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As you might imagine, I update my status a lot.
You've been warned.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Revealing
I've told you that I'm currently taking a once-a-week writing workshop that's been going on since September 30th, but I haven't really shared anything I've written for class with y'all. But since one of my classmates did (and did a fine job, I might add), I figured I would too.
First, a bit of background.
We had an in-class writing assignment that went kind of like this: Pick a 10-year period in your life. Then write--in three word increments--some descriptive phrases of that time, roughly three phrases per year. For a wordy (ahem) individual like myself, this was an interesting challenge. But I did it. Then most of the people in the class read their list of phrases. It was very interesting and sometimes really funny to hear others' phrases and imagine what was behind them. At the end of class, Spike gave us this homework: Pick one of the phrases and write 1,000 about it. The period of time I chose was age 20 to 30, and although a LOT happened during that time, I won't bore you with my three-word phrases. Instead, I'll bore you with just one of the three-word phrases that I decided to elaborate upon. (Please remember, this is creative non-fiction, so there's a little artistic license going on here. But only a tiny bit.)
Summer Without Rain
The grass in the small front yard of our rented house had burned to a crisp over a month ago. Now the lone large tree in the front yard was quickly losing its leaves in an effort to conserve what little moisture it might be able to access through its deep roots. Our A/C ran constantly, all of the creeks were dried up, the lake levels were quickly receding and most of the city pools were closed due to drought restrictions. It was hot and dry and miserable, and there was simply no relief. We’d gone over two months without a bit of rain, and it was only a few days into August. I kept having fantasies of running away; just getting in my car and driving north until I finally hit cooler, greener pastures. Almost every night, I dreamed of rain. My roommate Courtney and I bought a twelve pack of cheap beer and wrote “SAVE FOR A RAINY DAY” in black Sharpie on the outside of the box. Then we shoved it into the back of the fridge and pledged that on the first day we got any real rain, we were going to sit out on our front porch and finish that sucker.
See, those are the kind of plans you can commit to when you don’t have “real” jobs. At least not the kind of jobs you’re supposed easily land once you graduate from a really good university, which we’d both done that previous spring. I was working a temp job at a roofing company in an insanely sketchy part of town, while Courtney was a hostess at a Tex-Mex restaurant. We were both making less than ten dollars an hour. Besides the pathetic pay, the downside of Courtney’s job was that she came home from work REEKING of Mexican food and waiter/waitress drama after every shift. The downside of mine was that I had a super sleazy boss named Dick (yes, really) who had a huge oil painting of a panther hanging behind his desk and enjoyed taking long, epic dumps in the roofing company’s only bathroom, which just happened to be right by my desk. Yeah, we were living large, as they say.
One day I was at work, and Dick slinked out of his wood paneled office chewing on a toothpick like he always did. He had on a cheap, too-small button down shirt with no undershirt beneath. The fabric was pale and so thin I could see his nipples through the front. He wore a thick gold chain and medallion, and had his shirt unbuttoned about one button more than any self-respecting man should EVER consider doing. “I’ll be back after lunch, Cutie,” he said while walking out the door. I shuddered a bit at his pet name for me. “Bye,” I countered, utterly unenthused about the idea of him returning after lunch, or ever for that matter.
I cracked my book and began to read. Reading is how I filled the time between fielding infrequent calls and speaking broken Spanish to the workers who had questions. I tried to lose myself in my book, but couldn’t. I’d had a particularly mind-numbing morning and had smelled one-too-many of Dick’s bowel movements. Suddenly, I began to unravel and started crying, hard. What the FUCK was I doing there?! Why couldn’t I find a better job? I mean, who DOESN’T need a perky, recently-graduated English/Theatre double major working for them, right? Between the early morning bong hits, the gallons of beer I was regularly drinking, and the dimwit brain donors I’d been spending the majority of my time with, I became quite sure I was turning into a worthless slacker idiot with no future. How the hell was I going to fix this?! Well, not by working at the Greater Austin Roofing Company via a crappy temp agency, that was for sure. So I pulled myself together enough to call my “Career Liaison” at Personnel People and informed her that that Friday would be my last at that fucking place and that, no, I wasn’t interested in another assignment. I had no back-up employment plan, but knowing that I was done with the temp job crapshoot I’d been dealing with off and on since graduation felt wildly liberating.
That Friday, the blazing hot sun woke me up through my east-facing bedroom windows. It was the beginning of day sixty-four without rain, and the temperature was already in the mid-eighties despite the early hour. But I wasn’t pissy, I was excited. It was my last day at the roofing place, and the last time I would ever have to look at Dick’s squinched up face and dandruff-filled comb-over. It was the last time I’d have to see the sad faces of the immigrant workers that Dick yelled at with evil regularity. It was the last time I’d have to drive to that glorified warehouse office with a fifty pound ball of dread sitting in my stomach. Mercifully, I was uncommonly busy that day, and the hours passed without much notice. When five o’clock came, I yelled a cursory, “Bye Dick!” as I opened the door to the parking lot. Since there were no windows in the crappy office and I hadn’t stepped outside since lunchtime, I had no idea that dark, menacing clouds had started rolling in from the east. The temperature was dropping, the wind was gusting, and it smelled like rain. Delicious fucking rain. I nearly squealed with glee. I jumped in my car and started home. About half-way there, big, fat raindrops started to fall. By the time I pulled up in front of our house, the rain was coming down in sheets, and Courtney was sitting on the front porch with our rainy day twelve pack and a big grin on her face. “Finally!!” she yelled to me happily as I walked from my car to the front steps, not caring that I was getting soaked.
Finally, indeed.
First, a bit of background.
We had an in-class writing assignment that went kind of like this: Pick a 10-year period in your life. Then write--in three word increments--some descriptive phrases of that time, roughly three phrases per year. For a wordy (ahem) individual like myself, this was an interesting challenge. But I did it. Then most of the people in the class read their list of phrases. It was very interesting and sometimes really funny to hear others' phrases and imagine what was behind them. At the end of class, Spike gave us this homework: Pick one of the phrases and write 1,000 about it. The period of time I chose was age 20 to 30, and although a LOT happened during that time, I won't bore you with my three-word phrases. Instead, I'll bore you with just one of the three-word phrases that I decided to elaborate upon. (Please remember, this is creative non-fiction, so there's a little artistic license going on here. But only a tiny bit.)
Summer Without Rain
The grass in the small front yard of our rented house had burned to a crisp over a month ago. Now the lone large tree in the front yard was quickly losing its leaves in an effort to conserve what little moisture it might be able to access through its deep roots. Our A/C ran constantly, all of the creeks were dried up, the lake levels were quickly receding and most of the city pools were closed due to drought restrictions. It was hot and dry and miserable, and there was simply no relief. We’d gone over two months without a bit of rain, and it was only a few days into August. I kept having fantasies of running away; just getting in my car and driving north until I finally hit cooler, greener pastures. Almost every night, I dreamed of rain. My roommate Courtney and I bought a twelve pack of cheap beer and wrote “SAVE FOR A RAINY DAY” in black Sharpie on the outside of the box. Then we shoved it into the back of the fridge and pledged that on the first day we got any real rain, we were going to sit out on our front porch and finish that sucker.
See, those are the kind of plans you can commit to when you don’t have “real” jobs. At least not the kind of jobs you’re supposed easily land once you graduate from a really good university, which we’d both done that previous spring. I was working a temp job at a roofing company in an insanely sketchy part of town, while Courtney was a hostess at a Tex-Mex restaurant. We were both making less than ten dollars an hour. Besides the pathetic pay, the downside of Courtney’s job was that she came home from work REEKING of Mexican food and waiter/waitress drama after every shift. The downside of mine was that I had a super sleazy boss named Dick (yes, really) who had a huge oil painting of a panther hanging behind his desk and enjoyed taking long, epic dumps in the roofing company’s only bathroom, which just happened to be right by my desk. Yeah, we were living large, as they say.
One day I was at work, and Dick slinked out of his wood paneled office chewing on a toothpick like he always did. He had on a cheap, too-small button down shirt with no undershirt beneath. The fabric was pale and so thin I could see his nipples through the front. He wore a thick gold chain and medallion, and had his shirt unbuttoned about one button more than any self-respecting man should EVER consider doing. “I’ll be back after lunch, Cutie,” he said while walking out the door. I shuddered a bit at his pet name for me. “Bye,” I countered, utterly unenthused about the idea of him returning after lunch, or ever for that matter.
I cracked my book and began to read. Reading is how I filled the time between fielding infrequent calls and speaking broken Spanish to the workers who had questions. I tried to lose myself in my book, but couldn’t. I’d had a particularly mind-numbing morning and had smelled one-too-many of Dick’s bowel movements. Suddenly, I began to unravel and started crying, hard. What the FUCK was I doing there?! Why couldn’t I find a better job? I mean, who DOESN’T need a perky, recently-graduated English/Theatre double major working for them, right? Between the early morning bong hits, the gallons of beer I was regularly drinking, and the dimwit brain donors I’d been spending the majority of my time with, I became quite sure I was turning into a worthless slacker idiot with no future. How the hell was I going to fix this?! Well, not by working at the Greater Austin Roofing Company via a crappy temp agency, that was for sure. So I pulled myself together enough to call my “Career Liaison” at Personnel People and informed her that that Friday would be my last at that fucking place and that, no, I wasn’t interested in another assignment. I had no back-up employment plan, but knowing that I was done with the temp job crapshoot I’d been dealing with off and on since graduation felt wildly liberating.
That Friday, the blazing hot sun woke me up through my east-facing bedroom windows. It was the beginning of day sixty-four without rain, and the temperature was already in the mid-eighties despite the early hour. But I wasn’t pissy, I was excited. It was my last day at the roofing place, and the last time I would ever have to look at Dick’s squinched up face and dandruff-filled comb-over. It was the last time I’d have to see the sad faces of the immigrant workers that Dick yelled at with evil regularity. It was the last time I’d have to drive to that glorified warehouse office with a fifty pound ball of dread sitting in my stomach. Mercifully, I was uncommonly busy that day, and the hours passed without much notice. When five o’clock came, I yelled a cursory, “Bye Dick!” as I opened the door to the parking lot. Since there were no windows in the crappy office and I hadn’t stepped outside since lunchtime, I had no idea that dark, menacing clouds had started rolling in from the east. The temperature was dropping, the wind was gusting, and it smelled like rain. Delicious fucking rain. I nearly squealed with glee. I jumped in my car and started home. About half-way there, big, fat raindrops started to fall. By the time I pulled up in front of our house, the rain was coming down in sheets, and Courtney was sitting on the front porch with our rainy day twelve pack and a big grin on her face. “Finally!!” she yelled to me happily as I walked from my car to the front steps, not caring that I was getting soaked.
Finally, indeed.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
It's about to get heavy.
It’s not easy to admit that at one time in your life you were a really evil person. But I was, for a while, a terribly heartless and cruel girl. I was not this way all the time, mind you. During the school year, I was a pretty good kid with lots of friends and good grades. My wicked side seemed to lie dormant until my annual trip to summer camp. There, in that microcosm of all things adolescent, I discovered my dark side and claimed two victims along the way.
Tormenting a girl named Terri Jo was my first foray into peer torture, or bullying. We were cabin mates during my second summer at camp, right after finishing fifth grade. We were eleven. Terri Jo was a tad goofy and lanky, not unlike almost every other eleven-year-old girl in the world including myself. She had a mass of untamed curly brown hair on her head and big brown eyes. She was from a small town ten miles from mine and used to trumpet the fact that she and her younger brother had been adopted. “Chosen” she called it. She let on that her parents shuttled her and her brother off to an endless series of camps over the summer. Basically, they spent the entire summer away from home while their parents traveled around. Terri Jo was loud and rambunctious, and always tried a bit too hard to fit in. But my friends and I decided not to let her.
I’m not sure why I focused my viciousness on Terri Jo. Maybe she annoyed me. Maybe it was because she didn’t seem to have as many nice clothes and things as the rest of us. Or maybe (and this seems far more likely in hindsight) I figured she was just a bit weirder and more insecure than I was, and picking on her gave me a perceived “upper hand” among the rest of our cabin mates. Whatever the screwed-up reasoning, I was relentless. When she had crushes on the guy counselors, I’d tell them right in front of her just to embarrass her. I cut her training bra in half and hung the halves on either end of her bunk bed. I covered her sheets with powdered laundry detergent right before lights out. And one evening after everyone had showered, I waited outside the bathhouse with an accomplice, and we ripped Terri Jo’s towel off causing her to streak back to the cabin naked and crying. Meanwhile, my friend and I rolled on the ground laughing our asses off.
With this last act of meanness, I’d finally done something worthy of a real reprimand. I had to “go to the office” where one of the camp’s directors sat me down and gave me a good talking to. Then he made me sew Terri Jo’s bra back together. Then he made me call my mother and tell her what I’d done and that I was in trouble. Then he made me apologize to Terri Jo in front of the entire cabin. And he warned me that if I didn’t leave her completely alone until the end of camp, they’d call my parents to come and get me. I remember being ashamed of what I’d done, but more than that, I was pissed off that I’d been caught.
It was surprisingly easy to avoid Terri Jo those last few days of camp. She simply went from being the object of torment to being completely ignored by my cohorts and me. She was totally ostracized. One night during the free hours between supper and our scheduled evening activity, I saw her wandering in the big field that made up the outer reaches of the campus. The sun was setting, and in the brilliant orange light, I could make out that she was talking to herself while she picked wildflowers and poked anthills with a stick. She was utterly alone, and it was more or less my fault. It’s an image that still haunts me to this day.
The following summer, I chose a new victim: Katherine. She was trim and athletic, with a short blonde bob haircut. And she had the biggest buckteeth I’d ever seen. She loved horses, and claimed to have some back where she was from. She loved horses so much, in fact, that she brought plastic model horses with her to camp and lined them up in the windowsill next to her bunk. And she’d dress them up with homemade horse outfits she’d brought with her. She’d even wander out to the horse stables to “talk” with the horses between our scheduled activities. In other words, she was a prime target for my summer of malevolence. However, I was more covert with my meanness toward Katherine than I had been with Terri Jo. I’d been caught once, and I wasn’t going to let that happen again. Instead, my cabin mates and I made fun of Katherine behind her back and did stupid stuff like stripping her horses and putting them in compromising positions while she was out of the cabin. We’d impersonate her by sticking our teeth out and neighing whenever we wanted to crack each other up. She was terrified of spiders, so we gathered up a bunch of dead ones we’d found around the cabin, and put them on her bed. But the meanest thing we ever did was read her diary.
I’m not sure where she had gone, but Katherine wasn’t in the cabin one afternoon while we were having “rest period.” We’d seen her writing in her diary, and my friends Kelly, Mary and I went snooping around for it. It wasn’t hard to find wedged in between her mattress and the frame of the bunk bed. We seized it and started scanning it for anything worth making fun of. There were a few passages about some boy she’d had a crush on at school. “Jason smiled at me today in the hall.” “Jason asked to borrow my pen.” And the saddest: “Jason threw a tennis ball at me today after lunch. I think he likes me.” But the entry that REALLY made us howl was the one about her cat “Puff” that had gotten hit by a car and killed. For some reason, that story really tickled our collective funny bone—especially when read aloud while doing our best Katherine impersonations, complete with stuck out teeth and a horse neigh or two thrown in. We were horrible. Eventually Katherine found out that we’d violated her privacy and, justifiably, threw a fit. She told our counselors, and once again, I received a talking to. After that, she spent more and more time at the stables and as little time as possible with us.
Somehow, over the course of my remaining years as a camper, I managed to end up in the same cabin with Terri Jo and with Katherine one more time each (Katherine when we were 13 and Terri Jo when we were 14). My meanness was still there, but not as pronounced and obvious. They were both just left out of everything that the rest of the cabin might have been doing.
I think of what Terri Jo and Katherine must have felt like as they came driving in through the camp gates those second years, with their cabin assignments in their hands, reading that I was going to be in their cabin...again. I try and imagine the dread they must have felt knowing what the next two weeks held in store for them. Some kids hate going to camp because of the heat or the mosquitoes. These girls hated camp because of me and my all-too-willing friends and our totally misguided belief that we were somehow superior to them.
The most ironic thing about this is that around this same time (age 13 and 14), I began to be bullied at school by some older girls who didn’t like the fact that “their guys” (the boys in ninth grade) were friends with me. They would wait for me at lunch time and say horrible things to me as I walked past them on my way to the cafeteria. They would taunt me in the halls whenever they’d see me, and they even started threatening me with violence. I got so freaked out that I spent a great deal of my lunch periods hanging out in the choir room with my choir director, eating and talking and avoiding the meanness. But somehow, even though I was a pretty smart kid, it never occurred to me that the tormenting that I was receiving was just a taste of what my victims had experienced at summer camp. In fact, my ah-ha moment didn’t come until many years later.
As an adult, it’s easy to look back and see that I was an immature, geeky only child from a divorced middle class family who intensely wanted to fit in and be cooler than I was. But these were things I just couldn’t pull it off in my normal, day-to-day life at home and at school, so I jumped at the chance to declare myself an Alpha kid at camp and deliberately hurt those who I perceived as weak.
These memories have haunted me for many years, but they've been even more present lately because of the powerful “It Gets Better” project that’s sweeping the country thanks to the social media. Believe me: It is very hard to admit that you were once a bully, even if you’ve learned from your mistakes and are sincerely, deeply sorry for your actions. I was a good, smart kid who excelled in school and had friends. I came from a home where I was loved and supported. There was no “after-school special” type of reason for me to behave as I did. I am responsible for my actions—there is no one and nothing to blame for how I treated Terri Jo and Katherine. There is also little in my life that makes me more ashamed than what I did to those girls during those long ago summers. My biggest hope is that they have no memory of me, and that they can’t even conjure up my name or my face in their minds. But in all likelihood, they remember me quite well, and that breaks my heart.
Tormenting a girl named Terri Jo was my first foray into peer torture, or bullying. We were cabin mates during my second summer at camp, right after finishing fifth grade. We were eleven. Terri Jo was a tad goofy and lanky, not unlike almost every other eleven-year-old girl in the world including myself. She had a mass of untamed curly brown hair on her head and big brown eyes. She was from a small town ten miles from mine and used to trumpet the fact that she and her younger brother had been adopted. “Chosen” she called it. She let on that her parents shuttled her and her brother off to an endless series of camps over the summer. Basically, they spent the entire summer away from home while their parents traveled around. Terri Jo was loud and rambunctious, and always tried a bit too hard to fit in. But my friends and I decided not to let her.
I’m not sure why I focused my viciousness on Terri Jo. Maybe she annoyed me. Maybe it was because she didn’t seem to have as many nice clothes and things as the rest of us. Or maybe (and this seems far more likely in hindsight) I figured she was just a bit weirder and more insecure than I was, and picking on her gave me a perceived “upper hand” among the rest of our cabin mates. Whatever the screwed-up reasoning, I was relentless. When she had crushes on the guy counselors, I’d tell them right in front of her just to embarrass her. I cut her training bra in half and hung the halves on either end of her bunk bed. I covered her sheets with powdered laundry detergent right before lights out. And one evening after everyone had showered, I waited outside the bathhouse with an accomplice, and we ripped Terri Jo’s towel off causing her to streak back to the cabin naked and crying. Meanwhile, my friend and I rolled on the ground laughing our asses off.
With this last act of meanness, I’d finally done something worthy of a real reprimand. I had to “go to the office” where one of the camp’s directors sat me down and gave me a good talking to. Then he made me sew Terri Jo’s bra back together. Then he made me call my mother and tell her what I’d done and that I was in trouble. Then he made me apologize to Terri Jo in front of the entire cabin. And he warned me that if I didn’t leave her completely alone until the end of camp, they’d call my parents to come and get me. I remember being ashamed of what I’d done, but more than that, I was pissed off that I’d been caught.
It was surprisingly easy to avoid Terri Jo those last few days of camp. She simply went from being the object of torment to being completely ignored by my cohorts and me. She was totally ostracized. One night during the free hours between supper and our scheduled evening activity, I saw her wandering in the big field that made up the outer reaches of the campus. The sun was setting, and in the brilliant orange light, I could make out that she was talking to herself while she picked wildflowers and poked anthills with a stick. She was utterly alone, and it was more or less my fault. It’s an image that still haunts me to this day.
The following summer, I chose a new victim: Katherine. She was trim and athletic, with a short blonde bob haircut. And she had the biggest buckteeth I’d ever seen. She loved horses, and claimed to have some back where she was from. She loved horses so much, in fact, that she brought plastic model horses with her to camp and lined them up in the windowsill next to her bunk. And she’d dress them up with homemade horse outfits she’d brought with her. She’d even wander out to the horse stables to “talk” with the horses between our scheduled activities. In other words, she was a prime target for my summer of malevolence. However, I was more covert with my meanness toward Katherine than I had been with Terri Jo. I’d been caught once, and I wasn’t going to let that happen again. Instead, my cabin mates and I made fun of Katherine behind her back and did stupid stuff like stripping her horses and putting them in compromising positions while she was out of the cabin. We’d impersonate her by sticking our teeth out and neighing whenever we wanted to crack each other up. She was terrified of spiders, so we gathered up a bunch of dead ones we’d found around the cabin, and put them on her bed. But the meanest thing we ever did was read her diary.
I’m not sure where she had gone, but Katherine wasn’t in the cabin one afternoon while we were having “rest period.” We’d seen her writing in her diary, and my friends Kelly, Mary and I went snooping around for it. It wasn’t hard to find wedged in between her mattress and the frame of the bunk bed. We seized it and started scanning it for anything worth making fun of. There were a few passages about some boy she’d had a crush on at school. “Jason smiled at me today in the hall.” “Jason asked to borrow my pen.” And the saddest: “Jason threw a tennis ball at me today after lunch. I think he likes me.” But the entry that REALLY made us howl was the one about her cat “Puff” that had gotten hit by a car and killed. For some reason, that story really tickled our collective funny bone—especially when read aloud while doing our best Katherine impersonations, complete with stuck out teeth and a horse neigh or two thrown in. We were horrible. Eventually Katherine found out that we’d violated her privacy and, justifiably, threw a fit. She told our counselors, and once again, I received a talking to. After that, she spent more and more time at the stables and as little time as possible with us.
Somehow, over the course of my remaining years as a camper, I managed to end up in the same cabin with Terri Jo and with Katherine one more time each (Katherine when we were 13 and Terri Jo when we were 14). My meanness was still there, but not as pronounced and obvious. They were both just left out of everything that the rest of the cabin might have been doing.
I think of what Terri Jo and Katherine must have felt like as they came driving in through the camp gates those second years, with their cabin assignments in their hands, reading that I was going to be in their cabin...again. I try and imagine the dread they must have felt knowing what the next two weeks held in store for them. Some kids hate going to camp because of the heat or the mosquitoes. These girls hated camp because of me and my all-too-willing friends and our totally misguided belief that we were somehow superior to them.
The most ironic thing about this is that around this same time (age 13 and 14), I began to be bullied at school by some older girls who didn’t like the fact that “their guys” (the boys in ninth grade) were friends with me. They would wait for me at lunch time and say horrible things to me as I walked past them on my way to the cafeteria. They would taunt me in the halls whenever they’d see me, and they even started threatening me with violence. I got so freaked out that I spent a great deal of my lunch periods hanging out in the choir room with my choir director, eating and talking and avoiding the meanness. But somehow, even though I was a pretty smart kid, it never occurred to me that the tormenting that I was receiving was just a taste of what my victims had experienced at summer camp. In fact, my ah-ha moment didn’t come until many years later.
As an adult, it’s easy to look back and see that I was an immature, geeky only child from a divorced middle class family who intensely wanted to fit in and be cooler than I was. But these were things I just couldn’t pull it off in my normal, day-to-day life at home and at school, so I jumped at the chance to declare myself an Alpha kid at camp and deliberately hurt those who I perceived as weak.
These memories have haunted me for many years, but they've been even more present lately because of the powerful “It Gets Better” project that’s sweeping the country thanks to the social media. Believe me: It is very hard to admit that you were once a bully, even if you’ve learned from your mistakes and are sincerely, deeply sorry for your actions. I was a good, smart kid who excelled in school and had friends. I came from a home where I was loved and supported. There was no “after-school special” type of reason for me to behave as I did. I am responsible for my actions—there is no one and nothing to blame for how I treated Terri Jo and Katherine. There is also little in my life that makes me more ashamed than what I did to those girls during those long ago summers. My biggest hope is that they have no memory of me, and that they can’t even conjure up my name or my face in their minds. But in all likelihood, they remember me quite well, and that breaks my heart.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Music Lover
Tuesday night, BH and I went to see Sufjan Stevens at The Long Center, and I'm still recovering.
A word about my relationship with Sufjan's music: It's not often that I can remember where I was and what I was doing the first time I heard a particular artist. But I can do that with REM, PJ Harvey, Rufus Wainwright, and Sufjan. It was back when I was renting Karla's house, and I was on my way home from work, stuck in traffic, listening to "All Things Considered." They were interviewing Sufjan and playing clips from his album "(Come On Feel The) Illinois," and I was completely taken by him and his music. It was so different than anything I'd heard--simultaneously complex and delicate. I found myself scrambling for a pen and some paper so I could write down his name and the name of the album so I could purchase it immediately. I have loved and been fascinated by his music ever since.
Fast forward to Tuesday night. I bought our tickets to this concert the second they came out, however, I was bummed because the best I could get were upper balcony. But it didn't matter. The sound quality at The Long Center is exceptional, and Sufjan's band is so large, that our perspective was actually kind of nice. And I know his music, so I expected the concert to be goodm, but it was EXCELLENT. This is just the 7th show on their tour to support an EP that came out this summer and his latest album that came out on 10/12. So there was a lot of joy and energy to their playing. But I was so overwhelmed by the beauty of his music that I found myself crying at times. Dorky, I know, but it happens. It happened when I went to see Rufus Wainwright at the Paramount when it was just him and his piano. There were times while he was playing--and on Tuesday, while Sufjan was playing--when I felt like I couldn't breathe, like if I did, it would break the spell he'd cast on me. That's because, to me, seeing Sufjan (and Rufus and a very few other musicians I love) in concert means being able to watch a genius at work, which is not something we get to do every day.
Sufjan is a young (only 35!), highly-prolific multi-instrumentalist/singer, who writes poetic lyrics and difficult lovely arrangements for his extremely original songs. If that isn't the definition of a genius, I don't know what is. After spending a couple of hours watching and listening to Sufjan perform, I was blissful and inspired. I couldn't stop smiling while we walked to our car. I will never be able to listen to his recorded music the same way again because I now have this whole other point of reference--an additional layer, as it were--to appreciate added to music I already loved.
Sigh...I feel so lucky.
A word about my relationship with Sufjan's music: It's not often that I can remember where I was and what I was doing the first time I heard a particular artist. But I can do that with REM, PJ Harvey, Rufus Wainwright, and Sufjan. It was back when I was renting Karla's house, and I was on my way home from work, stuck in traffic, listening to "All Things Considered." They were interviewing Sufjan and playing clips from his album "(Come On Feel The) Illinois," and I was completely taken by him and his music. It was so different than anything I'd heard--simultaneously complex and delicate. I found myself scrambling for a pen and some paper so I could write down his name and the name of the album so I could purchase it immediately. I have loved and been fascinated by his music ever since.
Fast forward to Tuesday night. I bought our tickets to this concert the second they came out, however, I was bummed because the best I could get were upper balcony. But it didn't matter. The sound quality at The Long Center is exceptional, and Sufjan's band is so large, that our perspective was actually kind of nice. And I know his music, so I expected the concert to be goodm, but it was EXCELLENT. This is just the 7th show on their tour to support an EP that came out this summer and his latest album that came out on 10/12. So there was a lot of joy and energy to their playing. But I was so overwhelmed by the beauty of his music that I found myself crying at times. Dorky, I know, but it happens. It happened when I went to see Rufus Wainwright at the Paramount when it was just him and his piano. There were times while he was playing--and on Tuesday, while Sufjan was playing--when I felt like I couldn't breathe, like if I did, it would break the spell he'd cast on me. That's because, to me, seeing Sufjan (and Rufus and a very few other musicians I love) in concert means being able to watch a genius at work, which is not something we get to do every day.
Sufjan is a young (only 35!), highly-prolific multi-instrumentalist/singer, who writes poetic lyrics and difficult lovely arrangements for his extremely original songs. If that isn't the definition of a genius, I don't know what is. After spending a couple of hours watching and listening to Sufjan perform, I was blissful and inspired. I couldn't stop smiling while we walked to our car. I will never be able to listen to his recorded music the same way again because I now have this whole other point of reference--an additional layer, as it were--to appreciate added to music I already loved.
Sigh...I feel so lucky.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Not So Charitable
Giving one's money--time or other wordly possesions--away is what most people refer to as "charity". I've always considered myself a rather charitable person. I volunteer and donate when I can. But I have a few rules when it comes to charitable solicitations. And if you break them, you don't get my time/money/stuff.
Here they are:
1. If you try to GUILT me in to giving by sending me address labels/Christmas cards/calendars/wrapping paper that I didn't request and will, most likely, never use: SCREW YOU. You're wasting your organization's limited funds and destroying trees with your plea. You are stupid, and I will not donate. (I'm looking at you Texas Exes, World Wildlife Federation, Animal Trustees of Austin, and Boys Town Christmas Appeal.)
2. If John Aielli is involved in your plea, I will not donate.
3. If you're panhandling, and you're smoking a cigarette, I will not donate.
4. If you solicit me by mail more than once a year, I will not donate.
5. If you're not creative enough to use your allowed once-a-year donation soliciation (see above) during some time OTHER than the holiday season, I will not donate.
6. If I've donated with you before, and now you want me to donate at a higher level, I (probably) will not donate (at that higher level).
7. If I donate to you, and then you sign me up for a gagillion OTHER "like-minded" charities who then start bombarding me with mail/phonecalls/emails, I will not only not donate to YOU anymore, but your like-minded organizations will also get blackballed.
8. Pledge premiums work if they're creative. But if they're too typical (a tote bag! a coffee mug!), no thanks.
9. Enlist businesses to match pledges. I used to work for a company that matched charitable contributions at 50%. It not only made me pledge my support more frequently, it made me PROUD to say that I worked for such an organization.
If you are a not-for-profit organization whose mission I believe in, I will support you if I can. I am smart and have access to the channels that will connect me with you. I promise. But other than that? You need to check yourself.
Here they are:
1. If you try to GUILT me in to giving by sending me address labels/Christmas cards/calendars/wrapping paper that I didn't request and will, most likely, never use: SCREW YOU. You're wasting your organization's limited funds and destroying trees with your plea. You are stupid, and I will not donate. (I'm looking at you Texas Exes, World Wildlife Federation, Animal Trustees of Austin, and Boys Town Christmas Appeal.)
2. If John Aielli is involved in your plea, I will not donate.
3. If you're panhandling, and you're smoking a cigarette, I will not donate.
4. If you solicit me by mail more than once a year, I will not donate.
5. If you're not creative enough to use your allowed once-a-year donation soliciation (see above) during some time OTHER than the holiday season, I will not donate.
6. If I've donated with you before, and now you want me to donate at a higher level, I (probably) will not donate (at that higher level).
7. If I donate to you, and then you sign me up for a gagillion OTHER "like-minded" charities who then start bombarding me with mail/phonecalls/emails, I will not only not donate to YOU anymore, but your like-minded organizations will also get blackballed.
8. Pledge premiums work if they're creative. But if they're too typical (a tote bag! a coffee mug!), no thanks.
9. Enlist businesses to match pledges. I used to work for a company that matched charitable contributions at 50%. It not only made me pledge my support more frequently, it made me PROUD to say that I worked for such an organization.
If you are a not-for-profit organization whose mission I believe in, I will support you if I can. I am smart and have access to the channels that will connect me with you. I promise. But other than that? You need to check yourself.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Big Story
The writing workshop I've been taking is good. It's purpose is not so much to hone your writing skills as it is to "get in the chair" (as our instructor puts it) and write. Find your voice. Figure out what your story is (or stories are). Think about your audience. Silence your inner critic that is always reminding you that you suck and write, write, write.
Our instructor gives us writing prompts that we can pursue with as much--or as little--energy as we wish. It's been a great approach for me because, in addition to being flat out lazy sometimes, I very often just lack a jumping off point.
Last week our "homework" was to think about our Big Story, and write that first page. I did. And I read it in class, and it felt good and right. This week our homework is to continue writing the first chapter of our Big Story, finishing it if we can. And y'all? I'm fucking excited!! I think I actually have a book in me--not a novel, but a memoir. I'm feeling more motivated and inspired to write than I have in ages, and it is a wonderful feeling. I really, really want to carve out the time in my life to do this.
I'll keep you posted on the progress, but I don't feel like revealing much more about it. I want to keep it close to my chest and protect it. Not because it's so precious that no one can know, but because my relationship to this idea of wanting to be a writer is fragile at best. I worry about it perishing and being left with nothing but frustration and my inner critic mocking me with a cruel, "I told you so."
Please wish me luck.
Our instructor gives us writing prompts that we can pursue with as much--or as little--energy as we wish. It's been a great approach for me because, in addition to being flat out lazy sometimes, I very often just lack a jumping off point.
Last week our "homework" was to think about our Big Story, and write that first page. I did. And I read it in class, and it felt good and right. This week our homework is to continue writing the first chapter of our Big Story, finishing it if we can. And y'all? I'm fucking excited!! I think I actually have a book in me--not a novel, but a memoir. I'm feeling more motivated and inspired to write than I have in ages, and it is a wonderful feeling. I really, really want to carve out the time in my life to do this.
I'll keep you posted on the progress, but I don't feel like revealing much more about it. I want to keep it close to my chest and protect it. Not because it's so precious that no one can know, but because my relationship to this idea of wanting to be a writer is fragile at best. I worry about it perishing and being left with nothing but frustration and my inner critic mocking me with a cruel, "I told you so."
Please wish me luck.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Recent goings on.
Last week ended with the arrival of the Austin City Limits music festival. For the 5th year in a row, I decided to take a pass. I almost regretted it when I saw how gorgeous the weather was going to be on festival weekend, but then I remembered how much I hate crowds, Phish, and port-o-potties, and I got over it lickety split.
There they are with Dachel's dad (and Geej's former teacher), Mr. Gabe. We've got to get these two monkeys together more often.
On one final note, Diane received a new box to sit in.
She seems quite pleased.
Instead, on Friday night, I went with The Geej, Dah, and Dah's fiance (yep, Dah's getting hitched in April) down to watch the mighty Wimberley Texans whoop up on the Blanco Bandera Bulldogs in some 3A Texas High School football action. (My stepsister's son plays for Wimberley.) It was Wimberley's homecoming, and the game was packed. In fact, we had to sit on the visitor's side because the bleachers on the home side were filled to capacity.
There's something so charming--so reassuring--about a small town football game. Granted, it's familiar territory for me having spent almost every football season Friday night of 10th, 11th, and 12th grade in the stands for Pine Tree High School's football games. But still, even if I didn't have my own experiences to draw on, it would be hard not to be sucked in by how much these games MATTER to those playing them, and those watching them play.
We stayed for the halftime show, and Blanco's Bandera's marching band inexplicably had some of these on the field during their performance:
Yep, those are those wind sock people. On a football field. I have no idea why... Their school is so small, that one of the cheerleaders picked up a flag and marched with the colorguard, and two of their football players took off their shoulder pads and helmets and marched with the band (one on alto sax and one as drum major). Awww...
We left after halftime because Wimberley was killing Blanco Bandera so there wasn't much of a game to watch. The final score ended up being 52 - 0. The Geej went home with Dah (because they hadn't gotten to hang out in a couple of weeks), and I went home.
Satruday was spent sleeping until 10:30 (awwww yeah), running errands and doing laundry. One of my errands was dropping off some donations at the ASPCA, and OH MY GOD Y'ALL, there were adorable, sweet kittehs EVERYWHERE!! But I managed to come home sans new kitteh, which is a good thing because Doug, Diane and BH would've disowned me.
Saturday night BH and I went on a real, honest-to-goodness date. A couple of weeks ago, I won a $50 gift certificate to a fancy schmancy restaurant, so we decided to redeem it. And although the food was good, it wasn't outstanding, which was kind of a disappointment. But still: A date!! At a restaurant that didn't have a kid's menu or crayons!! Whoo hoo!
Sunday I went to the grocery store, washed my car, did more laundry, and went to see Get Low. By myself. One of my favorite things is going to the movie by myself. I get a small popcorn (no butter) and a bottled water or Coke, and just get lost in the movie. Get Low was a good one to do that with--a wonderful cast, a great story, lovely soundtrack. I really enjoyed it--especially after I figured out who the actor was playing the character of Buddy. It was the kid from Sling Blade! All growed up!! (Man, it was driving me CRAZY trying to place that face and accent.)
After the movie, I went and got The Geej, and was able to surprise her by telling her we were going to dinner with one of her most favorite friends, Daschel. She was SO excited. They've been best buds since they started Montessori together (she'd just turned two, he was a few months younger, and they were literally inseparable from day one). They hadn't seen each other since the last day of school, and so it was quite the reunion. I know they're only 6, but it's like they really do love each other.
On one final note, Diane received a new box to sit in.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Thursday, October 07, 2010
This big ol' tiny world.
I recently joined Twitter. I know, right? What's an old goat like me doing on Twitter? I'm not really sure, but I have enjoyed it so far. Most of the people I follow are either comedians or friends. Or both. I'm not sure how or why, but I started following this very popular and prolific blogger/Twitter gal (I'm guessing b/c her name is @mommywantsvodka, which TOTALLY describes me). And she started this blog where I read this post--on which I commented. My comment led the woman who wrote the blog to MY blog, where SHE commented. And her comment led me to this post that she wrote.
And oh my God. The pure emotion that swept over me when I read it--the intense memories I have that match so closely to hers--it just made me weep. The realization that The Geej and I have come so far from that place where we'd just met--this tiny, expressionless baby and me, the terrified adoptive mother--was overwhelming. But I also hit me just how deeply connected we will both always be to our beginnings together.
Sometimes I feel like I'm alone in my experience, but then, through something as silly as Twitter, I connect with someone who makes me feel anything but alone.
It's crazy wonderful.
And oh my God. The pure emotion that swept over me when I read it--the intense memories I have that match so closely to hers--it just made me weep. The realization that The Geej and I have come so far from that place where we'd just met--this tiny, expressionless baby and me, the terrified adoptive mother--was overwhelming. But I also hit me just how deeply connected we will both always be to our beginnings together.
Sometimes I feel like I'm alone in my experience, but then, through something as silly as Twitter, I connect with someone who makes me feel anything but alone.
It's crazy wonderful.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Actual breakfast time conversation from this morning:
The Geej: I learned a funny word. Wanna hear it?
Karla May: Sure. What is it?
G: Hillbilly! Isn't that funny?
KM: Yes! Where did you learn that?
G: I'm not sure...
KM: What IS a hillbilly?
G: It's someone who runs around kind of crazy and sings crazy songs.
[Pause]
G: About hills.
Karla May: Sure. What is it?
G: Hillbilly! Isn't that funny?
KM: Yes! Where did you learn that?
G: I'm not sure...
KM: What IS a hillbilly?
G: It's someone who runs around kind of crazy and sings crazy songs.
[Pause]
G: About hills.
Monday, October 04, 2010
It's ALWAYS Cottage Cheese Time!
I happened upon this little masterpiece, created by the good people at Sealtest Kitchens (makers of fine Sealtest Creamed Cottage Cheese) and, naturally, I couldn't pass it up. So, for only one American dollar, I was able to open up a veritable treasure trove of cottage cheese ideas that would simply be criminal to keep to myself.
Pictured above are some more snickety snacks featuring something called "Fluffy Cottage Cheese" and its partner in deliciousness, "Deviled Ham Cheese" (I'm guessing it's the pink one on the left). They suggest you serve these tasty treats with hot chocolate. Genius.
As you might suspect, this photo comes from the "Salads with Cottage Cheese" section of the booklet. And, as you might also be able to figure out (once you realize that those red things AREN'T strawberries), this is "Tomato--Cottage Cheese Salad." Congratulations! You're a cottage cheese champion!! (Feel free to add that to your resume and or CV.) Your prize? This amazing list of some of the mouth-watering choices from the salads section:
Unfortunately, even the photos rendered in black-and-white--which is usually more kind to its subject than color photography--still look like some kind of gastronomic nightmare.
But you know one thing they left out in that sentence? DESSERT!! And I know that the first thing that comes to my mind when I think dessert is lumpy, cold cottage cheese. You too?! Outstanding!
Of course the first recipe in the (thankfully sparse) "Delicious Desserts with Cottage Cheese" section is Cheese Cake made with cottage cheese and zwieback crackers. Wow! I want a piece never!!
Another horrible sounding dessert in this section? Cottage Cheese Jelly Whip. Am I the only one who finds this whole cottage cheese/jellied things combo shit going on in this booklet pretty nauseating? I'm glad it's a trend that never caught on. Except in Russia. They love congealed gloopy stuff over there.
Some of the other horrifying recipes in this book include:
Without further ado, Serve Cottage Cheese (as interpreted by Karla May):
Would you please take a look at that cover, people? Wouldn't you be bursting with pride to serve up an hors d'oeuvres tray that looked that appetizing? I know I certainly would!
- Jellied Beet and Cottage Cheese Salad
- Lone Star Salad (contains avocado, lime juice, cottage cheese, salt, lettuce and...wait for it...oranges!)
- Jellied Apple Salad with Cottage Cheese
- Cottage Cheese Crisps (which aren't salad-like at all)
- Jellied Peach-Blueberry Ring
And, of course, Cottage Cheese Salad Rings (pictured below)
I'm not sure why the word Combos needs quotation marks here. A more practical application of quotation marks for the title of this section would've gone something like this: "Edible" Salad Combos.
Then again, they use quotation marks in a questionable way throughout the entire book. Like here:
Whether it's breakfast, lunch or dinner--cottage cheese "stars" for hearty deliciousness. "Stars", eh? More like: Cottage cheese "prevents" any deliciousness. I think that would make a bit more sense.
Another horrible sounding dessert in this section? Cottage Cheese Jelly Whip. Am I the only one who finds this whole cottage cheese/jellied things combo shit going on in this booklet pretty nauseating? I'm glad it's a trend that never caught on. Except in Russia. They love congealed gloopy stuff over there.
Some of the other horrifying recipes in this book include:
- Pineapple Cheese (It's like Hawaii meets Norway! But not!)
- Baked Tomatoes and Banana (WTF?!)
- Cottage Cheese Pancakes (I'm tempted to make these just to see if it turns out looking like pancakes with cystic acne. I'm thinking it does.)
- Scrambled Eggs a la Sealtest (More like "Scrambled Eggs a la Barfbag")
- Top-of-Stove Cottage Cheese Breakfast Souffle (Um...no.)
- Cottage Cheese-Coconut Spread (And FUCK no!)
- And last, but certainly not least: Lily Nibbles (which, coincidentally, was the name of Chesty Morgan's opening act on the burlesque circut for years.)
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Let's Blog It Out, Bitches
When I went to see David Cross at The Paramount...when was it...last winter? Spring? Anyway, when I went to see him, he showed the audience the first five minutes of the first episode of the creatively and totally accurately titled series he'd just completed filming, "The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret." Those first five minutes nearly made me pee my pants (mostly because Will Arnett fucking CHEWS UP the dialogue and spits it out like a rancid sunflower seed), so I was SUPER excited for this thing to come out.
But then months and months and months went by, and nothing.
Until tonight on IFC when the series finally premiered. Oh. My. Sweetkittensinheaven, people. Watch this show. It is completely fucked up and clever and irreverent. It is The Ugly American hopped up on horrible Korean energy drinks compulsively lying and trying to get laid. In London. Yes, it really is that good.
Speaking of comedy, my writing workshop started last night, and I think it's going to be good. I think I'm going to write the great American memoir/novel/screenplay and earn jillions and jillions of dollars!! (Cue laughter. See? COMEDY!!) But seriously, the only reason I'm really taking this is to have an excuse (and dedicated time) to exercise my writing muscle. Who knows what (if anything) will actually come out of it. But I will say this: If you don't know Spike Gillespie, you should. She's pretty fucking cool.
Switching gears now: I guess since The Social Network is premiering tonight, it is appropriate to state the following:
If you follow my blog (there are like 9 of you, I think) and aren't yet my friend on Facebook, please feel free to "friend" me. My name is Marla Camp. But there are two Marla Camps in Austin, so beware. (Even though the other Marla Camp is really cool.)
But please PLEASE don't friend me if you passionately agree with any of the following statements (because I am highly likely to offend you. Repeatedly.):
--Women are not funny and, in no way, know how to rock.
--People choose to be gay and should therefore be ostracized/vilified for their "decision".
--Your religion is the one "true" religion, and everyone else is fucked.
--No one should curse. Ever.
--George Bush was a phenomenal president. Maybe one of our best...and smartest.
--Hummers are awesome vehicles.
--Toby Keith and Justin Bieber represent the pinnacle of American musical talent.
--Whether or not a woman becomes pregnant and/or carries a pregnancy to term is NOT something she should be allowed to decide.
--Pot should never ever ever ever be legalized under any circumstances.
--Southerners are, for the most part, kind of retarded
--Women shouldn't be priests/cut their hair/wear pants or shorts/work outside the home/learn to drive/shave their legs/swim in public/wear makeup, or leave the house when menstruating. And they should probably just go ahead and wear a burka, just to be safe.
--Sarah Palin represents the exciting future of American politics.
--Botox is the answer.
--Evolution is bullshit.
--Texans suck.
--Kittens/Puppies and other animals are not worth getting mushy over and/or talking about.
--Fox News is fair and balanced.
--Celibacy for Catholic priests makes TOTAL sense.
--Assertive women are bitches.
Hope to see you on the interwebs!!
But then months and months and months went by, and nothing.
Until tonight on IFC when the series finally premiered. Oh. My. Sweetkittensinheaven, people. Watch this show. It is completely fucked up and clever and irreverent. It is The Ugly American hopped up on horrible Korean energy drinks compulsively lying and trying to get laid. In London. Yes, it really is that good.
Speaking of comedy, my writing workshop started last night, and I think it's going to be good. I think I'm going to write the great American memoir/novel/screenplay and earn jillions and jillions of dollars!! (Cue laughter. See? COMEDY!!) But seriously, the only reason I'm really taking this is to have an excuse (and dedicated time) to exercise my writing muscle. Who knows what (if anything) will actually come out of it. But I will say this: If you don't know Spike Gillespie, you should. She's pretty fucking cool.
Switching gears now: I guess since The Social Network is premiering tonight, it is appropriate to state the following:
If you follow my blog (there are like 9 of you, I think) and aren't yet my friend on Facebook, please feel free to "friend" me. My name is Marla Camp. But there are two Marla Camps in Austin, so beware. (Even though the other Marla Camp is really cool.)
But please PLEASE don't friend me if you passionately agree with any of the following statements (because I am highly likely to offend you. Repeatedly.):
--Women are not funny and, in no way, know how to rock.
--People choose to be gay and should therefore be ostracized/vilified for their "decision".
--Your religion is the one "true" religion, and everyone else is fucked.
--No one should curse. Ever.
--George Bush was a phenomenal president. Maybe one of our best...and smartest.
--Hummers are awesome vehicles.
--Toby Keith and Justin Bieber represent the pinnacle of American musical talent.
--Whether or not a woman becomes pregnant and/or carries a pregnancy to term is NOT something she should be allowed to decide.
--Pot should never ever ever ever be legalized under any circumstances.
--Southerners are, for the most part, kind of retarded
--Women shouldn't be priests/cut their hair/wear pants or shorts/work outside the home/learn to drive/shave their legs/swim in public/wear makeup, or leave the house when menstruating. And they should probably just go ahead and wear a burka, just to be safe.
--Sarah Palin represents the exciting future of American politics.
--Botox is the answer.
--Evolution is bullshit.
--Texans suck.
--Kittens/Puppies and other animals are not worth getting mushy over and/or talking about.
--Fox News is fair and balanced.
--Celibacy for Catholic priests makes TOTAL sense.
--Assertive women are bitches.
Hope to see you on the interwebs!!
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