet he worried that he wasn't picking the hits. I bet it's hard to tell which song will rock number one for fifty weeks, and I know because I hear some of the demos that run through Nashville and I think, dang, that's good.
And you know, no matter how high you get on the ladder, you always feel like you're struggling like hell to make it, and if you don't, you're either a moron or you're blind and I don't understand you. Life's a battle. A war zone. Mercenary Team Deathmatch.
So I hope you have a good team. I hope I have a good team. I know one thing, I need larger magazines and a steadier hand. And maybe a new controller. I think this one's broke. Heh heh. Excuses excuses.
____________________
Related Posts:
How Dragon Age: Origins Interferes with Real Life
Infamous and Flying in Video Games
Thursday, July 22, 2010
From My NEW NEW NEW Website
I finally got my website up. It's taken me my entire life, but I've finally arrived. Finally! Check it out. This is from the front page which will change from time to time:
For the past few months I’ve put the book revisions aside to work on some short stories. This isn’t to say that I’ve given up on the series, because I’m still in love with the ideas in it, but I’ve wanted to work on my character development, which means really getting inside their heads. I have strong feelings about women writing male characters and men writing female characters, but apparently not strong enough for me to shy away from writing male characters. Heh.
I won’t go into the reasons, but it mainly concerns the fact that I have a hard time conceptualizing the way men see the universe. However, I think it comes easier to a woman because women live in a man’s world. I’m not a vicious feminist, but I do believe that the male gaze influences how I see the world, meaning that I was raised in a world which sexualizes women, so (and yes, this is a total rationalization) I feel like women tend to understand how men see females BETTER than the other way around.
The caveat to that, the whole male gaze thing and women living in a man’s world, is that I think it’s changing. I’m not here to make men feel guilty or to vindicate the oppressed or anything, because I don’t know how to do that. And, in any case, I think we are all living under various oppressive institutions. I just want to write stories about ideas that interest me and make them entertaining. So read them and let me know what you think. You can find my contact information on my About page or you can read my blog and leave comments there. I love feedback.
For the past few months I’ve put the book revisions aside to work on some short stories. This isn’t to say that I’ve given up on the series, because I’m still in love with the ideas in it, but I’ve wanted to work on my character development, which means really getting inside their heads. I have strong feelings about women writing male characters and men writing female characters, but apparently not strong enough for me to shy away from writing male characters. Heh.
I won’t go into the reasons, but it mainly concerns the fact that I have a hard time conceptualizing the way men see the universe. However, I think it comes easier to a woman because women live in a man’s world. I’m not a vicious feminist, but I do believe that the male gaze influences how I see the world, meaning that I was raised in a world which sexualizes women, so (and yes, this is a total rationalization) I feel like women tend to understand how men see females BETTER than the other way around.
The caveat to that, the whole male gaze thing and women living in a man’s world, is that I think it’s changing. I’m not here to make men feel guilty or to vindicate the oppressed or anything, because I don’t know how to do that. And, in any case, I think we are all living under various oppressive institutions. I just want to write stories about ideas that interest me and make them entertaining. So read them and let me know what you think. You can find my contact information on my About page or you can read my blog and leave comments there. I love feedback.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Secret of Happiness
I've figured out the secret to happiness.
It's quite simple, really. The secret is to realize that life is rather miserable. So expect misery, but be happy through it all. Right? It's not that hard. All you do is understand that life isn't supposed to be a visit to Wonka's factory and you'll get along swimmingly.
I was thinking about it today. I have about a hundred bruises on my thighs from this new bed-frame I got on Saturday. The bed-frame looks great. I swear it improves the entire bed, which was really starting to give me back problems. I feel like an adult, having a bed-frame and real bedroom furniture instead of whatever college leftovers Stoker and I could throw together. That's nice. There's nothing like feeling like an adult (even if all any of us ever does is fake it).
Anyway, the footboard has some wicked corners and being a dolt, I've run into them about a million and two times. I'm always in a hurry. I'm always charging ahead and ramming my legs against things accidentally.
So I was noticing how abused my legs look. The bruises are bad and hurt, as bruises are wont to do. But still, this song I was listening to put me in a good mood. I was singing along, getting into the song, and it hit me: life is like that combo--seeing the bruises and pain but being in a good mood because of a song. Or whatever you have that can add a positive note to the sorrow.
Priceless. I'm giving you kernels of wisdom here. Go with them and let them set you free, my child.
I know it seems like I have all the answers. But actually, I have a degree in fakery. I forget all the lessons I've learned almost always. If I've been hurt often enough, I can learn. Like, for example, the lessons of the inexplicable cabinet in our kitchen.
We bought a fixer-upper that was built in 1940. I think the kitchen cabinets might be the original cabinets. I assume refrigerators must have consistently been five in a half feet at some point and that's why this floating cabinet just hangs there with nothing under it, waiting to crack you open as you clock your head against its vicious corner on your way into the dining room. It's right next to the doorway. I think I turned my head into something like a squishy peach five or six times before it became habitual to automatically compensate for the stupid thing (and now I have brain damage. So sad. But it was worth it! To learn such a valuable lesson....).
What I mean to illustrate is how difficult it is for humans to learn. Or at least me, the slowest learner, the latest bloomer ever to feign intelligence.
But it took five or six good concussions before I learned. So in the end I think I came out on top. Or perhaps that's the brain damage talking.
The point is, misery should have a soundtrack. Find yours. I've got mine and it puts a great spin on everything. It's not that bad! Things are fine! Listen to this Cee Lo Green song, this Jamie Lidell tune or my favorite right now, Little Dragon.
It's quite simple, really. The secret is to realize that life is rather miserable. So expect misery, but be happy through it all. Right? It's not that hard. All you do is understand that life isn't supposed to be a visit to Wonka's factory and you'll get along swimmingly.
I was thinking about it today. I have about a hundred bruises on my thighs from this new bed-frame I got on Saturday. The bed-frame looks great. I swear it improves the entire bed, which was really starting to give me back problems. I feel like an adult, having a bed-frame and real bedroom furniture instead of whatever college leftovers Stoker and I could throw together. That's nice. There's nothing like feeling like an adult (even if all any of us ever does is fake it).
Anyway, the footboard has some wicked corners and being a dolt, I've run into them about a million and two times. I'm always in a hurry. I'm always charging ahead and ramming my legs against things accidentally.
So I was noticing how abused my legs look. The bruises are bad and hurt, as bruises are wont to do. But still, this song I was listening to put me in a good mood. I was singing along, getting into the song, and it hit me: life is like that combo--seeing the bruises and pain but being in a good mood because of a song. Or whatever you have that can add a positive note to the sorrow.
Priceless. I'm giving you kernels of wisdom here. Go with them and let them set you free, my child.
I know it seems like I have all the answers. But actually, I have a degree in fakery. I forget all the lessons I've learned almost always. If I've been hurt often enough, I can learn. Like, for example, the lessons of the inexplicable cabinet in our kitchen.
We bought a fixer-upper that was built in 1940. I think the kitchen cabinets might be the original cabinets. I assume refrigerators must have consistently been five in a half feet at some point and that's why this floating cabinet just hangs there with nothing under it, waiting to crack you open as you clock your head against its vicious corner on your way into the dining room. It's right next to the doorway. I think I turned my head into something like a squishy peach five or six times before it became habitual to automatically compensate for the stupid thing (and now I have brain damage. So sad. But it was worth it! To learn such a valuable lesson....).
What I mean to illustrate is how difficult it is for humans to learn. Or at least me, the slowest learner, the latest bloomer ever to feign intelligence.
But it took five or six good concussions before I learned. So in the end I think I came out on top. Or perhaps that's the brain damage talking.
The point is, misery should have a soundtrack. Find yours. I've got mine and it puts a great spin on everything. It's not that bad! Things are fine! Listen to this Cee Lo Green song, this Jamie Lidell tune or my favorite right now, Little Dragon.
Friday, November 21, 2008
"Did You Watch That Conway Twitty Video Yet?" and Ruminations About Conway Twitty and What He Means in the Larger Scheme of Things
Did you watch that Conway Twitty video yet? If you didn't, go watch it now and bask in his amazing muttonchops. Some of my readers will think that my infatuation is getting out of hand, and if so, then they obviously haven't watched the YouTube video of him doing "Slow Hand." Because if they had, they would understand how easily it can go this far. That video alone is enough to win the iciest of hearts. If not for the pure karaoke feel of it, then for the way he caresses the lyrics of the song even while balancing precariously on a six foot circular platform in the middle of an unresponsive audience.
The thing I'm so grateful for right now, is the opportunity I have to watch footage of Conway singing before I was even alive. Stuff they wouldn't air on television again except for late at night during Time Life Country Classics Collection infomercials. So thank you YouTube, thank you.
I pinned up a Conway Twitty LP in my cubicle. I've been decorating with LPs for years now (yes, I was the first, actually), but this one is special because it's in my cubicle and it's like airing your alcohol addiction for everyone in your office to see. I don't know where I'm going with that metaphor, but the only thing I could do that would be worse would be to put up an NRA sticker. I have one, yes, it's true, but I put it in my car to really make a statement. The truth is, I find it humorous to really be into sappy crap. And I love the contradictions in all humans, but in myself most of all. I think it says something about life, that life is chaotic but full of beauty. I guess beauty is impossible without an element of the hideous somewhere.
You know what I'm talking about. Like when you're out on a hike, enjoying breathtaking vistas and an endless sky and then you stumble across the fresh carcass of a deer or something. How it hurts, the violent beauty of earth. That's what I mean, and we all have microcosms of that inside us. We have beautiful desires, like the desire to sing a Barbara Streisand song as you walk down the street, serenading the homeless. But everything gets in the way, fear of rejection or even indifference, and so the beautiful desires get suppressed; instead you simply pin up an LP of Conway Twitty in your cubicle--a tiny suggestion of the passion within. And then you drive home from work, cursing your lungs out at the bastard drivers in your way.
Update: The original link to "Slow Hand" was to a higher quality video, which has been removed by the author. The new link is of questionable quality, but these versions are also good:
The thing I'm so grateful for right now, is the opportunity I have to watch footage of Conway singing before I was even alive. Stuff they wouldn't air on television again except for late at night during Time Life Country Classics Collection infomercials. So thank you YouTube, thank you.
I pinned up a Conway Twitty LP in my cubicle. I've been decorating with LPs for years now (yes, I was the first, actually), but this one is special because it's in my cubicle and it's like airing your alcohol addiction for everyone in your office to see. I don't know where I'm going with that metaphor, but the only thing I could do that would be worse would be to put up an NRA sticker. I have one, yes, it's true, but I put it in my car to really make a statement. The truth is, I find it humorous to really be into sappy crap. And I love the contradictions in all humans, but in myself most of all. I think it says something about life, that life is chaotic but full of beauty. I guess beauty is impossible without an element of the hideous somewhere.
You know what I'm talking about. Like when you're out on a hike, enjoying breathtaking vistas and an endless sky and then you stumble across the fresh carcass of a deer or something. How it hurts, the violent beauty of earth. That's what I mean, and we all have microcosms of that inside us. We have beautiful desires, like the desire to sing a Barbara Streisand song as you walk down the street, serenading the homeless. But everything gets in the way, fear of rejection or even indifference, and so the beautiful desires get suppressed; instead you simply pin up an LP of Conway Twitty in your cubicle--a tiny suggestion of the passion within. And then you drive home from work, cursing your lungs out at the bastard drivers in your way.
Update: The original link to "Slow Hand" was to a higher quality video, which has been removed by the author. The new link is of questionable quality, but these versions are also good:
Friday, August 24, 2007
Black Marks and Rock at the Pearly Gates
Do you ever feel like you're being watched? Not in the "I'm starring in my own movie and this is my soundtrack" way, which I'm convinced everyone secretly thinks until they have the reality check of "WTF, this is NO movie!" No, my friend, you only live once.
Who can blame us, really? Raised on Little Mermaid, Breakfast Club, and Some Kind of Wonderful and all those other Disney and John Hughes movies, we're bound to feel like our lives are dramatic and being caught on tape, somewhere, somehow, even if it is just a cosmic reel of film in the sky being recorded for judgment day.
St. Peter: So, Nicole, this is what we caught on tape from your college years. You were pretty rebellious. For no apparent reason. Of course, we all understand, but that's no excuse.
Film rolls. Nicole kissing a random stranger on the Old Main "A" on (when else?) A-day (Aggies, duh). Staying out until 4 a.m. to be with boys. Sleeping through political science class all the time.
Nicole: I was 18!
St. Peter: No one blames you, we all understand. We all rebelled and pushed the boundaries, I mean, I understand very much. But NONE of us got a D in political science because of our misadventures. As a result, three black marks by your name, here on the White Board of Judgment. [Gestures to a large white board with thousands of names on it. Nicole's name is highlighted with a long string of black marks beside it.]
Nicole, gasping: What? I'm being judged based on my college performance? I had no idea! The Christians told us it would be based on the Ten Commandments.
St. Peter, shaking his head: They've been wrong about a lot of things. For example, there is no Hell.
Nicole: Yeah, I kind of knew that, basically. I mean, I knew that the real Hell was being on earth, with the Democrats and the environmentalists. What really gets me is that you're using the name-and-black-mark system to judge people. I thought that was a lie, a tool used by clergy and mothers to subjugate children and the uneducated public.
St. Peter: No, it's real. Some of your black marks have been erased based on good behavior. For every insect whose life you have spared, one black mark is erased.
Nicole: There's that, I guess. So, I really like the soundtrack. Is that "Lovefool" playing?
St. Peter: Yes, sung by the Rolling Stones. This was a very big song your first year in college, when you were chasing that boy (an ill-advised love affair, if you ask me). But St. Anthony prefers the Stones to the Cardigans, so he commissioned them specifically for your life soundtrack.
Nicole: Wow . . . that's . . . some great service . . . this is very random. I didn't think saints listened to rock.
St. Peter: This is Heaven. Of course we listen to rock.
Anyway, the real reason I ask about feeling like you're being watched is because a couple of days ago, I was walking through the parking lot at my work. As I approached the building, a guy I had never seen before was walking away from the building. Really, I'd never seen him before. He looked at me like he knew me, you know how a face lights up when they recognize someone. So I smiled and gave a little wave. He said to me, "Nicole, right?" A bit taken aback, I said, "Who are you?" And he said his name, which I've already forgotten, and then he added, "I'm in security."
There are cameras everywhere, I don't even pay attention to them. But I sometimes wonder if there are people somewhere watching the video feed. It's just a little disconcerting, that's all. I guess this is how celebrities feel.
Who can blame us, really? Raised on Little Mermaid, Breakfast Club, and Some Kind of Wonderful and all those other Disney and John Hughes movies, we're bound to feel like our lives are dramatic and being caught on tape, somewhere, somehow, even if it is just a cosmic reel of film in the sky being recorded for judgment day.
St. Peter: So, Nicole, this is what we caught on tape from your college years. You were pretty rebellious. For no apparent reason. Of course, we all understand, but that's no excuse.
Film rolls. Nicole kissing a random stranger on the Old Main "A" on (when else?) A-day (Aggies, duh). Staying out until 4 a.m. to be with boys. Sleeping through political science class all the time.
Nicole: I was 18!
St. Peter: No one blames you, we all understand. We all rebelled and pushed the boundaries, I mean, I understand very much. But NONE of us got a D in political science because of our misadventures. As a result, three black marks by your name, here on the White Board of Judgment. [Gestures to a large white board with thousands of names on it. Nicole's name is highlighted with a long string of black marks beside it.]
Nicole, gasping: What? I'm being judged based on my college performance? I had no idea! The Christians told us it would be based on the Ten Commandments.
St. Peter, shaking his head: They've been wrong about a lot of things. For example, there is no Hell.
Nicole: Yeah, I kind of knew that, basically. I mean, I knew that the real Hell was being on earth, with the Democrats and the environmentalists. What really gets me is that you're using the name-and-black-mark system to judge people. I thought that was a lie, a tool used by clergy and mothers to subjugate children and the uneducated public.
St. Peter: No, it's real. Some of your black marks have been erased based on good behavior. For every insect whose life you have spared, one black mark is erased.
Nicole: There's that, I guess. So, I really like the soundtrack. Is that "Lovefool" playing?
St. Peter: Yes, sung by the Rolling Stones. This was a very big song your first year in college, when you were chasing that boy (an ill-advised love affair, if you ask me). But St. Anthony prefers the Stones to the Cardigans, so he commissioned them specifically for your life soundtrack.
Nicole: Wow . . . that's . . . some great service . . . this is very random. I didn't think saints listened to rock.
St. Peter: This is Heaven. Of course we listen to rock.
Anyway, the real reason I ask about feeling like you're being watched is because a couple of days ago, I was walking through the parking lot at my work. As I approached the building, a guy I had never seen before was walking away from the building. Really, I'd never seen him before. He looked at me like he knew me, you know how a face lights up when they recognize someone. So I smiled and gave a little wave. He said to me, "Nicole, right?" A bit taken aback, I said, "Who are you?" And he said his name, which I've already forgotten, and then he added, "I'm in security."
There are cameras everywhere, I don't even pay attention to them. But I sometimes wonder if there are people somewhere watching the video feed. It's just a little disconcerting, that's all. I guess this is how celebrities feel.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
A Tract of Land Surrounded by Water and Smaller than a Continent...
It's weird how we're all at different points in our lives, all of us. The normal ones. I have to make exception for the murderers and sociopaths among us. I don't count them as us. They are they. The others. I'm not sure why I have to make exception for them, but I always do that about everything. I think in stereotypes and then I sort it out from there, unraveling the stereotypes or confirming them.
When I say "our lives" and "all of us," I mean the people I work with and the people I pass on the street and the people in their cars, filling up the four lanes of traffic heading into downtown Nashville at 7:30 am. And I mean my grandma, across the country in the mountains of central Utah, sitting at home all by herself, probably reading or planning to go out with the other seniors who live in the tiny towns of the Sanpete valley. And I mean the kids going to school, not knowing how their lives will end up; and the people who are retiring, not knowing how the rest of their lives will feel.
It's just weird. My grandma is at a completely different point in her life. The twilight years, I like to think, where everything feels more quiet and everything seems a little less pressing. It's more about waiting and walking slow. She was once like me. Really passionate, determined to shape the universe into what she desired. She's really beautiful and I miss her.
I see other older people walking around, driving their cars really slow, like the car is about to take off and spin out of control, and I get a little annoyed with them. But then I think of my own grandma. I know she has worries and fears and I know there were times in her life where she probably wasn't sure she'd make it. To see her now you'd hardly think she ever lost her composure. I'm not sure she did. She's always smiling.
It's crazy to me that there are different things on our minds, her mind and my mind. And the people I work with. And the people driving their cars, on their way somewhere, getting in my way. Some of my coworkers are older and I know, though I forget sometimes, that they have concerns that are very different than mine. Some of them are more worried about their retirement than me. Some of them are probably thinking about being the primary breadwinner. So we all sit in this little room and it's so quiet I could scream, sometimes, just to make a noise and shake things up a bit. The white noise coming from who the hell knows where, hardly covers the sounds of us typing or moving in our creaking chairs. Quiet, but how loud would the sound of our voices be if the buzz of our thoughts could be heard?
It reminds me of the beginning of the German film, Wings of Desire. I own that dvd just so I can occasionally watch the first scenes, where the angels walk amongst the people (it really makes you think about what it means to be human: the beautiful little things like how newsprint leaves its mark on your fingertips). They can't be seen, but the people sometimes feel them close. As the angels draw near to a person, they can hear that person's thoughts. They hear all the mortal concerns and sometimes an angel just touches the person's shoulder and usually the person suddenly feels hope.
It's just like what I imagine it would sound like to be able to tune into all the millions of thoughts. I'm not saying I want to, unless of course, all the freakos are excluded from the calling. See, I have to have an exception. I don't want to be concerned with psychopaths unless I'm being asked to be a superhero and I can use the power to stop crimes from being committed. I just don't want to go there, into the freaky realm. The scary door.
That would be the problem with me and any supernatural powers. I'd use it to do good. But would it be good, ultimately? I guess it depends on what good means. If it means no pain or suffering, then I'm not sure it's good. That's why humans can never be trusted with supernatural powers. We could never be given the power of foresight, like, the power to see into the future and to grasp all the possible paths a person might take.
Take, for example, love. What if all my prayers had been answered and I'd been spared the pain of the break up with that first boyfriend right out of college? I'd have never married Stoker. But if there had been a superhero standing by, he'd have forced the ex-boyfriend into marrying me because it would have been good by some standards of bad and good. But from my perspective now, it would have been bad.
In any case. It's amazing how our paths cross and how we weave our lives together to make sense of our loneliness. I think we are islands, ultimately. All alone in our heads. But still, we rely on each other. Uh-huh.
When I say "our lives" and "all of us," I mean the people I work with and the people I pass on the street and the people in their cars, filling up the four lanes of traffic heading into downtown Nashville at 7:30 am. And I mean my grandma, across the country in the mountains of central Utah, sitting at home all by herself, probably reading or planning to go out with the other seniors who live in the tiny towns of the Sanpete valley. And I mean the kids going to school, not knowing how their lives will end up; and the people who are retiring, not knowing how the rest of their lives will feel.
It's just weird. My grandma is at a completely different point in her life. The twilight years, I like to think, where everything feels more quiet and everything seems a little less pressing. It's more about waiting and walking slow. She was once like me. Really passionate, determined to shape the universe into what she desired. She's really beautiful and I miss her.
I see other older people walking around, driving their cars really slow, like the car is about to take off and spin out of control, and I get a little annoyed with them. But then I think of my own grandma. I know she has worries and fears and I know there were times in her life where she probably wasn't sure she'd make it. To see her now you'd hardly think she ever lost her composure. I'm not sure she did. She's always smiling.
It's crazy to me that there are different things on our minds, her mind and my mind. And the people I work with. And the people driving their cars, on their way somewhere, getting in my way. Some of my coworkers are older and I know, though I forget sometimes, that they have concerns that are very different than mine. Some of them are more worried about their retirement than me. Some of them are probably thinking about being the primary breadwinner. So we all sit in this little room and it's so quiet I could scream, sometimes, just to make a noise and shake things up a bit. The white noise coming from who the hell knows where, hardly covers the sounds of us typing or moving in our creaking chairs. Quiet, but how loud would the sound of our voices be if the buzz of our thoughts could be heard?
It reminds me of the beginning of the German film, Wings of Desire. I own that dvd just so I can occasionally watch the first scenes, where the angels walk amongst the people (it really makes you think about what it means to be human: the beautiful little things like how newsprint leaves its mark on your fingertips). They can't be seen, but the people sometimes feel them close. As the angels draw near to a person, they can hear that person's thoughts. They hear all the mortal concerns and sometimes an angel just touches the person's shoulder and usually the person suddenly feels hope.
It's just like what I imagine it would sound like to be able to tune into all the millions of thoughts. I'm not saying I want to, unless of course, all the freakos are excluded from the calling. See, I have to have an exception. I don't want to be concerned with psychopaths unless I'm being asked to be a superhero and I can use the power to stop crimes from being committed. I just don't want to go there, into the freaky realm. The scary door.
That would be the problem with me and any supernatural powers. I'd use it to do good. But would it be good, ultimately? I guess it depends on what good means. If it means no pain or suffering, then I'm not sure it's good. That's why humans can never be trusted with supernatural powers. We could never be given the power of foresight, like, the power to see into the future and to grasp all the possible paths a person might take.
Take, for example, love. What if all my prayers had been answered and I'd been spared the pain of the break up with that first boyfriend right out of college? I'd have never married Stoker. But if there had been a superhero standing by, he'd have forced the ex-boyfriend into marrying me because it would have been good by some standards of bad and good. But from my perspective now, it would have been bad.
In any case. It's amazing how our paths cross and how we weave our lives together to make sense of our loneliness. I think we are islands, ultimately. All alone in our heads. But still, we rely on each other. Uh-huh.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Smaller Than Life
If I really think about it, I can't believe how small my life is. And I'm getting old, but I don't feel older. I still feel like this little kid whose big dreams keep her moving forward.
It's weird. I come to work every day and I sit here being real small and unimportant. Some days I have a lot of work to do and other days, like the past few weeks, I have nothing to work on. So I sit here and try to make sense of all this free time. Stoker teases me about it and we both get a kick out of how this tiny cubicle in the basement of this ugly building has nurtured my antisocial behavior. And by antisocial, I don't mean that I'm a nutcase. Although one could argue that that's what it is.
I research things on the web that I'm curious about and I check out Phd programs and I pine for all the things I secretly want but haven't the courage to go for. If I were a hustler like Stoker (and by hustler I mean a go-getter, nothing to do with the seedy magazine. Curse them for ruining a perfectly good word), I'd be generating an income in this free time. I'd be writing magazine articles and pitching ideas to magazines and publications all over the place.
But I'm an indecisive, over-analytical sort of person who pines away but never does anything. I mean, I do some things. But I don't do the right things. And I never make my mind up about anything pertinent. Because I'm so afraid of making the wrong choice, I never make any choice. It's pathetic.
And so my life is small. And it always will be. I'll always be smaller than life. And if you met me, you'd see that it shouldn't be like that, because I don't seem like a smaller than life type. I seem like I should conquer nations and manipulate political powers. Yeah, that's how I seem. Trust me.
I realize that all this is a total contradiction of my previous post. But if you knew me like, say, Stoker does, you'd see how it fits. It does. Believe me.
It's weird. I come to work every day and I sit here being real small and unimportant. Some days I have a lot of work to do and other days, like the past few weeks, I have nothing to work on. So I sit here and try to make sense of all this free time. Stoker teases me about it and we both get a kick out of how this tiny cubicle in the basement of this ugly building has nurtured my antisocial behavior. And by antisocial, I don't mean that I'm a nutcase. Although one could argue that that's what it is.
I research things on the web that I'm curious about and I check out Phd programs and I pine for all the things I secretly want but haven't the courage to go for. If I were a hustler like Stoker (and by hustler I mean a go-getter, nothing to do with the seedy magazine. Curse them for ruining a perfectly good word), I'd be generating an income in this free time. I'd be writing magazine articles and pitching ideas to magazines and publications all over the place.
But I'm an indecisive, over-analytical sort of person who pines away but never does anything. I mean, I do some things. But I don't do the right things. And I never make my mind up about anything pertinent. Because I'm so afraid of making the wrong choice, I never make any choice. It's pathetic.
And so my life is small. And it always will be. I'll always be smaller than life. And if you met me, you'd see that it shouldn't be like that, because I don't seem like a smaller than life type. I seem like I should conquer nations and manipulate political powers. Yeah, that's how I seem. Trust me.
I realize that all this is a total contradiction of my previous post. But if you knew me like, say, Stoker does, you'd see how it fits. It does. Believe me.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The Houseplant Liberation Committee at Work
I feel bad for the plants in my office. I just barely noticed that we have a few of them in my immediate work area. I have to say that if I were a plant, I'd want to be in a room with windows.
How do they even survive? There's absolutely no trace of sunlight in here, reflected, stray, or otherwise. Everything I've ever learned about plants is that they like to be in direct sunlight or at least near sunlight (indirect).
I suppose some of my co-workers keep the plants as a cheery reminder that there is life beyond this cold, dark dungeon where we work. Unfortunately for the plants they have no legs and thus no choice about being here, there, or anywhere. They are where we put them, whether it's in a cold cellar (like my workplace) with no light, or out in the middle of a treeless meadow with too much light.
Fortunately for us, when we're done with our shift here, we get to leave this dank basement behind to go outside and go home and along the way feel actual, real sunshine on our bodies. And we don't even need the sunshine for energy production like plants do.
I'm about to liberate some houseplants. I'm going to do it. Don't try to stop me!
How do they even survive? There's absolutely no trace of sunlight in here, reflected, stray, or otherwise. Everything I've ever learned about plants is that they like to be in direct sunlight or at least near sunlight (indirect).
I suppose some of my co-workers keep the plants as a cheery reminder that there is life beyond this cold, dark dungeon where we work. Unfortunately for the plants they have no legs and thus no choice about being here, there, or anywhere. They are where we put them, whether it's in a cold cellar (like my workplace) with no light, or out in the middle of a treeless meadow with too much light.
Fortunately for us, when we're done with our shift here, we get to leave this dank basement behind to go outside and go home and along the way feel actual, real sunshine on our bodies. And we don't even need the sunshine for energy production like plants do.
I'm about to liberate some houseplants. I'm going to do it. Don't try to stop me!
Monday, July 09, 2007
Harper's and Pecans
Busy today. Reading an article from the May 2006 Harper's about hog farming in the U.S. It's a disgusting practice. I'm all for capitalism, but is it really ethical to artificially inseminate animals en masse? I think not. I'll tell you all about it when I'm done with the article.
I'm also eating these delicious snacks I found at REI, they're called Sahale Snacks and I'd walk across the Sahara to obtain a package of the Valdosta blend. I really would.
I'm also eating these delicious snacks I found at REI, they're called Sahale Snacks and I'd walk across the Sahara to obtain a package of the Valdosta blend. I really would.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Legal Status and Women: Do We Really Want It?
I fixed my blog. I know, I know, it's white. But in a non-scientific study, I found that Web sites and blogs with a light colored background are easier to read. That's just my opinion. Me, I am the informant for the casual study, which was based entirely on personal feelings.
It took several hours but I've adjusted the majority of fonts and type color from past entries. Hopefully everything is visible and readable now. I clearly live in a fantasy world to think that people actually read this blog, let alone go back and read old posts. I assume that because I'm the reading sort of person, others read too.
In any case, I vow to never have a black blog again. It's a bad idea. Another bad idea is changing the text from the default color to a new color. Other people may realize this on their own, intelligent as they are, but if you change the default type color, when and if you change your blog template (as I have done so many times), the default type color doesn't change with the new settings. You have to go in and manually change it on each post. That takes a long time if you have many posts.
Something else that's been bothering me, though not of the blogging world -- the bother of changing your name when you get married. Ok, so it took me a year and a half to do this, and I was pushed into doing it by circumstances: I needed a social security card. I lost mine when I was thirteen or thereabouts. I put off changing it because it's a hassle, really. It's not that I have much against changing my name, I don't. Sure, I had boyfriends in the past who turned it into a power struggle and felt no empathy for the identity struggle of changing your name, and so I was violently against it. But Stoker's a doll and he's right there with me on the few feminism ideologies that I subscribe to. So I have never felt that I had to prove a point.
When I was depositing Stoker's check today (he'd signed the back of it and everything), the bank teller had some silly issue with my license (old last name), the name I'd signed on the deposit slip (new last name), and the fact that it was Stoker's check. It was nothing really, but it got me all annoyed about the name change crap. First of all -- and I could go on about this for hours, I don't know why I'm bring it up now-- back in the day, women had no legal status. I'm sure they didn't have contracts and social security cards and passports and credit cards and check books and driver's licenses and savings accounts and all that crap that is so gloriously liberating for the modern woman. So it was no big deal to change the name. Now it's a nightmare.
That's it, it just bothered the hell out of me as I left the bank. I thought about how things have changed for women in the past one hundred years and how great it is. But it's also irritating as hell for all the things that haven't changed.
I guess the saying is true: you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Oh and to answer the question about legal status, yeah we do want it. You'd have to be joking to think I could seriously consider going back to when women were on a par, legally and socially, with luggage.
It took several hours but I've adjusted the majority of fonts and type color from past entries. Hopefully everything is visible and readable now. I clearly live in a fantasy world to think that people actually read this blog, let alone go back and read old posts. I assume that because I'm the reading sort of person, others read too.
In any case, I vow to never have a black blog again. It's a bad idea. Another bad idea is changing the text from the default color to a new color. Other people may realize this on their own, intelligent as they are, but if you change the default type color, when and if you change your blog template (as I have done so many times), the default type color doesn't change with the new settings. You have to go in and manually change it on each post. That takes a long time if you have many posts.
Something else that's been bothering me, though not of the blogging world -- the bother of changing your name when you get married. Ok, so it took me a year and a half to do this, and I was pushed into doing it by circumstances: I needed a social security card. I lost mine when I was thirteen or thereabouts. I put off changing it because it's a hassle, really. It's not that I have much against changing my name, I don't. Sure, I had boyfriends in the past who turned it into a power struggle and felt no empathy for the identity struggle of changing your name, and so I was violently against it. But Stoker's a doll and he's right there with me on the few feminism ideologies that I subscribe to. So I have never felt that I had to prove a point.
When I was depositing Stoker's check today (he'd signed the back of it and everything), the bank teller had some silly issue with my license (old last name), the name I'd signed on the deposit slip (new last name), and the fact that it was Stoker's check. It was nothing really, but it got me all annoyed about the name change crap. First of all -- and I could go on about this for hours, I don't know why I'm bring it up now-- back in the day, women had no legal status. I'm sure they didn't have contracts and social security cards and passports and credit cards and check books and driver's licenses and savings accounts and all that crap that is so gloriously liberating for the modern woman. So it was no big deal to change the name. Now it's a nightmare.
That's it, it just bothered the hell out of me as I left the bank. I thought about how things have changed for women in the past one hundred years and how great it is. But it's also irritating as hell for all the things that haven't changed.
I guess the saying is true: you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Oh and to answer the question about legal status, yeah we do want it. You'd have to be joking to think I could seriously consider going back to when women were on a par, legally and socially, with luggage.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Harleys and Pool-Whores
Let it be said that loud motorcycles bug the hell out of me. I don't know what happened. There was a time when I thought, "Oooh, cool Harley." But now that everyone has one and now that there isn't a two year waiting list to get a Harley and now that every city great or small has a Harley dealership (my word even the small Valley of Cache has one. I'm just teasing, mixing up the words to give you a hard time, it's really Cache Valley), I think they suck. What sucks about them isn't the motorcycle itself because some of them are still cool. It's the choppers. The ones that go "thwup thwup thwup thwup" all up and down the street. It's the ones that disturb my peaceful reverie at the side café as they roar by.
My question for the riders is, "Who do you think you are?" I guess you think you're the bomb because you can drive around a loud-ass bike. Do you consider yourself different? Do you think you're part of a counterculture? I'm just asking because you don't look cool to me. You're not interesting. You're loud and obnoxious. And just to enlighten you, you look creepy with all those tattoos, the shaved head, and the wife-beater. I don't have time to get to know you, so this will never be proven otherwise.
I guess what happened to me is that I got older. My tolerance for noise and crowds and traffic has gotten lower, probably because I've had to be around those things for so long now. When I was a kid everything was a new experience and I was really into feeling things and seeing things. But now I would like a bit of peace and quiet, a glass of lemonade by the pool with a few other quiet, unassuming types like myself, people who are also drinking ice cold lemonade—or, I'd even allow that they're drinking iced tea—and who are not smoking or wearing bikinis that barely cover their flesh; who are not tanned to a crisp, leathery complexion; who are not sporting a big butt-crack tattoo (you know the kind, the kind that span the cheeks like an arch—yeah, I like to call them butt-crack tattoos just for the hell of it, maybe because for the tattoo to be showing, a butt-crack is almost peeking out too). I realize that some might consider me crass, even as I pontificate against crassness. But let it be said I am not crass just because I say ass and hell. If I am crass, it's for other reasons.
When I think about the annoying people at my apartment pool (whose tiny bikinis barely cover their withered and sagging flesh—it's withered from the sun, not because they're old—and who bring a cooler full of beer and who chain smoke while laying out), I realize they bear the same mentality as the guys with the loud Harleys. They are rooted in materialism. And frankly, I am not a material girl*.
*To a degree. I have my weaknesses. I enjoy a few material pleasures, such as books. I love a new book and will buy one just for the sheer pleasure of finding the book, smelling the new ink and paper, and feeling the weight of it in my hands, and then I won't read it for years. Eventually I do. But the thrill is in the experience of buying it.
My question for the riders is, "Who do you think you are?" I guess you think you're the bomb because you can drive around a loud-ass bike. Do you consider yourself different? Do you think you're part of a counterculture? I'm just asking because you don't look cool to me. You're not interesting. You're loud and obnoxious. And just to enlighten you, you look creepy with all those tattoos, the shaved head, and the wife-beater. I don't have time to get to know you, so this will never be proven otherwise.
I guess what happened to me is that I got older. My tolerance for noise and crowds and traffic has gotten lower, probably because I've had to be around those things for so long now. When I was a kid everything was a new experience and I was really into feeling things and seeing things. But now I would like a bit of peace and quiet, a glass of lemonade by the pool with a few other quiet, unassuming types like myself, people who are also drinking ice cold lemonade—or, I'd even allow that they're drinking iced tea—and who are not smoking or wearing bikinis that barely cover their flesh; who are not tanned to a crisp, leathery complexion; who are not sporting a big butt-crack tattoo (you know the kind, the kind that span the cheeks like an arch—yeah, I like to call them butt-crack tattoos just for the hell of it, maybe because for the tattoo to be showing, a butt-crack is almost peeking out too). I realize that some might consider me crass, even as I pontificate against crassness. But let it be said I am not crass just because I say ass and hell. If I am crass, it's for other reasons.
When I think about the annoying people at my apartment pool (whose tiny bikinis barely cover their withered and sagging flesh—it's withered from the sun, not because they're old—and who bring a cooler full of beer and who chain smoke while laying out), I realize they bear the same mentality as the guys with the loud Harleys. They are rooted in materialism. And frankly, I am not a material girl*.
*To a degree. I have my weaknesses. I enjoy a few material pleasures, such as books. I love a new book and will buy one just for the sheer pleasure of finding the book, smelling the new ink and paper, and feeling the weight of it in my hands, and then I won't read it for years. Eventually I do. But the thrill is in the experience of buying it.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Question of the Year: Elton John or Billy Joel?
Five Questions I Got From the Owner of this BLOG.
Do you squeeze the toothpaste tube or roll it? What's the advantage of your method?
If I have a tube, I squeeze then roll. This has the advantage of getting all the toothpaste out of the tube. Eventually I'll be a millionare with all the money I've saved by being frugal with my toothpaste. But I use Mentadent now. I press down. It's the best.
What's one regret you live with?
Having bought a laptop with credit. Ha. Ha ha ha. That was SO stupid. Credit card debt is the dumbest. I also regret having used student loans to pay for college. Ha ha. Loans suck.
What’s one of your nicknames? What do you preferred to be called?
Darlene. A lot of people think I resemble Sarah Gilbert from the sitcom Roseanne. It started in junior high with a group of older boys who thought Darlene's name was DJ. But DJ was the little brother. Anyway, they called me DJ for forever, and then later, some other people started calling me Darlene. I can't escape it. For a long time it seemed like Darlene was based on me and my winning attitude.
I prefer to be called Nik by people who know me well, Nicole by people who don't, and Nikki by my family. Someone recently started calling me Holden, sarcastically, I think. I'd rather be called Holden than Darlene.
Billy Joel or Elton John?
Ooh that's a tough one. Both suck these days, but you have to admit they're amazing songwriters. They really know how to turn a phrase and work a chord change just enough to make your stomach drop. They both used to be better and they're both iconic, and somehow, growing up, I confused Billy for Elton and Elton for Billy. So odd, since they look nothing alike, names or faces. But it's funny that you should ask which of the two. Is it because they're both piano rock stars, or because they're names are so similar?
Honestly, I loved them both to death as a kid. "Sad Songs Say so Much" was a big hit with me, but so was "Uptown Girl." Secretly, I loved the hell out of "Nikita," I didn't even know what it was about, but I liked to pretend Elton had written it about me. At some point "It's a Matter of Trust" and "Innocent Man" were favorites, but because I liked to listen to them, not because they were Billy Joel's best, most probing works. Same with how I felt about "I Guess that's Why They Call it the Blues." I listened to the radio a lot back then and that's what formed my opinions about music. If I could dance to it or if it played into my romantic ideals, I loved it.
Anyway, now when I think about what songs I love by Elton John, I think of "Rocket Man," "Yellowbrick Road," and "Bitch is Back." And he's still going strong without looking like shit (like some rocks stars I might name, i.e. Keith Richards). That's always something, right? Elton hasn't burned up like the rest (they all flew a little too close to the sun*). So, sorry Billy, I have to go with Elton as my pick for best piano rock star.
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
It's so funny because it's so damn impossible. Everyone wants their own piece o' the pie and that often means stepping on other people's faces to get there. Peace, love, and understanding? Ha. Ha ha ha ha.
*"You let him go to the sun?!"
FINE PRINT:
Here are the rules if you want to keep it going: Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions, and let me know that you answered. If you don't have a blog, but would still like to play, I can send you the questions, and you can answer 'em in the comments. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Do you squeeze the toothpaste tube or roll it? What's the advantage of your method?
If I have a tube, I squeeze then roll. This has the advantage of getting all the toothpaste out of the tube. Eventually I'll be a millionare with all the money I've saved by being frugal with my toothpaste. But I use Mentadent now. I press down. It's the best.
What's one regret you live with?
Having bought a laptop with credit. Ha. Ha ha ha. That was SO stupid. Credit card debt is the dumbest. I also regret having used student loans to pay for college. Ha ha. Loans suck.
Darlene. A lot of people think I resemble Sarah Gilbert from the sitcom Roseanne. It started in junior high with a group of older boys who thought Darlene's name was DJ. But DJ was the little brother. Anyway, they called me DJ for forever, and then later, some other people started calling me Darlene. I can't escape it. For a long time it seemed like Darlene was based on me and my winning attitude.
I prefer to be called Nik by people who know me well, Nicole by people who don't, and Nikki by my family. Someone recently started calling me Holden, sarcastically, I think. I'd rather be called Holden than Darlene.
Billy Joel or Elton John?
Ooh that's a tough one. Both suck these days, but you have to admit they're amazing songwriters. They really know how to turn a phrase and work a chord change just enough to make your stomach drop. They both used to be better and they're both iconic, and somehow, growing up, I confused Billy for Elton and Elton for Billy. So odd, since they look nothing alike, names or faces. But it's funny that you should ask which of the two. Is it because they're both piano rock stars, or because they're names are so similar?
Honestly, I loved them both to death as a kid. "Sad Songs Say so Much" was a big hit with me, but so was "Uptown Girl." Secretly, I loved the hell out of "Nikita," I didn't even know what it was about, but I liked to pretend Elton had written it about me. At some point "It's a Matter of Trust" and "Innocent Man" were favorites, but because I liked to listen to them, not because they were Billy Joel's best, most probing works. Same with how I felt about "I Guess that's Why They Call it the Blues." I listened to the radio a lot back then and that's what formed my opinions about music. If I could dance to it or if it played into my romantic ideals, I loved it.
Anyway, now when I think about what songs I love by Elton John, I think of "Rocket Man," "Yellowbrick Road," and "Bitch is Back." And he's still going strong without looking like shit (like some rocks stars I might name, i.e. Keith Richards). That's always something, right? Elton hasn't burned up like the rest (they all flew a little too close to the sun*). So, sorry Billy, I have to go with Elton as my pick for best piano rock star.
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
It's so funny because it's so damn impossible. Everyone wants their own piece o' the pie and that often means stepping on other people's faces to get there. Peace, love, and understanding? Ha. Ha ha ha ha.
*"You let him go to the sun?!"
FINE PRINT:
Here are the rules if you want to keep it going: Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions, and let me know that you answered. If you don't have a blog, but would still like to play, I can send you the questions, and you can answer 'em in the comments. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Peaches and Tomatoes
Peach yogurt is the best. Yoplait original. Ninety-nine percent fat-free (as if it matters. I haven't reached that level of enlightenment yet; fats are still part of my diet). I didn't even realize I liked peach the best until last week. Thousands of years have gone by where I have NEVER eaten peach yogurt. How can this be? Raspberry, strawberry, blackberry, blueberry, strawberry-banana, all the berries of the vine I've eaten. Never peach.
And the thing is I even LOVE peaches. Growing up we had three peach trees in our yard, a veritable orchard by most people's standards. Every season, in late summer I'd eat a bushel of peaches straight off the tree, rinsed under the garden hose (it was attached to the house, so yes, potable), skin peeled off with my own hands. Sun ripened, pesticide-free, hormone-free, chemical-free, guilt-free. What a way to live, peach juice all over your hands and mouth, the summer sun on your back, the garden hose at your feet. Did it matter that the juice was sticky or that it was drizzling down my arms, dripping onto my clothes? Back then it didn't. These days I prefer fruit juice in a Minute Maid bottle, and that's a little sad.
But peach yogurt, that's not sad. That's delicious. How can it be so good? It's thrilling to think that life can still take me by surprise. That I can find out I like something I've never tried before. That on occasion I'll still take a chance and order something so unlike me from a menu at a restaurant. I've always been a person who relies on the tried and true, who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty (but rarely does), who prefers order over confusion, and who will be ruined over a small stain on a favorite shirt. But sometimes, now that I’m older, I'll go into the garden and pull a fat, red tomato* from the vine, sprinkle a little salt on it and take a bite, without even rinsing off the weather and earth. That's part of the flavor. And if a little juice gets on my hands and clothes, I'll be okay. That's part of the experience**.
*I love tomatoes almost as much as homegrown peaches. Tomato yogurt? Hell no.
**But now, isn't part of THIS experience a desperate attempt to relive the perfect, guileless experience created in my youth, which I've now elevated to represent some kind of more purposeful living? Living on purpose. You know, kids do it. We lose it when we grow up. I just think it's sad, that's all.
And the thing is I even LOVE peaches. Growing up we had three peach trees in our yard, a veritable orchard by most people's standards. Every season, in late summer I'd eat a bushel of peaches straight off the tree, rinsed under the garden hose (it was attached to the house, so yes, potable), skin peeled off with my own hands. Sun ripened, pesticide-free, hormone-free, chemical-free, guilt-free. What a way to live, peach juice all over your hands and mouth, the summer sun on your back, the garden hose at your feet. Did it matter that the juice was sticky or that it was drizzling down my arms, dripping onto my clothes? Back then it didn't. These days I prefer fruit juice in a Minute Maid bottle, and that's a little sad.
But peach yogurt, that's not sad. That's delicious. How can it be so good? It's thrilling to think that life can still take me by surprise. That I can find out I like something I've never tried before. That on occasion I'll still take a chance and order something so unlike me from a menu at a restaurant. I've always been a person who relies on the tried and true, who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty (but rarely does), who prefers order over confusion, and who will be ruined over a small stain on a favorite shirt. But sometimes, now that I’m older, I'll go into the garden and pull a fat, red tomato* from the vine, sprinkle a little salt on it and take a bite, without even rinsing off the weather and earth. That's part of the flavor. And if a little juice gets on my hands and clothes, I'll be okay. That's part of the experience**.
*I love tomatoes almost as much as homegrown peaches. Tomato yogurt? Hell no.
**But now, isn't part of THIS experience a desperate attempt to relive the perfect, guileless experience created in my youth, which I've now elevated to represent some kind of more purposeful living? Living on purpose. You know, kids do it. We lose it when we grow up. I just think it's sad, that's all.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Shawn Hornbeck: What IS Surprising is Everyone Else
What gets me is that everyone is so surprised when a kidnapped child is held captive in broad daylight, when the child could easily run away. You know, people get suspicious, like “why wouldn’t the kid go for help when he could?”
First of all, remember being eleven years old. Need your memory jogged? That’s easy enough, all you have to do is look at a bunch of kids at the mall or elsewhere. How are they behaving? Like kids, which is to say, kind of dumb, like they don’t get anything. They’re insecure, they’re awkward, they’re unsure of their place. They’re pretty much still a child. But they’re getting old enough to understand some things. When I was eleven, I was in fifth, maybe sixth grade. At the time I thought I was the shit. I look back now and I think, holy shit. I was so vulnerable and small. I can’t believe my mom let me walk home from school every day. Someone could have taken me so easily.
But my mom was really with it. A world-champion worrier, she made us call her at work as soon as we got home, and if we were late doing that, she was calling us. All afternoon we were allowed to call her over just about anything. If I felt like it, I could call my mom and complain about Dani’s unrighteous dictatorship. And I did, all the time.
The other thing she did that was strange to me at the time was make me memorize her calling card, and also how to call her collect. She told me that if anyone ever took me against my will and told me that if I ran away or called her or went to another adult for help, they’d kill me or my mom, I was to try to get help anyway. I was to run away at the first chance I got.
Now, I know that sounds crazy, because some kidnapper might have killed me if I had tried to get away. But what are the odds? I mean, honestly, what’s a kidnapper going to do with a child? Generally one of two things and I don’t think I need to name them*. Well okay, I’ll name one of them: they’re going to sell the child on the black market. Now, I don’t really know what that means, but my mom occasionally threatened selling me to the gypsies when I was bad, and I assume that translates to the black market. I’ve named one, you can figure out the second.
So anyway. You remember what it was like to be eleven. Now use your imagination and pretend you’re an eleven-year old, who has just been pulled into a car by a stranger and the stranger is taking you lord knows where. And they hurt you. And verbally abuse you and scare you. It’s a few days later and now you can go outside, but they tell you if you tell anyone anything that’s happened, they’ll kill you or your parents. So, what do you do? You’re eleven, do you even want to talk to a stranger? The stranger might be twenty times worse than the guy who took you. Can you trust anyone?
I know, it’s crazy. Can you believe these kidnapped kids? Let’s make a leap here, can you believe those moronic women who don’t leave their abusive husbands? How can they be silent when they’re being pummeled by someone who’s supposed to love them (and sometimes does, supposedly)? Another leap: can you believe those idiots in Communist China, or the former Communist U.S.S.R.? I mean, how can they stay in a country where they have no rights? Why don’t they flee? Why don’t they sneak out? I’m sure they could get away when no one was looking.
Okay, so maybe the last one is too much of a stretch, but the point remains the same: people, even adults, have fragile minds. We can easily begin to believe we’re worthless, that we deserve punishment, that we shouldn’t defend ourselves and our rights, that we have no rights, that Communist Russia is better than Switzerland (and anyway, we can’t get to Switzerland, we’re trapped, really, we are), and that Michael Devlin’s apartment is safer than running away.y \\
Why wouldn’t an eleven-year old boy run away? Better ask why an entire country would allow one man -- one evil dictator -- to continue to rule. That’s what I really can’t understand, because I completely get why a boy would be afraid to get help from a stranger after enduring any amount of abuse, most notably, the violation of your very freedom and trust in the world.
And if parents were wary, maybe they’d tackle the kidnapping issue with their children before someone else has a chance to impress their delicate minds with lies and threats. I don’t know for certain, but I feel pretty strongly that if someone had taken me, I would have tried to get free because of what my mom told me: go for help when you get the chance.**
*Because your’re not stupid, contrary to what Oprah might think. Why the hell did she have to get Shawn Hornbeck’s parents to publicly announce that he was sexually abused by Devlin on national television? Is that going to help him? Poor kid.
**My overall derisive tone is mainly directed at the suspicious reporters in the media.
First of all, remember being eleven years old. Need your memory jogged? That’s easy enough, all you have to do is look at a bunch of kids at the mall or elsewhere. How are they behaving? Like kids, which is to say, kind of dumb, like they don’t get anything. They’re insecure, they’re awkward, they’re unsure of their place. They’re pretty much still a child. But they’re getting old enough to understand some things. When I was eleven, I was in fifth, maybe sixth grade. At the time I thought I was the shit. I look back now and I think, holy shit. I was so vulnerable and small. I can’t believe my mom let me walk home from school every day. Someone could have taken me so easily.
But my mom was really with it. A world-champion worrier, she made us call her at work as soon as we got home, and if we were late doing that, she was calling us. All afternoon we were allowed to call her over just about anything. If I felt like it, I could call my mom and complain about Dani’s unrighteous dictatorship. And I did, all the time.
The other thing she did that was strange to me at the time was make me memorize her calling card, and also how to call her collect. She told me that if anyone ever took me against my will and told me that if I ran away or called her or went to another adult for help, they’d kill me or my mom, I was to try to get help anyway. I was to run away at the first chance I got.
Now, I know that sounds crazy, because some kidnapper might have killed me if I had tried to get away. But what are the odds? I mean, honestly, what’s a kidnapper going to do with a child? Generally one of two things and I don’t think I need to name them*. Well okay, I’ll name one of them: they’re going to sell the child on the black market. Now, I don’t really know what that means, but my mom occasionally threatened selling me to the gypsies when I was bad, and I assume that translates to the black market. I’ve named one, you can figure out the second.
So anyway. You remember what it was like to be eleven. Now use your imagination and pretend you’re an eleven-year old, who has just been pulled into a car by a stranger and the stranger is taking you lord knows where. And they hurt you. And verbally abuse you and scare you. It’s a few days later and now you can go outside, but they tell you if you tell anyone anything that’s happened, they’ll kill you or your parents. So, what do you do? You’re eleven, do you even want to talk to a stranger? The stranger might be twenty times worse than the guy who took you. Can you trust anyone?
I know, it’s crazy. Can you believe these kidnapped kids? Let’s make a leap here, can you believe those moronic women who don’t leave their abusive husbands? How can they be silent when they’re being pummeled by someone who’s supposed to love them (and sometimes does, supposedly)? Another leap: can you believe those idiots in Communist China, or the former Communist U.S.S.R.? I mean, how can they stay in a country where they have no rights? Why don’t they flee? Why don’t they sneak out? I’m sure they could get away when no one was looking.
Okay, so maybe the last one is too much of a stretch, but the point remains the same: people, even adults, have fragile minds. We can easily begin to believe we’re worthless, that we deserve punishment, that we shouldn’t defend ourselves and our rights, that we have no rights, that Communist Russia is better than Switzerland (and anyway, we can’t get to Switzerland, we’re trapped, really, we are), and that Michael Devlin’s apartment is safer than running away.y \\
Why wouldn’t an eleven-year old boy run away? Better ask why an entire country would allow one man -- one evil dictator -- to continue to rule. That’s what I really can’t understand, because I completely get why a boy would be afraid to get help from a stranger after enduring any amount of abuse, most notably, the violation of your very freedom and trust in the world.
And if parents were wary, maybe they’d tackle the kidnapping issue with their children before someone else has a chance to impress their delicate minds with lies and threats. I don’t know for certain, but I feel pretty strongly that if someone had taken me, I would have tried to get free because of what my mom told me: go for help when you get the chance.**
*Because your’re not stupid, contrary to what Oprah might think. Why the hell did she have to get Shawn Hornbeck’s parents to publicly announce that he was sexually abused by Devlin on national television? Is that going to help him? Poor kid.
**My overall derisive tone is mainly directed at the suspicious reporters in the media.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Spring. M.ward.
I just saw a flash of lighting out my window, in the clouds over the Wasatch Mountains. I’ve heard that for Navajo’s the first strike of lightning signifies the beginning of spring. To me this seems more accurate than the lunar or solar calendar. More applicable. More in tune with what’s happening on earth, more able to adapt to the vagaries of inexplicable atmospheric changes. Similarly, the first snowfall indicates the beginning of winter. My college mentor (though not by academic appointment), Barre Toelken, taught me this. He speaks Navajo. His first wife was Navajo. She died at a young age in a snowstorm while out with the sheep, trapped in a box canyon.
Anyway, I don’t know that much about it and there’s nothing more annoying than some Caucasian fool who thinks they’re an expert on Native Americans. Except Barre, who is Caucasian, but doesn’t walk around like a cocky rooster (if he’s cocky, his long life has taught him how to hide it). He’s an academic (and real life) expert on Navajos. I mentioned Barre because I spent roughly 8 years studying with him and he always told me and his other students when he had received the call from his adopted family in southern Utah, informing him of lightning or snow. Aside from that freak snow/hail storm with lightning in January, this is my first thunderstorm of 2005. And now there’s thunder and it sounds like it’s being broadcast to me through a tin can. If only I worked somewhere else, where I could at least OPEN the window. *Sigh*, I guess I’ll have to throw my computer monitor through it.
The other night, Stoker and I went to the M.Ward show. Remind me of why I go to shows? Always the one to romanticize things, I build up how great seeing so and so will be. Then I get there and resent everyone and their body odor, their huge head or afro blocking my view and their stupid clothes. It didn’t help that M.Ward sat down the entire time. Had this been In the Venue* and not the famous/infamous Kilby Court garage, sitting the whole time with his head tilted down (in an LA Dodgers baseball hat no less), tilted down wouldn’t have been a problem. Sure, it’s a cool spot, but only when there’s 30 of you. Any more than that and it’s like being trapped in a closet with your entire high school class breathing down your neck. And Kilby attracts people I don’t know or like. You hear with your ears, not your eyes, is what you’re thinking. Not true. Deaf people hear with their eyes. And I’m partially deaf**. So I needed to see him to know what was going on. If I just wanted to hear the music, I would have stayed at home or in my car and listened. With my ears, not my eyes.
The good that came of it was that I discovered Norfolk and Western (just call me Lewis. Or Clark. Or that Indian girl they took with them, what was her name? Pocohontas? Sasquatch? No, that’s big foot, hmmmm. Lucky for me I have the internet and can look it up in a matter of seconds). And they’re really good. So I’m sharing. See the link on my sidebar.
Also, for my diehard friends and fans, I’ve put an imix on itunes***, under Aries327. Originally there were 21 songs, but itunes didn’t support all the music. So if you’re truly desperate to have the whole thing, email me and I’ll send you the rest of the songs. I’d be happy to do it. Truly.
Sacagawea.
*Who thought that name up? It’s so annoying, “I’m going to a show tonight.” “Oh yeah, where at?” “It’s In the Venue.” After a long pause. “It’s in what venue?” “That’s the venue, In the Venue.” Annoying, for more reasons than because it's a name that begins with a preposition and all that. I shake my fist at the owners of In the Venue.
**No I’m not.
***I’m addicted to itunes. Stupid itunes, it doesn’t even know what it stupid does (see the Simpsons, when Lisa gets on the wrong bus the day of her science fair. I think).
Anyway, I don’t know that much about it and there’s nothing more annoying than some Caucasian fool who thinks they’re an expert on Native Americans. Except Barre, who is Caucasian, but doesn’t walk around like a cocky rooster (if he’s cocky, his long life has taught him how to hide it). He’s an academic (and real life) expert on Navajos. I mentioned Barre because I spent roughly 8 years studying with him and he always told me and his other students when he had received the call from his adopted family in southern Utah, informing him of lightning or snow. Aside from that freak snow/hail storm with lightning in January, this is my first thunderstorm of 2005. And now there’s thunder and it sounds like it’s being broadcast to me through a tin can. If only I worked somewhere else, where I could at least OPEN the window. *Sigh*, I guess I’ll have to throw my computer monitor through it.
The other night, Stoker and I went to the M.Ward show. Remind me of why I go to shows? Always the one to romanticize things, I build up how great seeing so and so will be. Then I get there and resent everyone and their body odor, their huge head or afro blocking my view and their stupid clothes. It didn’t help that M.Ward sat down the entire time. Had this been In the Venue* and not the famous/infamous Kilby Court garage, sitting the whole time with his head tilted down (in an LA Dodgers baseball hat no less), tilted down wouldn’t have been a problem. Sure, it’s a cool spot, but only when there’s 30 of you. Any more than that and it’s like being trapped in a closet with your entire high school class breathing down your neck. And Kilby attracts people I don’t know or like. You hear with your ears, not your eyes, is what you’re thinking. Not true. Deaf people hear with their eyes. And I’m partially deaf**. So I needed to see him to know what was going on. If I just wanted to hear the music, I would have stayed at home or in my car and listened. With my ears, not my eyes.
The good that came of it was that I discovered Norfolk and Western (just call me Lewis. Or Clark. Or that Indian girl they took with them, what was her name? Pocohontas? Sasquatch? No, that’s big foot, hmmmm. Lucky for me I have the internet and can look it up in a matter of seconds). And they’re really good. So I’m sharing. See the link on my sidebar.
Also, for my diehard friends and fans, I’ve put an imix on itunes***, under Aries327. Originally there were 21 songs, but itunes didn’t support all the music. So if you’re truly desperate to have the whole thing, email me and I’ll send you the rest of the songs. I’d be happy to do it. Truly.
Sacagawea.
*Who thought that name up? It’s so annoying, “I’m going to a show tonight.” “Oh yeah, where at?” “It’s In the Venue.” After a long pause. “It’s in what venue?” “That’s the venue, In the Venue.” Annoying, for more reasons than because it's a name that begins with a preposition and all that. I shake my fist at the owners of In the Venue.
**No I’m not.
***I’m addicted to itunes. Stupid itunes, it doesn’t even know what it stupid does (see the Simpsons, when Lisa gets on the wrong bus the day of her science fair. I think).
Monday, April 25, 2005
An Hour in Someone Else's Shoes (or, Photos.Wedding Dress.)
In an email to Stoker*:
The pictures went okay. I'm sooooo glad I'm not a model. What annoying work that would be. You know how we (as in anyone who’s not a model) look at models in advertisements for clothing and in catalogs and whatnot and think, "What shallow looking people." Or we think that sometimes, anyway. Well, if you’ve ever been the subject of a photo-shoot, that idea feels rather accurate and reinforced by the whole process of modeling and posing. I’d stand there in a position I thought the photographer wanted, feeling retarded, and then she'd leave her camera to come over and move my arms around and turn me and tilt my head and change the way I was holding the flowers and fluff my dress up. It was so bothersome and boring. The whole process wasn't great fun by any means, not to mention completely devoid of anything that could stimulate my brain (aside from the gorgeous landscape. But how long can I think about the landscape?). Then I'd start thinking things like, "Boy, I feel like a retard." Which led to, "Crap, don't think that, it'll show in my face or eyes."
So, what I mean is that standing there modeling, you're really like a puppet. They tell you how to hold your hands and arms and move you around like a claymation doll. So then you even feel like a puppet. Like you have no will of your own. And it was hard for me to let her control how I was doing things like holding the flowers. She'd start moving my arms and I'd feel them resisting and then I'd realize, "Oh, relax." But it was difficult. I didn't want to relax and let her move me around like I was an inanimate object.
And, not in the email to Stoker: The very fact that I just stood there while she moved me and directed me in how to stand…..well, it just serves my purpose. My purpose being to back up the argument that models are rather shallow people. How could any thinking (and I mean thinking, not thinking. The difference in my voice, if you could hear it, being the emphasis on the first thinking to imply that a person is given to deep thoughts of an analytical, critical and sometimes philosophical nature) person endure hours of that kind of work? While perhaps being rather light on the intellectual side, I will endorse the idea that models are probably very, very patient people. Able to take orders. And I don’t know, maybe the experienced ones really know what they’re doing and so they don’t have a photographer telling them how to stand, where to put their hands, whether or not they need to tilt their chin up, or down. I couldn’t do it. That’s all I know.
*Edited and altered to some degree. Much of the sappy stuff and sexual references removed. Joke. There were no sexual references. What do you take me for, anyway? Some bawdy, bar-room comedian?
The pictures went okay. I'm sooooo glad I'm not a model. What annoying work that would be. You know how we (as in anyone who’s not a model) look at models in advertisements for clothing and in catalogs and whatnot and think, "What shallow looking people." Or we think that sometimes, anyway. Well, if you’ve ever been the subject of a photo-shoot, that idea feels rather accurate and reinforced by the whole process of modeling and posing. I’d stand there in a position I thought the photographer wanted, feeling retarded, and then she'd leave her camera to come over and move my arms around and turn me and tilt my head and change the way I was holding the flowers and fluff my dress up. It was so bothersome and boring. The whole process wasn't great fun by any means, not to mention completely devoid of anything that could stimulate my brain (aside from the gorgeous landscape. But how long can I think about the landscape?). Then I'd start thinking things like, "Boy, I feel like a retard." Which led to, "Crap, don't think that, it'll show in my face or eyes."
So, what I mean is that standing there modeling, you're really like a puppet. They tell you how to hold your hands and arms and move you around like a claymation doll. So then you even feel like a puppet. Like you have no will of your own. And it was hard for me to let her control how I was doing things like holding the flowers. She'd start moving my arms and I'd feel them resisting and then I'd realize, "Oh, relax." But it was difficult. I didn't want to relax and let her move me around like I was an inanimate object.
And, not in the email to Stoker: The very fact that I just stood there while she moved me and directed me in how to stand…..well, it just serves my purpose. My purpose being to back up the argument that models are rather shallow people. How could any thinking (and I mean thinking, not thinking. The difference in my voice, if you could hear it, being the emphasis on the first thinking to imply that a person is given to deep thoughts of an analytical, critical and sometimes philosophical nature) person endure hours of that kind of work? While perhaps being rather light on the intellectual side, I will endorse the idea that models are probably very, very patient people. Able to take orders. And I don’t know, maybe the experienced ones really know what they’re doing and so they don’t have a photographer telling them how to stand, where to put their hands, whether or not they need to tilt their chin up, or down. I couldn’t do it. That’s all I know.
*Edited and altered to some degree. Much of the sappy stuff and sexual references removed. Joke. There were no sexual references. What do you take me for, anyway? Some bawdy, bar-room comedian?
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Blessed Brown Bananas
I have two extremely ripe bananas on my desk. I’m considering eating one. Mostly because with each second that passes, the yellow fades to brown. They look diseased and I’d say that if I don’t eat both of them pronto, my entire cubicle (a.k.a. cage) will begin to smell like a banana boat stuck in the doldrums.
Once, I actually found a bunch of black, shriveled bananas behind my computer monitor. Someone from my department had hidden them. I accused just about everybody and no one would admit to the crime. So now I look upon everyone with suspicion. And instead of getting a fresh bunch to put behind someone else’s computer monitor, I took the shriveled ones and hid them in my neighbor’s cubicle. Apparently I work with a bunch of jokers here and I’m just not joker material (if I was, I would have realized a shriveled bunch of bananas wouldn’t achieve the proper sense of hilarity. Then I would have stolen a fresh bunch from the break room on Monday morning to hide in a coworker’s cubicle). If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that no one gets my sense of humor, anyway.
So. The bananas. I don’t even really like them. But they were going bad in my mother’s pantry and I felt like it would be criminal to just to let them waste away like that in defeat of the banana’s higher calling, which is to feed me and provide me with sustenance. Blessed sustenance. So I brought two of them to work.
There’s also an apple on my desk. It’s been there since last week. I like bananas more than apples. But as you can see, I prefer pineapple. And I mean that. As far as I’m concerned, cottage cheese (of the low-fat variety) and pineapple is the breakfast of the gods. When I say gods, I mean Zeus and that lot of Greek gods who reside on gorgeous Mount Olympus, which I happen to have a great view of right outside my office window. I’m not kidding, either. Currently Olympus has a few feathery clouds crowding around it and has received a light dusting of snow. It’s been raining down here in the valley of the mortals and so I guess right now, we’ve got it better than the gods because at least it’s not snowing.
I keep eyeing the bananas. Like they’re my enemy. Like the smell is bothering me. Like I wish I hadn’t brought them to work because if I don’t eat them, I’ll feel enormously guilty. If you know me at all, you’ll know I have a deeply ingrained sense of guilt. I feel guilt for everything. For feeling annoyed at traffic. For not eating all my food at restaurants. For not recycling. For driving a car instead of riding my bike to work. For not wanting to eat the bananas. If only this guilt were balanced by an equally congratulatory feeling when I do something great, like eating a healthy dinner instead of a cheeseburger at the Dairy Queen, like when I refrain from flipping another driver off, or for recycling the rejected papers from the office printer instead of lazily throwing them in my own personal trash can. If only.
So. I’ll let you know how the bananas go down. And in case you’re wondering, the pineapple and cottage cheese this morning was divine, as was the sun momentarily shining through the clouds as it rose over blessed Mount Olympus.
p.s. My sister just came into my cubicle and asked me, as she pointed in disgust at the bananas, “You’re not going to eat those, are you?”
Once, I actually found a bunch of black, shriveled bananas behind my computer monitor. Someone from my department had hidden them. I accused just about everybody and no one would admit to the crime. So now I look upon everyone with suspicion. And instead of getting a fresh bunch to put behind someone else’s computer monitor, I took the shriveled ones and hid them in my neighbor’s cubicle. Apparently I work with a bunch of jokers here and I’m just not joker material (if I was, I would have realized a shriveled bunch of bananas wouldn’t achieve the proper sense of hilarity. Then I would have stolen a fresh bunch from the break room on Monday morning to hide in a coworker’s cubicle). If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that no one gets my sense of humor, anyway.
So. The bananas. I don’t even really like them. But they were going bad in my mother’s pantry and I felt like it would be criminal to just to let them waste away like that in defeat of the banana’s higher calling, which is to feed me and provide me with sustenance. Blessed sustenance. So I brought two of them to work.
There’s also an apple on my desk. It’s been there since last week. I like bananas more than apples. But as you can see, I prefer pineapple. And I mean that. As far as I’m concerned, cottage cheese (of the low-fat variety) and pineapple is the breakfast of the gods. When I say gods, I mean Zeus and that lot of Greek gods who reside on gorgeous Mount Olympus, which I happen to have a great view of right outside my office window. I’m not kidding, either. Currently Olympus has a few feathery clouds crowding around it and has received a light dusting of snow. It’s been raining down here in the valley of the mortals and so I guess right now, we’ve got it better than the gods because at least it’s not snowing.
I keep eyeing the bananas. Like they’re my enemy. Like the smell is bothering me. Like I wish I hadn’t brought them to work because if I don’t eat them, I’ll feel enormously guilty. If you know me at all, you’ll know I have a deeply ingrained sense of guilt. I feel guilt for everything. For feeling annoyed at traffic. For not eating all my food at restaurants. For not recycling. For driving a car instead of riding my bike to work. For not wanting to eat the bananas. If only this guilt were balanced by an equally congratulatory feeling when I do something great, like eating a healthy dinner instead of a cheeseburger at the Dairy Queen, like when I refrain from flipping another driver off, or for recycling the rejected papers from the office printer instead of lazily throwing them in my own personal trash can. If only.
So. I’ll let you know how the bananas go down. And in case you’re wondering, the pineapple and cottage cheese this morning was divine, as was the sun momentarily shining through the clouds as it rose over blessed Mount Olympus.
p.s. My sister just came into my cubicle and asked me, as she pointed in disgust at the bananas, “You’re not going to eat those, are you?”
Friday, April 08, 2005
Some Terms of Existence
I don’t want to:
1) write stupid reviews of other people’s books
2) write articles for magazines or newspapers where I’m forced to love/hate someone else’s work and resort to terms like “hip,” “trendy,” “self-deprecating,” or “clever” to describe them or their work
3) spend the rest of my life sitting in a piece of parceled space like a toy in a tidy package being told that the work I’ve produced isn’t good enough or what they were “looking for,” as though my job is to read their mind (or understand the poor terms they’ve outlined in their very brief “creative brief”) and know exactly what they’re “looking for.” Or maybe this is my job and I just don’t realize it
4) pander to musicians, authors, directors or actors or any other "artist" in writing, or even with my vocal cords, just to get in good with them. They should be pandering to me, is the way I see it
5) compete with other writers or scholars for the rest of my life, constantly wondering if I’ll get that much needed promotion or appointment to some seat as a dean of some college or board somewhere at some point in my life, secretly hating everyone because they’re a threat to my career
6) sell my work or creations for less than they’re worth out of fear of never "amounting to anything"
7) tell other people I think they’re work sucks or isn’t quite “what they could produce if they just put their mind to it”
8) gaze out of an office window wishing I was outside during the spring, summer, winter or fall every weekday for the rest of my life (I guess you could say, at least I have a window, but this seems to gloss over the true tragedy of it)
9) stick with the status quo, like the government does with everything now (i.e. switch to a consumption tax, it’s a BETTER IDEA), out of fear that change will be too disruptive or scary or I might not know where I’ll end up. Change is good, is healthy for my brain, heart and soul
10) grow more and more afraid of new things
etc…….
1) write stupid reviews of other people’s books
2) write articles for magazines or newspapers where I’m forced to love/hate someone else’s work and resort to terms like “hip,” “trendy,” “self-deprecating,” or “clever” to describe them or their work
3) spend the rest of my life sitting in a piece of parceled space like a toy in a tidy package being told that the work I’ve produced isn’t good enough or what they were “looking for,” as though my job is to read their mind (or understand the poor terms they’ve outlined in their very brief “creative brief”) and know exactly what they’re “looking for.” Or maybe this is my job and I just don’t realize it
4) pander to musicians, authors, directors or actors or any other "artist" in writing, or even with my vocal cords, just to get in good with them. They should be pandering to me, is the way I see it
5) compete with other writers or scholars for the rest of my life, constantly wondering if I’ll get that much needed promotion or appointment to some seat as a dean of some college or board somewhere at some point in my life, secretly hating everyone because they’re a threat to my career
6) sell my work or creations for less than they’re worth out of fear of never "amounting to anything"
7) tell other people I think they’re work sucks or isn’t quite “what they could produce if they just put their mind to it”
8) gaze out of an office window wishing I was outside during the spring, summer, winter or fall every weekday for the rest of my life (I guess you could say, at least I have a window, but this seems to gloss over the true tragedy of it)
9) stick with the status quo, like the government does with everything now (i.e. switch to a consumption tax, it’s a BETTER IDEA), out of fear that change will be too disruptive or scary or I might not know where I’ll end up. Change is good, is healthy for my brain, heart and soul
10) grow more and more afraid of new things
etc…….
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