Friday, June 28, 2002

I've been playing my guitar a lot this week. It's like a daily ritual for me now to play all of the songs I would put on my second album, when and if I make a second album. The more I play them, the more they seem to gel, which is cool. I was afraid that since seven of the nine songs were written about three years ago and the other two have been written in the last six months or so, that they wouldn't go together very well. But I think they can all work as a unit.

But here's another thought for you. Let's say I record this album and have my uncle mix things up so that they are complete, fleshed out songs with more than just my voice and a classical guitar. Then what? I'd have to put up my own website finally finally so I could post my songs as mp3s. And what if I did make a music video? I do have ideas for one and I think it could be a lot of fun to make a music video. To sing looking into the camera making that face that all cute female singers make that is supposed to make it look like they are in love with the camera operator. I think I'd be good at that. But seriously, you can't just mail a music video to MTV and have them play it. Who knows if they would even want to play it. I like my song. People who have heard my song like my song. But they all know me, too, so I'm guessing that there is at least a little bit of the novelty factor there. But I would feel weird making an album that I really liked and was proud of and having it just sit on my bookshelf, you know? I'm not saying I would want to make tons of money off of it or anything, but I might want people to actually listen to it. People who I don't know. And I have no idea how to go about getting random people to listen to my music. I'm so bad at selling myself.

And I really should learn to pay attention when I'm typing my blogs so that they aren't just random ramblings like this one. I apologize for my stream of consciousness. It's kind of theraputic, though. I dig it. That's why I do this.

Okay, really, I'm stopping now. I should go call my uncle and see if he'll record me.

Wednesday, June 26, 2002

You may hear stories. You may hear rumors. Or you may just say, "Oh my god, what happened to your head?" the next time you see me. So I am here to set the record straight about what happened. But let me preface this whole thing by saying that I am OKAY.

I was beaned in the head by a blind man. That's right, I was beaned in the head by a blind man. I was crossing the street while out for a walk last night and a blind gentleman was crossing the same street in the opposite direction as me at the same time as me. In one hand, he held the stick that indicated to me that he was blind. On the other arm was a woman helping guide him around the van they had just exited and across the street. Granted, perhaps I should have stepped just a little farther over to give them enough space to cross the street unimpeded, but there were other people crossing the street as well who limited my lateral movement. Just as I was passing said gentleman and his companion, *FWACK!* His stick smacked me on the right temple. I should be thankful that it didn't hit me directly in the eye and that it was the side of the stick that connected with my melon, not the presumably more painful tip. But nonetheless, it made a nice FWACKing sound as it connected with my head, thanks to the wonderful physics of a lever system. The man said, "Oops. Sorry." and continued on his way across the street. I waited until I was about a half a block away before saying, "Ow. Fuck." I'm sure everyone who saw me walk that last block and a half home wondered why I was clutching my head and walking in a kind of a daze. In a strange way, I wished that there was blood running down my cheek to make it apparent that I had been injured. There was no blood. Just a scratch and a mark that was getting increasingly red. So when I got home and discovered that I had no ice, I did what any good vegan would do and put a bag of frozen peas on my head.

The day after the beaning, I am doing okay, though I am left with two questions and one tough decision. Question #1: Why didn't the blind man's companion warn him that there was a person crossing the street towards them? Or was she perhaps blind, too, and he was helping her? Question #2: Why was the blind man holding his stick approximately five feet in the air? Tough decision: Do I go out in public with Neosporin coated Band-aids on my head or with a large red skid mark connecting my eyebrow to my hairline? I have come to terms with the fact that I may never get answers to my questions and have decided that the large red skid mark is probably the lesser of two evils. Band-aids make me look like I was in a fight and got stitches or something.

But all in all, I am OKAY. You need not worry. My twenty-five year old body has amazing healing powers and I am sure I will be back to my normal, fish-belly whiteness in no time.
Could today be just a smidge more gorgeous? Please?

Tee hee.

Monday, June 24, 2002

I was talking to my mom before my little shindig on Saturday night. I know I’ve already told you how wonderful my mom is and I think it was very relaxing for me to talk to her before the party. That, and she gave me the Moby Play DVD, so all in all, it was a good trip. But one of the things she said had to do with the birthday parties I had as a child. They really were good parties, but as I said before, I never really got to enjoy them. My mom’s assertion was that this was not due to the fact that there was anything wrong with me, but rather that I really didn’t have very nice friends as a kid. The more I think about that, the more I think it just might be true. Granted, I let them be not nice to me, so I am just as much to blame for the bad relationships as they.

But now we flash to this past Saturday night. I was petrified that I would feel like an outcast or that I would be ignored or whatever. And I wasn’t. I had the most amazing night. I went to a barbeque at my friend’s house before the party. I got a jersey girl and a New York boy and a beautiful drawing and a fabulous scrapbook from my friends. And by the time I got to the party, I was flying so high that every last bit of self-consciousness went out the window. I was running around and flailing on the dance floor and basking in all of the positive energy. I was “the guy in orange.” I haven’t done that before. I haven’t let go like that with that many people around. I just kept thinking, “These people know you and like you anyway. They know you’re strange. They know you like techno. And they came out to party and celebrate with you anyway. There is not a single person in this room who you have to impress.” It was so liberating! Its like I have suddenly been given permission to be unapologetically me all the time, in any situation, around any people. Talk about a birthday present.

So thank you to Kim and Tom for putting the whole thing together and finding the very awesome, very Twin Peaks location to have this party. Thank you to the boys of Injection Records for spinning better than I have ever heard them spin before. If you ever get the chance to hear these boys play, take it. Thank you to everyone who came out and danced with me and gave me licks and kisses. I am never ever ever ever ever ever allowed to complain again that nobody loves me. I was blown away by the party on Saturday night and I will remember it for the rest of my life. So thank you.

Friday, June 21, 2002

There is a discussion happening on one of the bulletin boards that I frequent about whether or not a particularly large passenger on an airplane should be required to pay for two seats if he or she really does need that much space. There are people on this thread saying yes, large people should have to pay more so that they don’t inconvenience others and there are people saying no, they shouldn’t have to pay more because their size isn’t necessarily their fault so they shouldn’t be penalized for it. I can see where both sides are coming from on this, but there is a part of me that would like to remind everyone of two very simple truths as I know them: You will be inconvenienced and You will be treated unfairly. Not all of the time. Maybe not even often enough to qualify as “most of the time,” but it will happen. You know what? That’s life. If things ran smoothly all of the time, what would you talk about with your friends when you get together for lunch?

Yes, I have had unpleasant flying experiences. You know what? I tell those stories now and laugh. And yes, if a person is so large that he or she essentially takes up two seats, I think it is fair to charge that person for two seats. Otherwise, you gotta cram all of that into one seat – you get no more for your dollar than anyone else on the plane just because you are larger. That’s like penalizing small people for being small.

I dunno. I guess the whole thing irritates me because it is such an inane question to begin with. I just get to a point where political correctness becomes ridiculous to me. There are so many other things we should be worrying about other than do larger people have to buy two airline seats. I understand the need to talk about things other than the state of the world or vague esoteric concepts every now and again, but does this really merit newspaper space? Can’t we talk about, I don’t know, the fact that its summer now and all kinds of cool things are going on in Chicago? Or talk about crayon colors, or flowers, or dinner plans and whatnot.

Okay, I’m being petty and annoying, so I apologize and I’ll stop.
Every time I talk to one of my friends who is upset with something in his/her life, I am reminded that I really need to take it easy and enjoy the things that I have in my own life. I do have a tendency to get caught up in the Grass is Always Greener mentality. I envy my friends who are getting married. I envy my friends who have jobs that excite and stimulate them. I envy my friends who have central air conditioning. And for some reason, they never seem to hear it when I remind them of what they have that is enviable or good. Of course, I don’t listen when people tell me, either. Maybe I should make a list of things that I have that make my life good. Just how green my own lawn is.

I have wonderful wonderful friends who love me despite my quirks.
I have a wonderful beautiful mother who supports me in just about everything I do.
I make enough money to live on.
I have my own apartment in a nice neighborhood and my living room is red.
I have a psycho cat.
I can hold my own in a conversation with just about anyone.
I’ve made twelve films and am about to start work on lucky number thirteen.
All of my senses and my limbs work the way they are supposed to.
My brain works a smidge better than it should.
I have a very cute little car with a CD player in it.
I’ve been to Spain and Morocco and Portugal and Australia and a bunch of places in the United States.
I was in love once.
I’m smart. S-M-R-T, smart.
And I have a vegan chocolate cake with raspberry filling waiting for me in the other room.

So yeah, I should go eat cake and bask in the splendor of my wonderful, rich, green lawn. You should go eat cake, too. Cake is good stuff.

Thursday, June 20, 2002

There is something strangely satisfying about a very distinguished-looking woman in a business suit wearing mules (aka slip on shoes with no backs) that fart when she walks.
I thought I had something interesting to talk about today, but I was wrong. So I’ll talk about my birthday, instead.

I did not have good birthdays as a small child. My parents would let me do parties and stuff, but I usually ended up being the one not talked to at my own birthday parties, you know? I would go to other girl’s parties and everyone would fight over who got to sit next to the birthday girl and who’s present the birthday girl should open first and all that stuff. Stupid stuff, but important when you’re eight. And none of that ever happened at my parties. I had some good parties, too. When my house was under construction, we tied each girl’s goody bag to one end of a piece of yarn and wound the yarn through the construction – through the walls – so you had to follow your yarn to get your treats. Another year, we did a whipped cream/water balloon fight. Maybe this explains why I was so excited to get hit in the face with a pie a few years later. But whatever. I had great parties. I just didn’t get to enjoy them because I felt like an outcast. Like people only came because of what other guests were going to be there.

I do have a couple of birthday stories that I like. When I was turned fifteen, I spent the entire day with my honorary sister. She bought me a giant cookie and we had a picnic at a park and fed the ducks. We colored and had a girlie sleepover. It was wonderful.

When I turned 21, I went to St. Louis to see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. I got my picture taken with six of the band members and all of them autographed a dollar bill for me. It was great. Except a couple of the people who ventured into the city with me that night never paid me back for the concert tickets, so I essentially bought friends for the evening to celebrate my 21st with me. Oh well.

By the time I turned 22, I was pretty well ensconced in the swing scene in Chicago, though only one or two people knew when my birthday was. Some of my friends had a performance that night and I mentioned that I planned on going to support them. By this point, I had pretty much given up on celebrating my birthday, anyway. After you can vote and drink, what else is there to look forward to? But the word got out that I was going to be in the crowd at this performance and people came out in force, not only for the performance, but to celebrate my birthday with me. I had no idea they were there for that. I felt very loved. It was great.

Last year, I was filming on my birthday. We were doing a scene wherein my character is struggling with the decision of telling the people around her that it is her birthday or not. Nobody on set knew it was my birthday, but I blew them all away with my performance. The rest of the cast and crew found out four days later that it had been my birthday and there were murmurs of “No wonder she did that scene so well,” around the table.

So yeah, my birthdays have been getting better as of late. And this year, two very dear, very wonderful friends of mine are throwing me a birthday party that requires a cover charge and has its own website. I’m amazed. I’m petrified that people won’t show up or have a good time. I’m nervous that I will once again feel like an outcast at my own party. I’m afraid I might get really drunk and do something stupid. But I’m excited at the prospect that none of those things might happen and I could just have a really kick ass birthday party for once.

So yeah, I apologize for not having much of interest to say today (she says, looking back at her almost full page of rambling). I’m nervous and excited and I’m very much looking forward to the party and I will be very glad when it is done. Happy birthday to a wishy-washy, neurotic freak show.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

So I’m in the middle of cataloging my video collection. Not the ones I have purchased over the years, but the ones wherein I have recorded tidbits of American pop culture that I, at the time, deemed worthy and then conveniently forgot to label. I am finding out two big things: 1) I have a lot of blank tape space and 2) I have a lot of X-Files episodes on tape that I don’t ever remember watching. It’s kind of cool. I feel like I should watch one every Sunday night at eight to fill the void left when the show was canceled.

The tape I was reviewing last night had two things of note on it. The first was a George Carlin HBO special. He is one sick and twisted man. I love him. I just…yeah. I dig Carlin. I was makin’ all kinds of strange noises while I was watching that. And when you have just spent an hour watching a very funny man talk about politics and farts and everything in between, what is the best possible movie you can think of to follow that? Natural Born Killers. Yeah, no, I don’t think so either, but that’s what is on the tape. Or at least most of it is on the tape, so I didn’t get to see the ending. But man, did that movie get me thinking.

I remember seeing it in high school with my honorary brother and at that time, I thought movies like that were the be-all end-all of movie making. I thought they were real and true and “how life really is,” you know? I was angry and bitter and cynical and jaded. And watching the same movie last night, I was horrified, not so much by the violence in it, as by the fact that this stuff used to be my lifeblood.

I’m not saying Natural Born Killers is a bad movie. On the contrary. It is a very well made film with a pertinent message in it. It is quite a good film. Not for the weak of heart (or stomach), but a very good film. But I look back at the girl who loved that stuff so dearly for the fact that it was sick and twisted and messed up and angry and am relieved that I’m not her anymore.

I went out for a walk the other night and passed by a bed of roses. There was a man smoking a cigarette standing near the roses, so I just kept going. But on my way home, I literally stopped and smelled one. I stopped walking, stuck my nose as far into the flower as I could, and I breathed in that rose. I did the same thing when walking to a club with a friend of mine over the weekend. How many people do you know stop and smell the flowers? Literally.

I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say in this blog, really. It’s kind of startling to be able to see such a marked change in yourself. And kind of a relief to feel that the change was made for the better, not the worse. So yeah, I guess I’m proud of myself for growing up and changing and being able to find the beauty in more things than just violent movies.

(And just for the record, I do still enjoy the nice, dark, evil-feeling Goth club every now and again, you know? There is beauty to be found there, too. There is beauty to be found in just about everything if you know where to look.)
I’m warning you all now so you won’t freak out when it happens: I’m taking next week off. The whole week. I will not come into work and will therefore not be within reasonable proximity of a computer for an entire week. Unless I venture out to the suburbs and post from my dad’s computer or unless I really have something important to say that motivates me to spend $3/hour at the Internet café around the corner from my house, I will not be blogging for a week.

I know. You’re sad. You’re disappointed. You’ll miss me. I’ll miss you too. I love blogging. Despite some of the weird things that blogging can produce like “fans,” I love blogging. I love writing things that are really for me and having other people read them. Its kind of exhibitionist in a way, I guess, but it makes me happy. And yes, I do go back and read my own blog entries. Sometimes I cringe, sometimes I laugh, but they help remind me that things change and that in general, I have it pretty good so I should just shut my yap and enjoy my life.

But yeah, I may be out of touch for a few days and I didn’t want you to think its because I didn’t love you or love blogging or didn’t have anything to say or that anything terrible had happened to me. I will hopefully have some fun things to say when I get back to work the week after next, but savor the entries from today, tomorrow, and Friday, and let my archives hold you over until I get back. Think of it as a week of re-runs before the new season starts.

I crack me up with my own imagined popularity sometimes.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

On my way in to work this morning, I was driving behind what I hope/assume was a bakery delivery truck because it said on the back in big, red letters, “CAUTION: Cakes on Board.” And I’m thinkin’ to myself, if that isn’t an invitation for an accident…”Oh no, now there are all these half-ruined cakes on the road and in the back of your van. I guess we’ll just have to eat them…”

Cake. There’s nothing like it. *

*This quote brought to you by The Onion. America’s Finest News Source

Monday, June 17, 2002

I was witness to a pretty cool phenomenon this weekend – a freestyle breaking jam circle. In lindy hop, we do still occasionally have jam circles, though more and more frequently in Chicago, jams are reserved for someone’s birthday or going away or welcoming someone new to the city, things like that. We seldom have spontaneous jams just for the sake of showing off, you know?

So I’m out at this club with some friends and one of the guys in our group cleared a circle on the dance floor and started breaking. About three other guys that were at the club would jump in and show their stuff, too. They went in a kind of a rotation, each respecting the other’s right to be in the circle, yet all still trying to one-up each other. And some of the stuff these guys were doing…they didn’t look like they had the upper body strength to do that, but they did it. It was like physics went out the window, it looked so flawless. Well, mostly flawless. But yeah, that was cool. I love getting a sneak peak into a different world, you know? It reminds me how small me and my world are and how much more there is to learn out there. It’s exciting and invigorating.
I went out to my dad’s house yesterday for father’s day. I baked him a giant oatmeal raisin cookie with chocolate chips in it and brought him a card. I think the best gift from his perspective, though, was to have both of his kids over for dinner.

Yes, I ate over at my dad’s house. Yes, I told my dad and my stepmom that I’m doing the whole vegan diet thing. My dad looked like I had just punched him in the throat. Yesterday was the first time that I was made to feel bad or guilty about my decision to do this. Most of the people I have told about it have been really supportive. There are a few who have been inquisitive, but usually when I explain my motivations, they accept them if not applaud them. Last night, I felt awful. I was prepared to go home and make my own vegan-friendly dinner, but my dad was so intent on feeding me. He went around his kitchen reading the labels on everything and getting increasingly frustrated when he would see that there was cheese in the Italian dressing or that milk had already been added to the mashed potatoes. I kept telling them that a peanut butter sandwich was fine and I ended up having that and a baked potato with salsa on it (a combination I had not tried before, but that was quite tasty). And we played the “Can you eat…” game through a large portion of dinner. “Can you eat potatoes?” “Can you have orange juice?” “Can you have falafel?” “What is falafel, exactly?” I was so drained by the time I left.

I mean, I can understand where my dad is coming from. His big concern is did he raise my brother and I right? Yes, he did. My brother and I are both fine, upstanding citizens. But keep in mind, my dad grew up on a farm that didn’t mistreat animals and eating animals and animal products is an integral part of my dad and what he stands for and of his family and what his family stands for. I know he was upset when I bought a car that didn’t use the parts his company makes, but that he could deal with. Now, I am not eating the food that his family grows. Well, I am. They do grow corn and soy beans and stuff, but to not eat animal products? It’s like a slap in the face to him.

I knew he wouldn’t take it well. He did the best he could with it, and I’m thankful that he didn’t blow up or call me silly or anything. I’m wondering how much of that stems from the fact that he didn’t want to make a scene and how much stems from a realization that I am an adult now and he doesn’t really have any say in my diet. I don’t think he understood the “I want to gain a better appreciation for vegetarians and vegans” reasoning, though. I don’t know what he thinks about it. I’m pretty sure he feels that this is another of his failures, like the fact that I don’t go to church. I wish he didn’t feel that way because I feel great. I love this diet. I’m happy doing this and I have done research and will continue to do research to ensure that I stay healthy. This decision was not intended to be an affront to my dad and I hope he knows that.

I love my dad in my own way. I know he loves me in his. I know those don’t always match up, though, which makes it hard for me to see him a lot. I hope that changes one day, but I’m not going to hold my breath. I just hope he knows I mean it when I tell him that I love him.

Friday, June 14, 2002

Mother Nature is going through menopause. She has to be. How else do you explain the heat spells we’ve been getting for just a couple of days at a time? Hot flashes. How else do you explain the thirty second downpours? She’s moody and crying. How else do you explain the inordinate number of thunderstorms we’ve been having? Mother Nature’s raging hormones.

Mother Nature, I know this is a difficult time for you. But there have been all kinds of medical advances and such in recent years that can make menopause and post-menopausal life easier. Would you like us to pump some estrogen into the ground for you? Or would it help if we told you how beautiful you are just a little more often than we do? You really are stunning and we are all thankful to have you. Even in your post-menopausal years, you will be loved and cherished and needed. Though if you wanted to share some of your comfort ice cream with us, we wouldn’t mind. But yeah, you’ll get through this and we are all here to help. Just let us know what you need.
Reason #8, 563 why my mom rocks:

I went over to my mom's house last night to cook dinner for her and her boyfriend/husband-type person. They were both very open minded about trying the Gimmie Lean meatballs. And I played Moby for my mom and she loved it! She and her boyfriend/husband-type person are going to invest in a Moby CD or two and for my looming-in-the-not-so-distant-future birthday, she will be presenting me with a copy of the Play DVD.

My mom rocks. Life is good. That is all.
I would like to take a moment today to talk about relationships. One very important aspect of relationships in particular. It is one of those things that is always talked about but never resolved. It transcends genders and age differences and spills over into friendships. It is one of the oldest relationship-related debates in the history of relationships and how you handle this issue can make or break your entire future with another person.

Toilet seats: up or down?

As a woman, I prefer that my toilet seat be down most of the time. The down position requires the least amount of effort to maintain, from my perspective. However, I do know that there is another half of the population that prefers that the toilet seat be up a significant portion of the time – men. Yes, there are times when men need the toilet seat to be down, but more often than not, it should be up when a man is using the restroom. Or “melting ice” as it is sometimes called, usually in bars. “Hey, Mike, watch my drink. I gotta go melt some ice.” So how does one handle this discrepancy in the most politically correct manner?

My own personal theory is this: the owner/primary user of the toilet gets to determine the position of the toilet seat when the toilet itself is not in use. I leave my toilet seat down. When guests come to my house and use my toilet, I appreciate it when they return it to the down position after use. I have been to the houses of some of my single guy friends who leave their toilet seats up. I am pretty sure that this is the reason for their prolonged singlehood, but out of courtesy to my single guy friends, if I use their restroom, I will return the toilet seat to its up position when I am finished with it. And then there are houses where not only is the toilet seat left in the down position, but the lid is also in the down position at all times because, “Who wants to look at the inside of a toilet?” I, personally, am not offended by the inside of a toilet, but out of respect for my friends who prefer that their toilet seats and lids be kept in the down position, I will lower the lid when I am done.

In the case of men and women co-habitating, or in the case of public unisex restrooms, I do feel that the down position is the proper position for the toilet seat. Why? Because while it is true that more often than not, a man needs the toilet seat to be up, he does sometimes need it down, thus tipping the balance of Necessary Up-Time to Necessary Down-Time slightly in favor of Necessary Down-Time. Majority rules. Isn’t democracy wonderful?

I hope my guide to the perils of toilet seats has been helpful to you in your efforts to be a courteous host, a pleasant houseguest, or to remain in a successful relationship. Please join us again next week as we discuss further relationship perils including “Do I look fat?” and “I Swear This Has Never Happened to Me Before.”

Thursday, June 13, 2002

So there is a new sitcom supposed to come out this fall on, I believe, the WB starring none other than Tim Curry. I was reminded of this because I was reading a friend's blog and she mentioned something about curried noodles. Yes, I am strange. If you haven't figured that out yet, I suggest reading some of my archives, now that they are working again. But anyway, her noodles reminded me that I will have to pay attention to when new TV shows are starting in the fall so I can watch Tim Curry on TV. He's so wonderful. You all should check out the show, too.

Though I bet it will suck and be cancelled after about three episodes anyway. He hasn't been making the best film role choices recently (The Shadow, that one with the killer monkeys, etc). But I truly hope it doesn't suck. He is one of those actors that I think everyone should know about because he really is that good. I read an interview with him once wherein they were talking about some of the albums he has released. He released a compilation entitled The Best of Tim Curry or something like that because "there were no greatest hits." I love people who can laugh at themselves like that.

But yeah, keep an eye out for Wadsworth on TV this fall. (Dr. Frankenfurter was not his favorite role, which is why I refrain from refering to him as that here. Plus, it looks like this new character is a butler, too. "And what do you do?" "I buttle, sir.")
I had a really horrible thought last night. I’m sitting at home being a dork, reviewing all of my videotapes that don’t have labels on them so I could see what was on them and label them accordingly (I have a lot of X-Files and random weird stuff that I don’t remember taping), and a friend of mine calls me at about 10:30. Keep in mind that when I’m being a dork on a Wednesday night, 10:30 is late to be calling someone. Maybe I really am turning into my parents. But anyway, my friend calls and tells me he and a friend of his are at a bar near my house and asks if I want to go join them for a drink. And in order to once again illustrate to you just how much of a dork I am, I will tell you that my flannel pants won out over going and getting a drink with two cute boys. Well, one cute boy, at least. I don’t know his friend.

I guess I’m a dork with a dark side, though, because as I was getting into bed, it occurred to me that I should have invited my friend to stop by my place (sans his friend who I don’t know) on his way home so we could just make out for a bit. I have not made out with this friend of mine. I asked him out once and was turned down. But I wonder how he would have reacted had I called him back and said, “You wanna stop over and make out for a bit?” Particularly when he has alcohol in his system. And would it make any difference if I used the term “snog” instead of “make out?” I don’t know. All I know is that I thought about placing a sort of booty call last night. I didn’t do it, but I thought about it. So I’m almost a bad person, but not quite.
What is it about nuts and dried fruit together that is so darn tasty?

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

I almost forgot!

Yesterday I got an e-mail from the director of Leftover Voices saying that she had shown a rough rough rough rough cut of the film to a test audience and it was well received! People understood the story, even without the sound design. They liked the acting (me) and the cinematography (not me) and they were able to follow the story and everything. Yay!

So yeah, it will still be a while before the film is finished, but it made me really happy to hear that things are progressing and that total strangers liked my movie. *insert big, cheesy, five-year-old-style grin here*
People do strange things in the morning in the name of health or beauty. I’m just as guilty as the next person. I think probably the two strangest things that I do in the morning are curling and combing my eyelashes and brushing my eyebrows. I can justify these things by saying, “I have really long eyelashes that are more visible if I curl them and I comb them to prevent mascara clumps,” and “Once I have penciled in my eyebrows so I don’t look like a mutant with dark hair and no eyebrows, I brush them to soften and distribute the color, thus making my eyebrows look more natural.” But seriously, is it really all that important that my eyelashes are visible and my eyebrows look natural? Obviously it is to me. But I can just picture some archaeologist thousands of years from now on a dig finding eyelash curlers and thinking they were some bizarre torture device or something. Man, have you ever caught your eyelid in one of those things? Ouch.

Or pantyhose. I am wearing them today because I am wearing my Kitty Jankins skirt (the skirt that shows off the junk I got in my trunk and that earned me Honorary Sistah Status) and it kind of warrants pantyhose. But the little dance that I have to do whenever I put them on or after using the restroom or whatever is really funny. Probably the best workout I’m going to get today. There are deep knee bends and kicks and things involved. It really is amusing.

Though today all of my efforts paid off because I was told by one of my co-workers that I have never looked better than I do today. Personally I’d rather feel better than I’ve ever felt before, but if I have to settle for just being pretty for a day, I think I can handle that. I’ll feel better tomorrow.

Tuesday, June 11, 2002

One more smidge about music.

If the record companies really want to maintain the level of business they currently have and/or grow and they are afraid of that position being jeopardized, they need to find out what people are actually listening to.

I listen to the radio a bit. There are some artists where I like one or two songs of theirs, but I wouldn’t want to buy the whole album and since I have no download capabilities, I just listen to those songs when I hear them on the radio. Fine, groovy, that’s what the radio is for, right? I’ve been listening to that Eminem song wherein he masterfully rhymes “me” with “me” about eighty-seven times. Brilliant music making, that. And the line, “Nobody listens to techno” cracks me up for so many reasons. First of all, I’m wondering what kinds of clubs they have in whatever city it is Eminem lives in because here in Chicago, there are tons of techno clubs that all seem to be pretty well populated on weekends. Sure, not everybody at those clubs is there for the sake of the music, but people are listening to it, people continue to make techno music, and Paul Oakenfold still gets paid $50,000 a night to spin records for thousands of screaming/tripping/dancing fans. So yeah, people listen to techno. The line also cracks me up, though, because it is in reference to Moby whose last two albums (the only ones I own) don’t really contain any music that I would classify as “techno.” Sure, there are sound bytes and synthesizers and stuff, but when I listen to Moby after listening to Sander, for instance, its pretty clear that the two are different musical genres. Anyway, it makes me laugh.

But back to the point of this blog. Most of the music that I listen to is not what is on the radio for the simple fact that they don’t play this stuff on the radio. Hamell on Trial isn’t on the radio. Liz Phair isn’t on the radio. Mike Barrett isn’t on the radio. Blossom Dearie isn’t on the radio. And the artists that I listen to at home who do get radio play I still prefer to listen to on disc because it is seldom their best material that gets on the air. Everybody knows Dead Man’s Party, but who knows Water, you know?

So if people are worried about the death of record companies and the music industry as it now exists, I suggest they take a good, hard look at the stuff that actually exists in people’s music collections and the stuff that is actually downloaded and copied and spread around from fan to fan to fan. How they would go about doing this, I have no idea. But if we’re getting to a point where everyone who is getting signed to a record deal sounds like at least three other people/groups who already have record deals, it might be time to rethink the sound your record company wants to promote. I, personally, am at a point where I won’t even listen to boy band music. It may be new and innovative lyrics and stuff, but you tell me that there are going to be five guys up there on stage singing songs that they didn’t write that contain lyrics no real guy would ever say and dancing in unison and I tune out. Instantly. Show me some teenage girl with perfect hair and rock solid abs singing songs she didn’t write about how innocent she is while she’s prancing around half-naked and I tune out. Instantly. Give me “one guy and one guitar” and I’m all ears. I’ll decide after I’ve actually heard his stuff if I want to listen to it.

I don’t know why this is so irksome to me today, but it is. There is so much good music out there that the masses never get exposed to. There is so much good music out there that I never get exposed to. Maybe its because I heard the Eminem song twice on my way to work this morning – a twenty minute commute. Maybe it is because I hear the same songs whenever I go out dancing. Maybe it is because the techno disc my DJ friend gave me last night just rocks out at the end and gets you all pumped up. Maybe it is because I’m feeling very poor again and can’t afford to get a bunch of the music I would like to have. Maybe it is because yet another reality show about finding the next big pop star is about to start on TV. I don’t know. But I would say pay attention to what people actually like, not what gets air time when signing your next pop star.

You know, if I went into that room to audition for this reality show/pop star search armed with my little folk songs and my mom’s classical guitar, I can almost guarantee you they would tell me I sound horrible and I don’t have the look they are going for. Does that mean I shouldn’t be allowed to make music?
A friend of mine sent me a link to an article yesterday about the impending death of the music industry. Well, kind of. Let me start by saying that I know little to nothing about the music industry so any comments I make about it in this blog are from the perspective of the music consumer, and not a very prolific one at that.

I, personally, do not think the music industry will ever die. People like to listen to music. People like to make music. It is a part of just about every culture on the planet in one form or another. In some cultures, we have learned that people will pay ridiculous amounts of money to see other people play music. Yeah, maybe the music industry is more capitalistic than it should be and maybe things are on a down slope because of mp3s and stuff, but I do not think that Napster is/was one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, you know? It is just another method of getting the product to the consumer and in the case of music, isn’t the product what it is all about anyway?

A couple of weeks ago, I got drunk at a party where there were guitars and I got to play my new song that I am totally in love with for about three friends. One of these friends told me last night that he has a friend with a recording studio and who would (for a very reasonable price) record and mix my song. Now, first of all, I am blown away that my friend was so impressed with my song that he remembers it and would encourage me to record it. Yeah, I’ve thought about going back into a studio and laying down another disc, but I was under the assumption that it would be for my own personal archiving purposes and such, you know? Not that other people would actually want to listen to it. And if I do record it, I would then probably have a friend of mine rip it to an mp3 so I could post my song on my website for anyone to listen to who wants to take three minutes out of his or her life to take a peak inside my head. You, my faithful readers, for example. I do not expect to make money off of my song. I did not write it with dollar signs in my head. I wrote it because I wanted to. I had something very personal to say, so I wrote a song. That was my sole intention. The fact that one other person thinks its good blows me away, you know? So from my perspective, if someone wants to listen to my song, I don’t really care how he or she goes about doing it. If they buy a CD off of me or if they download it from the net, whatever. The music industry is not going to die if I don’t sell millions of copies of my record. There will still be generation upon generation of people who write and record music simply because they want to and because they can. One of my DJ friends keeps burning his sets and he gives me discs for free. He wants to share his art with other people, whether or not he gets paid for it. People like he and I and a bunch of others may have to hold day jobs to pay rent and stuff, but that isn’t going to stop us from making music.

So what about the record labels and record company executives and such? Won’t they go out of business? I doubt it. I very seriously doubt it. You know why? Music is a cyclical thing, an evolutionary art. Every time someone says music is going to die, somebody comes along and revolutionizes it. Elvis. The Beatles. Nirvana. These people are always greeted with criticism but eventually they become mainstream and imitators abound, saturating the airwaves. Then somebody gets sick of that sound and becomes a revolutionary who is greeted with criticism and eventually becomes mainstream and spawns imitators. Sure, it’s been a few years since the music industry has really been shaken, but it will happen. It always does. It just takes time. And I think there are enough Brittany Spears and ‘NSYNCs and Eminems and Creeds to hold us over until it happens.
I want to spend some time today talking about music, but that is going to be kind of a long, rant-like entry. So while I work on that one, I thought I would share this little tidbit with you, my faithful readers, because I know how hungry you all can get for tiny morsels of yummy Kitty goodness. (Can you tell I didn't sleep much last night?)

They are doing construction across the street from my building. Something with digging a big hole in the ground and putting concrete in it and then doing things to the concrete once it is there. This particular morning, they are drilling the concrete, or maybe cutting a large hole it it to match the hole in the ground (very Mendelbrotian, if that's a word), and the force being exerted through the concrete and onto the ground by the drilling or cutting machinery being employed on the concrete in the large hole in the ground is causing my entire building to shake. In a kind of a nice way.

So of course I check the Moby updates this morning (its called the Moby journal now, but I still like updates better) and there is a reference in there to a thread entitled "Everyone needs a vibrator" on his boards. Well, this particular morning, my whole building is a vibrator. And I get paid to be here.

Happy Tuesday, everybody!

Monday, June 10, 2002

My audition this weekend didn’t go as well as I would have liked it to. I felt rushed and I’m sure that had an impact on my diction and performance and all that crap. Oh well. Cold, impersonal casting directors with timers make me nervous. So I very seriously doubt I will even be called back which is disappointing. It would have been fun to tour the country for a few months. But now I get to stay in Chicago and I guess I’ll just have to audition my ass off to stay busy.

One interesting thing happened in conjunction with the audition, though. I was all dressed and had my make-up and hair done for it (nothing fancy, just highlight the eyes and such) and I looked in the mirror and saw an absolute knock out. That doesn’t happen to me very often. Usually I look in the mirror and think, “Eh, close enough for government work.” But I was hot on Saturday morning. So that was nice.

Friday, June 07, 2002

I’m tempted to add one more thing to my list of necessities in life, but it could kind of fit under on of the existing things, so I’ll just give this new topic its very own blog entry.

Hugs.

If you have the “good friend” listed on my previously posted list of necessities in life, you are probably getting hugs on a fairly regular basis. Or at least I would hope so. That’s one of the bonuses you get from friendships – free hugs when you need them. But I think hugging is really important. They did research a while ago on chimps (I know, shame on them) wherein they had two chimps who were kept in cages and given food and water and playthings and stuff and one of them was played with by the people running the experiment and the other was not. I believe that the chimp who was deprived of physical contact eventually died, or at the very least got very sick. Meaning physical contact is an important part of animal life. And we, being animals, need it to.

I was going to write a book once on hugging. A kind of hug dictionary so people could know what kind of hug was most appropriate in what situation and what proper hugging ettiquette is, if such a thing exists. For example:


A-Frame Hug
A-Frame hugs usually occur between two people who either don’t know each other very well or don’t like each other very much but are forced to hug one another in the name of social niceties. In an A-Frame hug, both parties stand a few steps away from one another and will just wrap their arms around one another’s shoulders for a moment or two. A-Frame hugs can also happen at the beginning of a hugging relationship before both parties are comfortable with their relationship.
Full Body Hug
Full body hugs occur between great friends and/or lovers. This is when one person is standing so close to the other that every possible part of one body is touching the other body. They are usually inspired by feelings of love between the participants, either platonic or erotic or some other form, but these hugs usually mean, “I love you.”
Back Patting
Back patting that happens during a hug usually means, “I’m not entirely comfortable with this hug and would be glad to let go at any time.” Back patting as a hug is being released can mean any one of about a million things, so don’t try to read too much meaning into it.
One-Over, One-Under
This is probably the most common hug. Each participant’s right arm goes over the other’s left shoulder while each left arm goes around the other person’s waist on the right side (or it can be left over, right under, too). One arm over, one arm under. This is the proper way to hug a fellow employee when thanking them for a birthday gift. This si the proper way to hug your grandmother. These are platonic hugs for the most part and are considered to be most safe in large social situations. There are things that can be added on to the OO, OU, such as a kiss on the cheek (either going into the hug or coming out of it), or extra pressure applied during the hug, or dropping one hand into the hand of the other person that can add “meaning” to the hug for those of you intent on reading everyone’s body language at all times. Those additions will be discussed in a later chapter.
Both Up, Both Down
In these hugs, one participant wraps his/her arms around the neck of the other participant who, in turn, wraps his/her arms around the first participant’s waist. These hugs are more intimate than OO, OU hugs in that one person has more power than the other. There is usually a hugger and a hugee in these cases, though either position can hold either role. These hugs usually exist between people who are comfortable in their relationship and know where they stand with the other person, or between two people who are experimenting with their relationship to see what works best. They can be celebratory or for comfort or just for fun.
Group Hug
The least satisfying of all the hugs, the group hug happens at really cheesy moments when nobody really wants to put in the time or effort to show anyone else how they feel about them through a two-person hug, but everyone involved feels that they should show everyone else involved that they do give a shit, so a group hug happens.


And so on and so forth.

But seriously, I am a big fan of hugging. A hug can say everything. Who lets go first. How strong are you holding the other person. How strong is the other person holding you. How long does the hug last. What is done about a jacket when hugging in cold weather. All of these things put together form an unspoken means of communication between the people involved in the hug, but so few people put stock in hugs that it has become a safe way to express your feelings without putting yourself at risk.

My personal hugging style, obviously, varies from person to person. But I like to hug people. I love that feeling that I can envelop another person in my energy for a minute. Its like a full body Vulcan Mind Meld, except it doesn’t hurt. My favorite hugs are the ones where you really feel like you’ve been hugged afterwards – full body, good pressure, nice duration. And very seldom do I let go first.

Thursday, June 06, 2002

Well, it’s not red, it’s brown. I guess it is my bad for saying “auburn” as opposed to “copper” red, but I didn’t want to walk out of there looking like Carrot Top, you know? So it’s brown. And I feel bad ‘cuz I was in there for four hours, count ‘em, four hours and the poor guy doing my hair was doing another woman’s hair at the same time (the roommate of a friend of mine, incidentally) and he was so tired but he could tell I wasn’t happy. I seriously wanted to cry when I got home. I know its silly and I shouldn’t get so emotional about my hair because it looks fine, he did a great job, it’s just not the color I want. And being a brunette is not the same as being a redhead. So he told me to come back next week and we can put highlights in it or something. I don’t want highlights. I don’t want layers. I want a nice, all over red color in my hair and a nice blunt cut. I wake up in the morning, wash my hair, and go to work. I don’t even own a hair dryer. I don’t want to have to fuss with layers and the upkeep associated with highlights. I want simple, red hair. That’s it. Is that so much to ask for?

I don’t look bad. I am blessed with coloration that looks good with any color hair and I’ve had them all, trust me. So I still look good, but I still don’t look like me. I miss my red hair. But when I left the salon at quarter after nine last night my scalp hurt and I wanted to cry and I didn’t even have my beautiful red hair to show for it, either. So I’m not in a good mood today. And I think I’m getting sick. And I’m tired of it misting outside. If it’s going to rain, rain already. Quit teasing us.

I’m sorry. I don’t think this is something that anyone other than an over-emotional chronic hair dyer can understand, but red hair just makes you feel different. And I wanted to be red for my audition this weekend.

Remind me to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever dye my hair black again.

Wednesday, June 05, 2002

Oh, I forgot! I wanted to give wicked mad props to Richard Elfman today. Yes, that would be Danny Elfman's brother. But last night, I had one of my good friends over and we cooked dinner (falafel sammiches with cucumber salad, all vegan friendly and really yummy) and we watched The Forbidden Zone, which has to be the strangest movie ever made. If you can find a copy of it, take a look. Its so bizarre. Moderately offensive, but really bizarre. And it was written and directed by Richard Elfman. So yeah, I just wanted to mention that in case you get bored and need a good, bad, completely wacky movie to watch.
I honestly don’t have much to say today, but I like to try to write in here every day. It makes me feel like I’m doing something and it helps keep my writing abilities in shape. Did I tell you I’m working on a screenplay? Yeah, nothing earth shattering, but we’ll see if maybe I can get Gravy Train Films to produce it or something. Though I doubt it. I don’t think it is funny enough. Maybe by the time I’m done with it, I’ll have my own site up and I can put it up there for y’all to read if you get bored. I really should get on that.

What else? Tonight, I become a redhead again. I’m excited about that. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve learned that the color of your hair really can influence your moods. There’s something about having red hair that makes me feel invincible or something. Black hair makes me feel moody and apathetic and dark and shit. I’m getting kind of tired of that. I want the joy of being a redhead again. My whole “black is the new red” thing didn’t really work.

Oh, and I took a class in Dreamweaver today. Yeah, almost fell asleep. But at least it was time spent away from my regular desk.

So yeah, another boring update from me. I’m sorry. I’ll try to have something pithy to say tomorrow for you, my faithful readers. It sounds like your numbers are growing, too. That’s cool. I like it that people enjoy reading my blogs and will comment to me on them from time to time. I really dig that. Feel free to tell your friends about my blog, because as we all know, work can be boring from time to time.

Tuesday, June 04, 2002

Okay, yay to thunderstorms, but boo hiss to the pipes exploding sewerage and roaches all over our offices.
I love thunderstorms. There is something really comforting about lying snuggled up in bed listening to the rain and the thunder and knowing that even though it is really loud, the lightening is far away.

If you talk to my cat, though, I’m sure you’ll get another story. Poor baby was freaking out last night. I had to get up a couple of times during the night and hold him for a minute. I know he doesn’t understand it when I tell him its okay, but I think he digs the attention. Either that, or I have to admit pretty soon that I am Pathetic Single Woman with Cat. Though if being Pathetic Single Woman with Cat means I get to hold my cat in the middle of a thunderstorm until he calms down, I think I can live with that.

Damn it, this blog was supposed to be about thunderstorms and how cool they are. I really do dig thunderstorms.

Monday, June 03, 2002

I ran into a guy recently who described himself as polyamorous. “Poly,” meaning “many” and “amorous,” meaning “loves.” A person with many loves. A person incapable of loving just one person for the rest of his or her life. A person who would be most comfortable in a group marriage type situation. Aside from the actual “marriage” part, doesn’t that describe about 90% of the men you know?

I’m kidding. Not all men are afraid of commitment and there are a lot of women out there with commitment issues, too, so I shouldn’t stereotype. It was purely for comedic effect. I’m sorry if anyone was offended by that remark.

But bringing us back on topic, polyamory. My instant reaction to that is that it is a cop out. A way to avoid having to make a decision. And I have no idea how it would work in practice because from what little experience I have with three-ways and such, you always like one person more than the other. It’s like Elvis vs. the Beatles – you may appreciate and really dig the music of both, but you ultimately prefer one over the other. This can lead to things like jealousy and anger and hurt feelings and then you’re left with either one happy but slightly guilty feeling couple, or three single people starting all over looking for relationships.

I don’t doubt that it is possible to love more than one person. I love a lot of people. And I often find myself in a position of having crushes on multiple people at the same time (which, to be really honest, makes me feel guilty). But I don’t know that it is possible to be truly madly deeply in love with more than one person. I could just be naïve. I’ve only had one really fucked up experience with being truly madly deeply in love and the man that I was in love with was the only man I wanted to be with. I look back at how destructive our relationship was and how many other opportunities I had for healthier relationships while I was in love with him and I kick myself for turning those other people down. But he meant that much to me. As crazy as that sounds, I was so intensely in love with him that to do anything that might jeopardize that was unthinkable to me.

So, hypothetically speaking, if this guy I met is classifying himself as polyamorous so that he can have his girlfriend and not feel guilty about messing around with other people at the same time, then why does he even have a girlfriend? Sure, maybe he does love her, but is he in love with her? If he’s not in love with her, why does he stay in a long-term relationship with her? Why not just be friends? Because if it is enough of an issue to bother her that he is polyamorous, that would seem to imply that he can get some when he wants some, you know?

I don’t know. Obviously, I don’t know the whole situation and I’ve never been in a polyamorous relationship, so I’m sure I sound judgmental and ignorant. And it was only really interesting to me because yes, I’ll admit that I found this guy to be attractive, and I started wondering how I would react if my boyfriend (assuming I had one) told me he was polyamorous. I don’t know that I could date someone like that. I understand casually dating a few different people until you find one that you would like to pursue something more with, but staying with someone for years who you know is always looking for someone else? What kind of person would I have to be to stay in that relationship?

I’d have to be me about four years ago.
I always feel like such a dork when I’m driving around the city with one of my friends in the car. Or if one of my friends is driving and I’m riding in her car. Because I always feel it necessary to play tour guide, you know? “I worked there for one day.” “That’s where my mom went to school.” “That’s the restaurant we ate in before he dumped me.” “There’s where I got turned down because he knew me too well.” “That’s where fucknut and I would sit in his car and make out every time he would drop me off at home.” “That empty lot is where my house used to be.”

I guess that is the cool part of living somewhere for a while – it gets all marked up with your own memories and stuff. And it is those markings that make up your life. I guess I should be happy, too, that I have so many of them. It means I’ve led an interesting life, right? I dunno. Kind of. And I feel like I need to point these things out for people when I’m driving around with them, but then I catch myself and think, “He doesn’t care,” or “She really isn’t interested in any of this.” I guess they are my markings and my markings alone. Though that makes it sound like I run around peeing on things all over the city to mark my territory. Which I don’t. Yet.

I got a couple of new marks on the city this weekend. Some good, some bad. I’m sure of at least one that will make me kind of sad every time I drive past it, but sad in that, “Gosh, wasn’t that fun?” kind of a way. I dunno. It was a good weekend for the most part. We finished principle photography on the film, which means I can go back to being a redhead this week, which makes me very happy. But my new markings will also always make me remember that I had black hair at the time. My “Christina Ricci” days, as I think they should be known from now on.

I’m sorry, I’m rambling for no good reason. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I spent my whole weekend drinking which was really really really fun, by the way. But this morning I am tired and a smidge dehydrated, so my blogs are going to make even less sense than usual. Bear with me. Or not. It really is up to you.

Okay, I’m stopping now.