Friday, May 30, 2003

I just sat through the dumbest training class ever. But it was supposed to go until 4pm, so I am "going back to training" now (i.e. home), so at least something good came out of the whole deal.

And I'm going to do it. I'm appling to law school. Of sorts. Keep your fingers crossed for me and have a lovely weekend!

Thursday, May 29, 2003

I have a lot to say and nothing to talk about today. I just thought I should warn you before we get started so you’re not sitting there anticipating some great epiphany or anything. Today’s entry will be dry and scattered.

There is a lot going on and nothing really happening, if that makes any sense. I find myself thinking a lot about things that aren’t going to happen (like the audition I went on last week that I haven’t heard back from – it’s been a week. Usually if I don’t hear in a week, I stop thinking about it because it means I didn’t get it but this one won’t leave my head) and I don’t know if that is healthy or not. I’m fantasizing about buying an iBook. I’m very distracted by the guy in the gas mask outside my window drilling into the brick or the mortar or tuck pointing or whatever it is that he is doing with a very loud drill and a gas mask outside my window. I wish I could tell if he was cute or not. I’m debating a torrid love affair with a rock star. I’m debating going back to school (my office has said they will pay for me to become a paralegal). I’m plotting ways to make more money so I can live a little. I’m trying really hard to not call my director and say, “I’ll swing by and pick up a copy of Mix Tape tonight. Where will you be?” Sweet jebus, the guys outside my window are now singing “Brian Wilson” by the Barenaked Ladies and they don’t even know the words. How can I not laugh at this? And no, he’s not that cute. And he can’t sing. Can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t act; she’s a triple threat. My god, that just made my day. I think I have to stop bitching now. Life is good. There’s a crazy construction guy outside my window singing Barenaked Ladies.

Wednesday, May 28, 2003

Okay, ready? Another sex entry. Here we go.

I have decided that it is really strange that there are men out there who only want to have sex with me. Men who see me as a sex object. I’m not saying there are a lot of them, but I know there are one or two who have seen me somewhere at some point in time (probably when I was wearing the vinyl corset) and have thought to themselves, “I gotta get me a piece of that!” And that is really odd to me. It kind of creeps me out.

Let’s face it, sex is strange. Aside from the strange faces and strange noises we make while having sex, the act in and of itself is really funny. “Hi, yes, I’d like to take this part of my body which I normally use to expel waste matter from my system and place it inside one of the holes in your body, either the one next to the one you use to expel waste matter from your body, or the one that you use to expel waste matter from your body, or maybe even your mouth. I know that by doing this, we will both (hopefully) have an experience wherein a large number of nerve endings that are all concentrated in a small area will all contract at the same time and man, does that feel good. Whaddya say?” And that’s just from the non-procreative male perspective. Am I the only one who thinks that that sounds strange? So then I try to think about it from the female perspective and it’s just as strange to me. “Yes, I would like to stick my tongue into the hole next to the hole from which you expel waste material. Or maybe my hand, though if I just put my hand in there, I’m not going to enjoy it as much as you are, so maybe you could use your hand on me, too? Thanks.” I’m sorry. I know I’m being really logical about this, but from a logical perspective, unless you plan on having a kid as a result of having sex, it strikes me as kind of odd. I know it feels good, but it still strikes me as kind of odd.

Which makes me think that maybe I just need the right partner and it won’t seem so strange anymore, just like French kissing. And I know that at least one of you is thinking, “I’ll be your right partner, baby.” Thanks, but that right there means you’re not. So how does one go about finding the right partner? Experimentation? Do I really want to subject myself to lots of sub-par sex in the hopes that one of these days I’ll get it right? There is a huge market out there of battery-operated devices specifically designed so that I won’t have to do that. Because let’s face it, sub-par sex is…well, sub-par. It’s not satisfying and your impression of the sub-par partner is altered by the fact that the sex wasn’t all it could have been. And then you start thinking about the faces he or she made and the noises and the things that you did in your honest efforts to make it good and I don’t know about you, but I start to feel ill. Sex should not make one ill, either in a physical or emotional sense. It should be fun and beautiful and make one feel good.

So what was my point with this entry? Oh, yeah. There are men out there who only want to have sex with me. (I realize that that sounds really conceited of me, but I'm not saying it to be conceited. I actually was told a few days ago that someone just wanted to jump me.) Considering my views on sex, this makes these particular men unattractive to me. And considering my views of myself (the fact that my brain is my most precious asset and the package I’m in isn’t the greatest in the world, but it will do), I can’t help but ask what is wrong with these particular men that they see me in that light? But then I have to remind myself that not everybody in the world knows me. When someone first meets me, all they have to go on is my physical appearance. And yes, I can see how me wearing a vinyl corset might inspire a guy to want to take off the corset and have his way with me. So there really isn’t anything wrong with him. It’s just a matter of perceptions again. Fucking perceptions. It would be really nice if I could remove all of the filters from my brain for about twenty minutes and see the world as it actually is instead of seeing it as I perceive it to be. What an eye opener that would be.

Tuesday, May 27, 2003

And I’m getting kind of antsy to do something to my physical appearance. Like maybe a tattoo. I’ve been wanting a tattoo for a long time now and I think this year, for my birthday, I just might have to get myself one. I’m going to think about it for a little while longer, though. Make sure I like the idea before I do it. Eep. Can you imagine me with a tattoo?
So we had a nice, long weekend of beautiful weather and I hardly left my house. It was a self-imposed house arrest, but still. I barely left. I went out Friday night, did my show on Saturday, ran two errands on Sunday, and went dancing last night. That’s it. Those are the only times I left my house. I do kind of feel bad about staying in all weekend since it was so gorgeous outside, but I was working on a baby blanket for my honorary niece/nephew who is due to join us in about a month. I am so excited for this baby to be born. Of the four of us who grew up together, this will be the first child and I want so badly to be a part of this kid’s life. I want to baby sit. I want to go out there for play dates, even though they live way out past bumblefuck. So I’m making a baby blanket and I’m having a lot of fun doing it, but it means I didn’t leave my house this weekend. Oh well. It gave me an opportunity to catch up on a bunch of movies I hadn’t seen in a long time. Like Trainspotting. What an excellent film. I love the way it is acted and the way it is put together as a movie. But I always feel kind of greasy when I’m done watching it. And I had forgotten just how creepy Sleepy Hollow was. I had forgotten it was so graphic. It hit me at the part where the Horseman goes back for the kid. I’d go so far as to say this is Tim Burton’s most gruesome film and I had forgotten that. And on the end of the tape, there’s a little “making of” segment that includes interviews with a bunch of people. Christina Ricci is really cool. I like her. And I watched the first two films of the holy trilogy yesterday and it struck me what is missing in the newest installments of the epic saga – reality. I know, I know, it sounds like a really strange request to ask that a film that starts with “A long time ago in a galaxy far away…,” but go back and watch episodes 4, 5, and 6. Pay attention to the interactions between the characters. They talk to each other like normal people would, even when one party isn’t speaking English (with the possible exception of cry-baby Luke). Episodes 1 and 2 are so deeply rooted in fantasy that we can’t really suspend our disbelief anymore. They ask too much of the audience. Plus, Natalie Portman and Hayden Christiansen don’t have one tenth of the chemistry that Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher did. But I digress.

Speaking of films, I was going through another round of contacting old directors to find out how these projects are going. Mix Tape is finished. As of Friday. I e-mailed the director back today and said that yes, I would like a high quality VHS copy of the film as soon as possible. He said I could have it within the week and he’ll let me know when/if a screening is going to happen. I’m geeked. I might have to twist the arm of one of my friends into having a viewing party at their house since my house isn’t really conducive to parties. Can you believe it? One of my films is done. It’s about frickin’ time.

Friday, May 23, 2003

And while it is kind of nice that we’ve been having an actual spring this year, the whole being cold thing isn’t really my deal either. I’m ready for warm. Like, mid-seventies. Sixty-two and drizzly is not warm.
Yeah, so dating? Not really my thing. Is that wrong? Am I a mutant? Is it wrong that I don’t want to play games? Is it wrong that I don’t want to be with someone purely for physical pleasure? Because I do get mental stimulation from various sources. And if my partner doesn’t provide mental stimulation, I don’t want him to be my partner. But I know a lot of people who would rather be with someone than not. I’d rather be with the right someone or nobody at all. Is that wrong?

Or is it wrong that I sit and think, “I could have this type of relationship with this person?” Do I want to have the torrid, eight and a half week relationship that will leave me an emotional wreck, but very much in tune with my sexual side? Do I want to have the relationship where the guy does nothing but dote on me all of the time? Do I want to have the relationship wherein I play second fiddle to his life and desires? I know that all of these kinds of relationships exist and in some ways, I feel gypped that I never got to have them. Most people get this stuff out of the way in high school and/or college. I didn’t. I hardly dated. And while I am thankful for everything that I learned from being alone for so long, I also sort of wish I had those experiences under my belt. The high school boyfriend pressuring me to have sex before I’m ready. Being a disciple to a guy with a God complex. Playing the dominant role. But I know that none of those relationships will last. And I know that ultimately, they are not what I am looking for. So if I am presented right now with the opportunity to have one of those “types” of relationships, do I take it? Or do I stay true to what I really want and hold out for it?

A friend of mine told me a long time ago that if you believe there is someone out there for you and that you will find that person, it really doesn’t matter if you spend the in between time dating or not dating. That makes sense to me. And ever since he told me that, I have used it as a kind of excuse to not date. I’m wondering if I should instead look at it as an excuse to date. I think dating would be a valuable skill for me to have. It is something I would like to be good at so that I don’t get monstrous knots in my stomach before I meet someone. I’d like to know the etiquette. But I still don’t like dating all that much. So I find myself wondering if it is a skill set I can do without. I’m guessing that it probably is.
I am going to be very random and scattered today. I don’t want to be here at work anymore. I keep thinking about the auditions I went on this week and I really want to go home to a message on my answering machine from one of those people telling me I have job. Hell, I’ve already started spending the money in my mind. Speaking of which, I am owed money for a couple of events I did last month. I wonder when I’ll be getting that. I’m not desperate, but it is mildly unnerving to be owed money and have no idea when you are going to be getting it. I don’t like that feeling.

So I’m pretty much useless here at work today. I have some reading to do which I can almost guarantee you will put me to sleep. I could use some more sleep. I should also learn one of these days that I shouldn’t write blog entries when I’m feeling like this. ‘Cuz this is just weird. Do you really want to be sitting here reading this crap? I didn’t think so. I’ll stop now. I’m sorry. Y’all can go on back to your lives now. I’ll be more coherent next week, I promise.

Thursday, May 22, 2003

I think it's official -- I am addicted to Liz Phair's new song. I'm going to have to start a countdown until her disc comes out. "Isn't this the best part of breakin' up/Finding someone else you can't get enough of."

There is something about certain artists that just gets you, and it is different for different people and different artists. I don't even know what it is, so I'm not sure I'm going to make any sense. Like, I know songs with pianos in them really get me. I like string instruments. With an artist like Liz Phair, there is something about her lyrics and her melodies that I can really connect to. When I listen to her songs, it is like I'm listening to something I wrote, only I don't consciously remember writing it. It just makes me feel good to listen to her. I know, I sound like a cheesy ass fan girl again. Oh well. I think she is an amazing artist and I can't wait to hear the rest of the songs on her new album.

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

Okay, quick question for you. Say you are an employee at a company and you have to go get your new hire physical exam done. You know, they take your blood pressure, check your vitals, ask for your medical history and whatnot. Would you go into a building with a big sign outside that says “Administration” expecting to have your exam done somewhere in that building? Yes, it could be argued that someone will administer these tests, but that’s not what “Administration” means in this case. When a building means “Administration” on it, that usually means that corporate lackeys work there, trying to make sure that things run the way they are supposed to. Or in some cases, trying to make sure things don’t run the way they are supposed to so that they can keep their jobs. There are no exam rooms in an “Administration” building. There is no equipment. There are administrators in an “Administration” building.

So why do all these fuckheads keep coming in here asking for their physical appointments?
And I know I shouldn’t do it, but I keep thinking about Nosferatu. I will bet you a dollar he’s not thinking about me. I will bet you another dollar he doesn’t call. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But I am. I hate being a girl sometimes.
I think they need to make a device that can record your dreams as you dream them and put them on video or DVD. I know I had an interesting dream last night – I think at one point I was telling people that they were in a dream I had – but of course, as soon as I’m in my car on the way to work, the dream is gone. And even the dreams that I think I remember clearly, I know I’m missing pieces of them – such is the nature of dreams. But wouldn’t it be cool if you could put little electrodes or something on your head that could interpret all of your brain functions while you slept and record them and play them back as the dreams that you dreamt? What an amazing psychoanalytic tool that would be! And high entertainment, too, because anything and everything happens in our dreams. I bet if they did build such a device, the movie industry would suffer. We’d see things released in the theaters like Kitty’s Nightmares, 2001-2002 which would scare the crap out of people much more effectively than anything Hollywood could dream up. Talk about reality television. Yeah, the films would be a bunch of shorts all sewn together, but still. I think there could be a big market for that.

So to any of you inventors out there who always wanted to be neurosurgeons, or any of you neurosurgeons out there who always wanted to be inventors, may I suggest working on a dream interpretation helmet that would capture and record people’s dreams. I think that would be really cool. Maybe even cool enough to write a science fiction screenplay about. Once I’m done studying German.
So it would make me insanely happy if I got the part that I auditioned for last night. I’m trying really hard to not get my hopes up ‘cuz I know that if I get them up there too high, I won’t get the part on principle. But it would make me insanely happy. And we all like to see Kitty insanely happy. She’s funny when she’s like that. Though her blogs do suffer a bit. Oh well.

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

I started wondering last night why certain people like technology. Specifically middle aged men. I was driving home and I saw a guy in my rearview mirror talking on a hands free cell phone thingy while driving his Mercedes. This guy had to be in his fifties or sixties and I thought to myself, “Why is he so fascinated by the newest, latest, greatest technology?” I guess it is a question that could be asked of just about anyone, but it was this guy who made me think of it. And the answer that popped into my head before I could even really think about it was, “He is afraid of one day becoming obsolete.”

Is that what technology has become for us? A way to extend our own usefulness? Knowledge rolls over so fast now. I guess it is a legitimate fear to think that one will no longer be useful to others. And I hate to sound ageist or sexist, but I would be willing to assert that this fear is really prominent in older men. Women are always useful, as mothers and caretakers and friends. Men…not so much. They have their kids and raise their kids and watch their kids leave and really all they have at that point is their career. If they don’t stay on top of the latest and greatest technology, they could be replaced by their kids. Yes, I am aware of how horribly politically incorrect I am sounding. I don’t mean it to sound that way. But a man reaching retirement age, reaching a point wherein he becomes acutely aware of his own mortality, seems a prime target for techno-gadget advertisers. This is a way to keep him alive and kicking. This is something he can do and play with after he has been forced into retirement. And isn’t it nice that there are pretty little lights and buttons that go beep on it?

I could be totally wrong. I probably am. I’m not a man and I’m not faced with my own retirement, mortality, or uselessness right now. Which may also explain why I don’t feel the need for every gadget under the sun. But I’m just guessing. Speculating. Because without speculation, this blog is nothing. Maybe this blog is my way of extending my own usefulness. We all want to feel needed.
So Nosferatu has a website. It's not the greatest website I've ever seen, but if you read the chapters of his story, you can hear little snippets of some of his songs. The song we did the video for is in the last link of chapter 3. And it is going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Lucky me. Though I'm sure all of the people walking past the reception desk love it that they walk into the building and hear that music. Tee hee. This is so not my life.

Monday, May 19, 2003

Though, on an up note, I did get one wonderful bit of news over the weekend. Liz Phair is releasing a new album this summer. It comes out two days before my birthday, in fact. Knowing that makes my whole week brighter.
I’m tired. That’s it. I’m tired. So I am going to be bitchy and random because I’m tired. And not so much in a physical sense, more in an emotional sense. I’m tired of being a corporate shill. I’m tired of putting on nice clothes every day and going to an office and sitting at a desk and answering the phone and being pleasant to everyone around me, no matter how stupid they are.

And what is bringing this on today you might ask? I shot a music video yesterday. No, it was not my own music video; it was someone else’s music. A someone else who actually ended up asking me out, which is another story that I will get to later in this entry, if I don’t put it in another entry all together. The whole point of this paragraph being, though, that I had fun yesterday. I had fun getting into costume and getting into character and spending my day making a music video. Being creative. Interacting with new people. Yes, it was exhausting to maintain a social front all day. Yes, it was exhausting being outside, scantily clad in cold weather. Yes, I would recommend that this particular production company consider feeding their actors in the future (kind of a courtesy thing since we weren’t paid). But yes, I had a blast. That’s what I want to do with the rest of my life. I don’t want to come in, sit behind a desk and fill in for our sick receptionist. I don’t want to learn about Medicare and Medicaid and give a presentation to the Vice Chancellor. I could honestly care less about the business arrangements that are made with outside vendors. I’m sorry, but I don’t care. Had I wanted to know this stuff, I would have studied it in college. I studied acting. I studied theater. I want to be the anomaly that actually pursues a career in the same field as her degree. And I’m tired of this crap. I’m tired of this office. I’m tired of the clothes. I’m tired of the politics. I’m tired of the rumors and the meetings and the just plain shit that goes on around here. I’m sorry for venting like this, but I’m tired of it.

I’m tired of the work I do being unfinished, too. I have done 13 or 14 films since I decided to be an actor. Yes, a lot of them were student films, but students have to finish their films in order to receive a grade and graduate. How many of these student films have I actually seen? Two. How many of the indie films that I have done do I have a copy of? One. That’s my demo reel, right there. I bent over backwards for most of these directors and gave them everything that I could give them. I didn’t get paid for any of it because the deal was that I perform in their film, they feed me, give me credit in the film, and give me a copy of the film. Okay, they’re slackin’ on probably the most important part of the bargain. I know films take a long time to edit, especially when there is little to no budget involved. But that’s my career that they have sitting on their desks, waiting to be finished. They need to finish that stuff so I can start my career. Yes, it is wonderful that I have all of this experience. But it does me absolutely no good if nobody can see it. And more people than just me need to see it. I can’t cast myself in other projects. I need to have physical proof of what I can do so I can show it to other people. And I’m getting tired of pestering people to get it.

Which brings me to the guy asking me out last night. It was just fucked up. That’s all I can really say about it. If the way in which a person asks you out is any sort of indication as to what the rest of the relationship is going to be like, I’m standing on the brink of a Tim Burton film. My character was “Goth girl.” So I wore my black vinyl corset that gives me cleavage up to my neck, a leather choker with chains hanging from it that accentuate the cleavage quite nicely, long black skirt, black boots, too much eye make up, dark lipstick, vampire fangs, the whole bit. And the second half of the day, the guy was playing Nosferatu. He had a sort of bald plate thing on with big pointy ears and veins all over his head and these creepy hand gloves and stuff. And we’re standing in the hallway across from his ex-wife and son and he asks what my name is. I tell him. He introduces himself and says we should go out for coffee sometime. I say I’m up for that. He asks me to give him my number before I leave. We go back to the shoot. He kills a few dozen people (‘cuz that’s what Nosferatu does), including myself (he slobbered all over my neck), I give him my number, and I go home. So what happens when I show up to coffee in my cords and a tank top with minimal make up? And I tell him that I’m a vegan hippie? Was it the corset, eyeliner and choker that won him over? And perhaps the strangest question, would I mind if it was? Here’s my chance to have a torrid love affair with a musician. Do I want to take it? One date never hurt anyone, right?

So I’m sitting here at work, filling in for our sick receptionist, trying to think about my audition tonight, trying not to think about the fact that my fingernails are still painted black because I had a really wonderful day yesterday, trying not to worry too much about my honorary brother and his situation, trying not to wonder if and when Nosferatu will call, not looking forward to being here for a whole week. I had hoped that my taking a day off on Friday would get me out of this little work-funk that I am in. It didn’t. And all I can really say is thank fucking god that we have next Monday off.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

So I’m taking the day off tomorrow. I’ve been pissy and grumpy and just icky all week, so I’m taking a mental day. With any luck, I’ll have some wonderful insights to share with you on Monday when I have computer access again. Or maybe just a fun story about a music video shoot I’m doing this weekend.

But suffice it to say I will not be blogging tomorrow. I will miss my blog. I like writing in here. I like it that people read my drivel. So thank you and have a lovely weekend.

Wednesday, May 14, 2003

UPDATE

I e-mailed the wonderful online vegan store about my defective cosmetics situation. Within three hours, I got a reply from a customer service person apologizing for the problem and saying that a new mascara will be sent to me via regular mail so it will not be lost by the Package Delivery Service. I think it is safe to say that I have fallen in love with the wonderful online vegan store and all of it's employees.

Yes, it is that simple. Be nice to your customers. Offer prompt service. Offer feasible solutions. Listen to your customer's problems. And the wonderful online vegan store does all of those things. This is why there is a new link on my blog and this is why I am going to encourage each and every one of you, my three faithful readers, to please visit the wonderful online vegan store and take a look around. They have some really great products on there, whether or not you are vegan. And they know how to run a business.

Kudos to you, wonderful online vegan store!
I feel the need to talk about fucknut today. More specifically, about getting over fucknut. I have a friend mourning the loss of a relationship and while I will listen to him talk until he is blue in the face and my ears are falling off, it breaks my heart to see him going though this. I know people’s hearts are broken all of the time. I just wish I could ease the pain they feel a little bit. So I am going to talk about fucknut and mourning the loss of my relationship with him.

However one wants to define my relationship with fucknut, I loved him. I was very much in love with him. There is nothing I would not have done for him. If he had asked, I would have married him. And yes, I thought about having children with him. I’m not saying either of those things would have been wise things to do, but I thought about them and the thought of those things brought me great joy at the time. I imagined him in my life for the rest of my life. I was completely invested in him as a person.

And then for a million different reasons, I found myself without him. Physically, emotionally without him. He moved, we rarely spoke, and I had to come to terms with the fact that I was not important to him. That he did not see me as a part of his life for the rest of his life. And it hurt like nothing I had ever felt before. It hurt to know that he was leading the life he wanted to lead and that I was not included in that. It hurt to know that he was dating other people. It hurt to listen to certain songs because of the memories they conjured up. It hurt to be certain places. I found myself looking for him everywhere, certain that he would magically show up one day and say, “I was wrong, please take me back.” I found myself looking at things in stores and thinking, “Fucknut would like that.” I found myself finding new songs and thinking, “Fucknut would like this.” And then the reality would set in that I would not have the opportunity to share these things with him ever again and I’d be reduced to tears again.

It took a long time for me to get over fucknut. I know he was bad for me; I knew at the time that he was bad for me, but I was in love with him. Logic does not apply when one is in love. And logic does not apply when one is falling out of love, either.

I had to slowly reprogram myself to not find things in stores that fucknut would like. I had to slowly reprogram myself to not factor him into every decision that I made. I had to make a conscious effort to lose his phone number and e-mail address. And each and every one of these steps took a long time and was very painful. But I did them and I did them when I was ready to do them. And while fucknut will always have a place in my heart, I can honestly say that I am no longer in love with him.

And the up side of falling out of love with him is that I can go to the places we used to go without feeling uncomfortable anymore. I can listen to our songs without crying. I am able to look objectively at our relationship and see that a lot of good things did come out of it, like my love of Liz Phair and techno music, and my appreciation for a good comic book. I owe these things to fucknut. But I no longer like these things because he did. I don’t like them because I want him to approve of me. I like these things because they are good things that bring me joy, if that makes sense. They are now a part of me, not a part of him. I know that these things are a part of me because of him, but I don’t feel the need to purge myself of everything that I learned from him, if that makes any sense. I learned a lot from our relationship and if I were to disregard everything that was at one point attached to him, I would be traveling backwards and I don’t want to do that.

So in a very roundabout way, I guess what I would say to anyone mourning the loss of a relationship is to take your time. Don’t get rid of things until you are ready to get rid of them, be they physical or emotional ties to the person. And take a good hard look at everything before you get rid of it. Some things are worth holding onto, and can be held onto even though you let go of the person and the relationship. And if you need a hug or an ear, please come find me. I’m here to help in whatever way I can.
Imagine, if you will, a proverbial cake. This proverbial cake needs some icing, does it not? Well, I have said proverbial icing for said proverbial cake and here it is: The vegan mascara I ordered and went through hell to try to obtain (thanks to the Dumbass Package Delivery Company) is defective. The brush is twisted up in a little curly Q so not only do you have to practically break the thing to pull the brush out, but unless your eyelids are double-helix shaped, it is unusable.

I'll keep you posted on the re-ordering process.

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

Oh! And I almost forgot. A friend of mine posted his first boom-tss remix of my song on his website. You can check it out here. I think it's pretty sweet. He says he's going to do another one, too. I can't wait!
I do have one happy thing to write about today, though. I would like to talk about my favorite dancer in the Chicago lindy hop scene for a moment, if I may. This is one of those entries that I kind of wish he could see because it just might make his day, but at the same time, I’m kind of glad he doesn’t read this because I think knowing he would read this would make me censor my writing. But anyway, I’m going to talk about my favorite dancer for a minute.

When my brother first brought me out dancing in Chicago, he was taking lessons from this one particular instructor who had a reputation for being one of the best. And when I watched this guy, I knew instantly how he got that reputation. He always dances outside his own comfort zone, so he is always trying new things, whether or not they work. He doesn’t injure his partners, he just keeps them on their toes. And his musicality is top notch. For the longest time, it scared the crap out of me to even think about dancing with him someday.

I used to judge my own dancing ability on who would ask me to dance. As more and more experienced dancers would ask me to dance on a more frequent basis, I knew I was improving. My favorite Chicago dancer was one of the ones who I knew I had to be doing something right for him to dance with me, if that makes sense. And the first time he asked for a second dance in a row, I was stunned. Scared out of my mind, but flattered and excited, too.

After several months of dancing with my favorite Chicago dancer on a pretty regular basis, I told him that I loved dancing with him, but that it always scared the crap out of me. He told me not to be afraid and asked me to please speak up in the conversation of the dance and challenge him because he still had things to learn about listening as a lead. My respect for him skyrocketed that day. There are a lot of instructors out there who have the attitude that they know everything they need to know and that unless someone is reknown throughout the world, they have nothing to teach. So the fact that this dancer, who was one of the best instructors in Chicago, was asking me to help him learn and grow as a dancer…it was pretty amazing. And our dances improved tenfold. I relaxed and played more. His listening improved. We learned how to goof off with one another and hit that balance of lead and follow on both sides of the dance. Or at least I think we did.

Every once in a while, this dancer will make some comment about how much he loves dancing with me, too. And every time he says something like that, my heart smiles for days. Dancing with him makes me feel like a dancer. There’s no other way I can put it. I feel like a dancer when I dance with him. It is beautiful and musical and it just flows. Neither of us can do any wrong, even when we are screwing up left and right. And we are reaching that level of trust where he can pull out more complicated moves on the social floor and I know exactly how far I can push before we have to come out of it. With him, I can find the connection that should exist in every dance, but seldom does. I love it.

So last night, I was feeling like ass. I kept saying I should just go home because things were getting worse and worse, what with the botched audition and the package delivery situation and I spilled someone’s drink. But I wanted to dance with my favorite dancer before I left. I had a really bad dance with another guy and I waited for my favorite dancer on the floor when it was over. I asked if I could steal him for a dance because I needed a good one and he said he needed one, too. I love that. I love it that he will come to me looking for a good dance. We were at a national dance once and he sought me out for a dance so he could feel grounded again. I love that. But anyway, we danced two songs in a row and by the end of the second dance, all the troubles from my day had melted away. I felt good. I felt happy. I was at peace. I was laughing and smiling.

It occasionally occurs to me that on a personal level, I don’t know this guy all that well. We both kind of know what the other one does for a living, but that’s about it. But for the simple fact that he can make me feel so amazing by simply dancing with me, he is a beautiful person in my mind. I hope he knows that. I hope he knows how much it means to me to be able to dance with him like that. I love it as much as I love acting. And I thank him for that. I thank him for dancing with me. I thank him for encouraging me to push myself on the social dance floor. I thank him for pushing himself on the social dance floor and for using me as a guinea pig. I thank him for letting his energy take over and move us around the floor. I thank him for making me feel good when I need it. And I thank all of you for putting up with my incessant sappiness, but I needed to think about something happy for a little while. All the negativity was getting to me and I wanted to thank my favorite dancer for giving me a temporary escape from all of that. So thanks.
And to complete the crappy day story, let me tell you a little tale about a girl who ordered something over the internet.

Once upon a time, there was girl who lived in Chicago who wanted to be a vegan. So she did all kinds of research and started converting to veganism. One day, she decided it was time to try vegan cosmetics. She was running a little low on her normal cosmetics, so she decided it would be a good time to place an online order for vegan cosmetics, figuring that with shipping time and whatnot, they would arrive just in time.

She found a lovely website that specialized in vegan products and was able to find everything that she was looking for. An order was placed. A confirmation e-mail was received. A tracking number for her package was sent, along with an expected delivery date of Wednesday, May 7.

On Wednesday, May 7, the girl arrived at home after work to find that a delivery attempt had been made, but seeing as she was not home at the time (because who is at home to receive a package at 2:05pm on a Wednesday?), there was a note left on the door saying that another delivery attempt would be made on Thursday, sometime between 10:30am and 2:00pm. The girl signed the note and asked that the delivery driver simply leave the package inside the front door upon the second scheduled delivery attempt.

On Thursday, the girl arrived home to find another note on the door saying that the delivery driver was unable to get inside the front door and that a third and final delivery attempt would be made on Friday, sometime between 10:30am and 5:00pm. The girl, knowing that she would not be at home at that time, called the Customer Service Department of the Package Delivery Company (who shall remain nameless, but who has a large ad campaign going on right now, focusing on the color of their trucks and what that color can do for you) to change the delivery address. The girl spoke to a Customer Service Representative and gave the Customer Service Representative her office address. The girl also gave the Customer Service Representative specific instructions stating that the package should not go to the business’ central receiving area as the business’ policy had changed. The package should come directly to the girl’s office. The girl was guaranteed by the Customer Service Representative that the package would go directly to the girl’s office on Friday.

The girl waited for the package to show up at her office on Friday, but it never came. The girl finally went home at the end of the day to find a note on the door stating that a third and final delivery attempt had been made – TO HER HOME – on Friday at 3:05pm and that her package would be held for five business days at a facility 20 miles from the girl’s home. This facility, mind you, is only open from 10am to 5pm, Monday through Friday. Seeing as the girl works from 7:30am to 4:00pm, Monday through Friday, getting out to the facility to pick up her package would be virtually impossible, what with rush hour traffic and everything.

The girl once again called the Customer Service Department of the package Delivery Company and spoke to a Representative. She explained the situation – that the final delivery attempt had been made to the wrong address and could they please deliver the package to the proper address on Monday. The Customer Service Representative informed the girl that since a third and final delivery attempt was made, the only option was to have the girl pick up the package at the location 20 miles from the girl’s home. After twenty minutes of talking to the Customer Service Representative, the girl asked to speak to a supervisor. The girl was put on hold for a moment and a Supervisor answered the phone. The girl explained the situation and the Supervisor said that another delivery attempt would be made to the girl’s office on Monday, as it was an error on the part of the Package Delivery Company. The girl verified that the note was still on the package stating that it should be delivered to her office, not the central receiving area, and confirmed the address once again with the Supervisor. The Supervisor guaranteed that the package would be delivered to the girl’s office on Monday.

Monday comes and goes; nary a package is delivered. At approximately 4:00pm, the girl called the central receiving dock to see if the package has been delivered there. It was. At 10:35am. The package is sitting there undelivered. There is a note on the package stating that it should be delivered to the girl’s office, not to the central receiving dock, but it was delivered to the central receiving dock nonetheless. The girl told the gentleman in the central receiving area that she was on her way to come pick up the package.

The girl walked to the central receiving area and arrived just in time to see the man closing the door behind him. He called out to the girl to see if it was she and replied that he had just shut the door. The girl asked, “Don’t you have a key?” The man replied no. The girl asked, “Can you get in through that really big, open door right over there?” The man replied no. The man informed the girl that security does not even have a key to the central receiving area. The girl asked how workers get in. The man replied that the workers who arrive at 6:30 in the morning have a key. The girl, amidst a few choice words, asked that the workers who arrive at 6:30 bring her package to her office at 6:30 so that it would be waiting for her on the front desk when she arrived between 7:30 and 8:00am. The man guaranteed her that he would walk the package over himself.

Well, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am the girl. And here it is, quarter after nine and my package is still not here. I just called over to the central receiving area and the guy I talked to last night is out making deliveries. One of them had better be to this office or I am going to go ballistic.

I know this is not worth getting upset over. I know that my package is not a package with any real urgency to it. I know that sometimes mistakes are made. But this is ridiculous. This is no longer simple human error; this is flat out human stupidity. And a lot of it. I have a very low tolerance for flat out stupidity, which is something I need to work on, I know. But to have to deal with delivery people who can’t follow simple instructions and co-workers who just plain don’t think…I’m sorry. It pisses me off. Ordering vegan cosmetics should not be this complicated. It’s a simple process, really. It’s a process that takes more effort to fuck up than it takes to do it right and that baffles me. I don’t even know what to say in the face of such blatant stupidity.

The thing that makes it all really beautiful, though, is the attempt on the part of the Delivery Company to rectify the situation. The Customer Service Representative I talked to on Thursday to change the delivery address called me Friday after I had gotten off the phone with the Supervisor to apologize for the botched delivery attempt and to tell me that the package would be delivered to the right place on Monday. He even recited the correct address back to me, along with the special instructions to not go to central receiving. And yesterday, I sent an e-mail to the Package Delivery Company’s Customer Service Department, detailing the ultra-crappy service and informing them that I will go out of my way to never use that particular Package Delivery Company again. I received an e-mail reply this morning saying that they can only help me if I provide them with my full name, my company’s name, a phone number, and a whole bunch of other information. I replied saying that all of that information was readily available to them if they pulled up my tracking number (which was included in the original e-mail) and that I wish to never have any further dealings with them. What can this color do for me? Stay the fuck out of my way.
Now, I’m pretty sure we all know by now that I am perfectly capable of fucking up an audition all by myself. I’ll get nervous or I’ll go too long or the director will recognize the name of a hated ex-colleague on my resume and I’m doomed before I even open my mouth. And you know what? I am fine with each and every one of those scenarios. Because I can take 100% of the responsibility for fucking up the audition. I know if I don’t get called back or I didn’t get the part, I got exactly what I deserved. And I’m okay with that. My brain can wrap around that and process it into a nice, neat little package with a bow on top that is easily digestible. What I cannot stomach is someone else fucking up an audition for me. Which is what happened last night.

I think a little back-story is in order here. Some of you know me pretty well, so this back-story is unnecessary, but others of you don’t, so I’m going to say it anyway. I think it is safe to say that we all know I have problems singing in front of people. I blog about that all the time. Singing auditions make me extremely nervous, but I keep going to them in the hopes that one day, I will nail one of them and my fears will be conquered. Last night’s audition consisted of 16 bars of an uptempo song. I had two days to prepare. So I found the sheet music for a Dar Williams song that I know pretty well and like and can belt out in my car while I listen to it. I even went so far as to pester a dear friend of mine to help me practice the song because he is the only person I know with a keyboard who could accompany me as I practiced. And practice I did. I am so grateful to my friend because he just kept playing and playing and he gave me valuable feedback and by the time I left his house, I sounded pretty good. I was confident going into this audition. Which is a good thing because this audition was an audition for…

The Rocky Horror Show

I know. You’re all taking a moment to sit there in stunned silence. Yes, I managed to get an audition slot for The Rocky Horror Show. No, it was not with the greatest theater company in the greater Chicagoland area, but it was an audition for The Rocky Horror Show. Every actor has a show that he or she absolutely has to do for one reason or another. I have to do The Rocky Horror Show before I die. Specifically, I have to play Columbia before I die. I would settle for Janet if they needed a Janet, but I have to play Columbia somewhere before I die. I can’t even tell you why this is so important to me, but it is. I have a Columbia costume, I know her entire part, I have to play her somewhere before I die. So now you’re caught up to exactly how important this particular audition was to me.

So I walk into the audition room. I go over to the accompanist and place my music in front of her. I show her where I would like to start (“You start on the one, I’ll come in on this pick-up note”), where I would like to finish, where to make a little jump backwards in the music and even which chords to play because the music has two sets of chords written above the score – one set are the straight chords and the others (all of which are in parentheses underneath the straight chords) are the chords to play if you are using a capo on your guitar. I even sang a couple of bars for her so she would know what tempo I wanted the song to be played at. I get up onto the stage and the accompanist starts to play. Unfortunately, she is not playing my song. I’m trying to sing with it, but it’s not working. So the auditioners (there are five of them, by the way) stop me and ask if we’re playing in the same key. I look at the accompanist and ask her for my first note. She says she can’t find it – she doesn’t know where my first note is. I go over and point it out to her again in the music and tell her that if the actual piano part is too confusing, just playing the chords will be fine. She asks, “Which chords?” I say, “The top chords,” as I point them out to her. She says okay, I get back up on stage and we try again. Again, I have no idea what she is playing and we are stopped. She says again that she has no idea what chords she is supposed to be playing. The auditioners ask me if I would just like to do the song a Capella. So I sing my 16 bars a Capella, but I sound like ass because by this point, my nerves are shot. I know there is no way I am getting a callback. I know all of these people are looking at me like I am wasting their time. I did my best to sing it loud and full like I had at my friend’s house, but it had no oomph. I’ll admit that.

As I was leaving the room, the accompanist apologized for not being able to read my music. I try to keep a brave face as I tell her no worries. One of the auditioners asks if he can see my score. He says, “For future reference, it might help if all of your chords are transposed beforehand.” I show him the music and point to the chords, exactly the way I pointed them out to the accompanist and said, “They don’t need to be transposed. They are right here, straight across. E minor, A five, D.” He looks at the music, gives me a puzzled look, and thanks me for coming in.

So at the very least, I’m not crazy. And I got to show the auditioners that I’m not some fuck up from off the street trying to pawn herself off as a singer. But they don’t know me from Adam. They have no reason to give me the benefit of the doubt. In their minds, I should have picked a simpler song or marked up my music better. And I am easily rattled and I sound like shit when I am rattled. So I will not be called back. I will not be cast as Columbia in this production of The Rocky Horror Show. And I cannot take responsibility for giving the worst audition ever because it was the accompanist, not me, who fucked up.

Monday, May 12, 2003

So I saw Almost Salinas this weekend. It was nice. That’s really all you can say about it. It is a nice, gentle film. Brilliantly acted. Gorgeous scenery. Just a nice film. You leave the theater feeling peaceful.

But what really got me was the question and answer session with John Mahoney afterwards. He is really a beautiful person. His fame has not gotten to him. He looks forward to the day that he can just do theater in Chicago instead of shuttling back and forth between Chicago and Los Angeles. He is real and sweet and intelligent and well spoken. And he acts because he loves it. He decided one day that the moments he was happiest in his life were when he was a child in a play, so he decided to be an actor. Fortune was smiling on him at the time and allowed him to fulfill his dream. But I just found it really refreshing to find another actor who acts because he wants to. Because he loves it. Because it brings him great joy. I have such an intense respect for him now because of that.

I act because I love it. I am never happier than I am when I am going to the theater to put on a show. Even the really dumb, stupid shows I have done, as soon as I am in character, I am lost in the script. The moment overtakes me and the show is no longer dumb, not to my character. I love that. I love that I can do that. I love that people will watch that. I remember someone telling me once that even when I am not the center of focus on stage, I am the most fascinating person to watch because I am always doing something or always thinking something. I took that as a huge compliment. I know it sounds strange, but I love it that I can command that kind of attention when I want to. It’s not a power thing because in real life, I don’t want that kind of attention. It’s more a mark of “hey, I’m doing my job right if the audience likes to watch me even when I’m not the focal point.” It is very satisfying.

I know, I’m rambling. But that question and answer session really lit a fire under my ass or something. I want to do that. I want my life to be spent doing what I most love to do and then talking to people about it. I want to be able to answer people’s questions and greet fans and stuff. I want to be approachable. I don’t want to be the stuffy Hollywood starlet who scoffs at anyone who makes less than $6 million a year. I want to be in a position where I can use my level of notoriety to spread positive energy to as many people as possible. I know, I sound like a crackpot. I need to get famous so I’ll be called “eccentric” instead of “a crackpot.”

Friday, May 09, 2003

Ugh. Another slew of phone calls and e-mails and packages go out in an attempt to further my creative career. This is the part that I hate. I just want to show up to a theater or a film set and go to work. I hate having to find the work. I know I have to because I’m a nobody right now, but I’m really looking forward to the day when I don’t have to do this leg work anymore.

Speaking of nobodys vs. somebodys, I’m going to see Almost Salinas tonight (which any of you who can go see it this weekend should go see to support Chicago indie films) and John Mahoney is supposed to be at the show. I like John Mahoney. He is very talented and from what I have heard, very nice. There is supposed to be a Q&A after the film and I have a bunch of Qs, but I don’t think any of them are appropriate for a public forum. Like, “Can you get me a job?” That kind of thing. Regardless of whether or not I ask him anything, I’m looking forward to seeing the film and the Q&A session. I love it that someone with a name and reputation like his is still out doing massive press for an indie film. That does my heart good.

Thursday, May 08, 2003

I wonder who thought up kissing in the first place. As a sign of affection. “I like you, so I’m going to smoosh my mouth into your forehead and leave a little wet spot there.” Doesn’t sound too pleasant when you talk about it that way, huh? “We both really like each other, so let’s smoosh our mouths together. And maybe touch tongues.” Who thinks this shit up?

I’m not saying I don’t like kissing. Kissing is a lot of fun and with the right person, it is extremely enjoyable. I can spend a whole evening kissing the right person. But I do wonder how that whole thing started. Why mouths? Why not hands or eyes or knees? Ears are very sensual for a lot of people, so how come when we find ourselves irresistibly attracted to someone, we don’t dream about mushing our ears together? Seriously. Does anyone know how kissing started?
So the more stuff they give me to do at work, the more I realize that this new position is kind of way over my head. I know my boss has total faith in my abilities to handle these responsibilities, but I’m not so sure. There are all kinds of things that I just plain don’t know about the medical industry that I feel like I should be able to think of to stay on top of things, but I have no real experience with this stuff, so I don’t think of those things. And then I feel like I’m behind.

So I’ve actually started thinking about changing jobs. What else could I do that would give me flexibility, but that I could make good money at so I can afford my artistic habits? I have a couple of ideas. The thought is kind of a scary one. I thought I would be at this job until I hit it big, you know? But maybe this isn’t the best place for me to be. It’s scary and it’s exciting and I think I may have to do some more looking around. I’d like to like my job, you know? It’s getting kind of old to have a job that I hate so I can afford to pursue my career. It might be nice to have a job that I liked so I could afford to pursue my career. It’s worth investigating at least.

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

The cultural fascination with dating is still amazing to me. And amusing. To be honest, I don’t really like dating. I’m not very good at it and I don’t like the person I turn into when I’m dating somebody. Call me selfish, but I really like being single, being able to do my own thing.

I’m talking about this today because I worked another Hurry Date event last night. It was announced to the crowd that I am single, so feel free to hit on me. We joked that my friend (the hostess) has been trying to pimp me out for a long time. And to be honest, I was relieved that nobody really hit on me. Because think about it. When someone hits on someone else, essentially what they are saying is, “I would one day like to have sex with you and I am willing to do whatever you want me to in the meantime to ensure nakedness at some point in the future.” No matter the pick-up line, no matter what gender is hitting on what gender, that is the underlying sentiment. And call me crazy, but it kind of gives me the heebie jeebies when someone says that to me. I guess this goes back to my whole I don’t think about sex enough thing. Or something.

I guess maybe it is like the first time I was French kissed and I found myself thinking, “I’m licking the inside of someone else’s mouth.” Not really romantic, huh? But then I found a guy who I really really enjoyed kissing and those thoughts went away. Maybe I just need to find a guy who I really really enjoy dating and then it won’t seem so weird to me and I’ll actually be able to enjoy it. Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for.

Tuesday, May 06, 2003

Once again, high school hazings have made headlines. Once again, high school hazings from my alma mater have made headlines. If you haven’t heard, a couple of girls were injured during a powder puff football game – one girl broke her ankle and another split her head open. Or something to that effect.

I remember kids getting hazed when I was a junior in high school. I remember hearing about some kids being tied to a tree near a busy street with no clothes on and having urine dumped on them or something like that. I remember thinking at the time how idiotic the whole thing was. The high schooler’s excuse for hazing is “seniors do it to freshman/sophomores/juniors, and then when those kids are seniors, they get to do it to everybody else.” Like that makes it fair. Like that justifies tying someone to a tree, naked, and pouring urine on them. I don’t know that I can come up with a single instance in which such behavior is justifiable. But that could be me. Because I’m not in high school. And even when I was, I wasn’t really in high school.

Most high school kids have pretty one-track minds: make yourself acceptable to the other kids. Be cool. Be liked. That’s it. Most of them could care less about their classes. Or if they do, it is because they (naively – think Martin on The Simpsons) believe that being smart will make them popular. Sad, but true. Most of what kids learn in high school is how to interact with other kids. And as we all know, kids can be brutal. And there is nothing worse than being uncool. You can call it peer pressure if you want to, but I remember when I was in high school, I saw it as more of a caste system. There are the cool kids who can do anything and get away with everything and whatnot. And there are the people who the cool kids talk to, so they are kind of cool, but not as cool as the cool kids. And there are the people who could be cool if they weren’t busy being smart/talented/pursuing outside interests. And there are the dorks. And the treatment of the dorks by everyone else in the school is what results in things like Columbine. It’s sad, but it’s true. And I don’t know how to prevent it. There are a lot of valuable things that are learned in high school by having to function in this kind of environment. And the dorks who can get over it and get past it turn into some really wonderful people. But it means they have to spend four years of their lives in hell. Nobody should have to do that.

The reason why I find the powder puff football game interesting, though, is this: it is completely voluntary. There were people on the radio this morning gasping in horror at the fact that this happens and gasping in horror at the fact that girls were injured. It is not a school sanctioned event – it hasn’t been for years. But every year, a group of girls organize the game – seniors versus junior – and every year, the juniors show up to play. They know they will be beaten up. They know they will be treated horribly. This game is, for them, a rite of passage that will make them cool. I know the parents of the girl with the broken ankle and the girl with the head injury are furious at the other girls for doing this and at the school for allowing it. First of all, the school had nothing to do with it. Leave them out of it. And secondly, take a moment, if you will, and put yourself in your daughter’s position. “It’s a football game, mom. Me and a bunch of other girls are going to go out to the forest preserve and play football. I’ll probably come home bruised and sore, but it will mean that I will be friends with the seniors for the rest of the year. I will be one of the cool kids next year. I’ll be asked to homecoming and prom by the guy I want to ask me. Bruises heal. This is my chance to be popular.” I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not condoning this line of thinking. But that is what was going through your daughter’s head when she signed up to play powder puff football. It would be fun and it would guarantee her acceptance by her peers. It was a conscious choice on the part of every participant and every participant should now take full responsibility for her decision. I know it sounds like tough love, but for some kids, that is the only way they are going to stop and re-examine their priorties in life.

Perhaps instead of blaming the school or blaming the other girls, the parents should be focusing on building their own daughter’s self-esteem so that acceptance in that particular crowd isn’t of such high importance. Or perhaps I should just shut up.

Monday, May 05, 2003

There is very little that I like less than coming to work on Monday morning. This is just a sort of “in general” thing. I don’t like coming to work on Monday mornings. You know you have a whole week ahead of you that you will have to endure before you can once again sleep late and enjoy your freedom. But I will say this: one thing that I like less than coming in to work on Monday morning is coming in to work on Monday morning and finding out that our receptionist will not be coming in to work. Meaning not only am I stuck at work, where I don’t want to be in the first place, but I am stuck playing receptionist for the day, at my absolute least favorite geographical location in the office where I don’t want to be. I'll be much happier when it is Tuesday.
I am the queen of the three-week relationship. There was a movie that came out not too long ago called How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. I swear, they studied my life to come up with the idea for that. Well, not really. I don’t do things to specifically drive guys away and most of my relationships end fairly amicably. But if one looks at dating as spouse shopping, as soon as I know that this isn’t the spouse for me, I’m done. I’d rather salvage a non-romantic relationship with said person than try to force something that isn’t there. And as we all know, just because it isn’t wrong doesn’t mean it is right.

I did some thinking in the course of this relationship, though, and I came to a very interesting conclusion. I would, someday, like to get married. In Kittyland where everything works out the way I want it to, I do find that person with whom I can share my life and we commit to one another 100% for the rest of our lives. I kind of like that idea (though the jury is still out on the whole ceremony thing). But I really really really really really really really don’t want to ever have to go through a divorce. Ever. Which means I want to make really certain that the man I commit to is the right man for me to commit to, if that makes sense. And if I never find that man, I’m okay with never getting married. I still think I will find him, but if I don’t, I can honestly say I am okay being on my own.

That being said, I’m kind of wondering if it is worth re-registering online and trying that whole thing again. Or if I should just put my faith in Chance and see what happens. Faith is less expensive. I might have to go with faith.

Friday, May 02, 2003

There is something really beautiful about a sunny rainstorm. The clouds are light and fluffy and you can see blue sky peeking out here and there and a gentle rain is falling. If a torrential downpour is Mother Nature mourning, then a sunny rainstorm is Mother Nature weeping with joy. And it’s really beautiful.
Another local terror reported on the news: Last night there was a segement about the dangers of putting your child in the child seat of a shopping cart.

Time to call the baby proofers! Let's wrap our kids in bubble wrap so they never get bruised!

Lighten up, people.
Was anyone els unnerved by George W. Bush’s speech last night? Aside from the fact that his dramatic pauses are worse than William Shatner’s, there was something about it that just didn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was the prolonged silence as he walked the length of the ship to his podium. Maybe it was Dubya waiting just long enough for one guy to yell, “Woo!” and start the applause at the first “applause line.” I wanted to see a Skinner-esque situation, with Bush standing there mouthing the words, “Hold for applause, 2, 3, 4,” while the crowd was dead silent. But thank you to that one guy for preventing such an awkward situation for the President by awkwardly hooting all by yourself and giving yourself away as a plant. The only real applause Bush got last night was when he told the troops on the USS Abraham Lincoln that after 10 months at sea, they would all be going home. How could they not go ape shit upon hearing that?

I dunno. Something about the whole speech didn’t strike me as right. It reminded me of the conquerors of the old world who were out to just defeat country after country after country in the name of their own territory to gain riches or bragging rights or whatever – there were no actual plans for rebuilding Iraq discussed and there was a lot of talk about anyone else in the world trying to pull a stunt like Saddam’s having to answer to patient American justice. I thought as a planet, we were past the conquistador mentality.

Maybe I am just being a paranoid cynic, but at the very least, can we get Dubya some public speaking classes or a coach or something? Call me crazy, but I think the “leader of the free world,” no matter how questionable his decision-making abilities may be, should be able to deliver a prepared speech without making it sound like a prepared speech and without giving half of his citizens the heebie jeebies.

Thursday, May 01, 2003

Okay, I remembered what it is that I have wanted to talk about for a couple of days now. Its something that I was probably aware of for a long time, but never really took notice of until I saw Bowling for Columbine. Which, if you still haven’t seen it, please go do so. Right now. Stop reading, go watch the movie, and then come back to this. There are some movies that are important for people to see. This is one of them.

But anyway, my point is about the media in the United States. It really hit me the other day just how often fear is used in the media to sell things. And I’m not even talking about the obvious things here, like if you don’t buy this shampoo/deodorant/toothpaste/car, nobody will ever love you. I’m talking about our nightly news broadcasts.

For a long time, reporters could count on something out of Afghanistan to top the newscast. Then it was something out of Iraq. And now, they seem a little confused. So I saw an ad on television the other night, encouraging people to watch the ten o’clock news because they would be providing tips to people on how to avoid being struck by lightening. Um, don’t glue a seventy-foot metal rod to your head. Seriously. Think about this for a minute. The odds of a person being struck by lightening are so slim they made a phrase out of it. “What are my chances of winning the lottery?” “About the same as your chances of being hit by lightening.” Meaning slim. Really slim. You will probably live your entire life and not only will you not be hit by lightening, but you probably won’t even meet anyone who has been hit by lightening. Yes, we are headed into thunderstorm season, but to devote a special segment of the news to this, complete with the voice over guy with the doom-filled voice and scary music? This is ridiculous. ‘Cuz you know some little old lady somewhere is going to have rubber floors installed in her house so she will be grounded at all times and she will never set foot outside again. It’s ludicrous.

I’m not saying that the world is a totally safe place. I know there are a lot of bad, scary things out there. But if we only focus on the negative, the negative is all we will see. Call me crazy, but I believe in the power of a positive attitude. I know that when I am happy and well, good, happy things happen to me. I know that when I am wallowing in gloom, bad things happen to me in abundance. I think culturally, we are the same way. We’re so afraid of bad things that could happen that we find bad things that could happen and miss a lot of the good things that do happen. Like the fact that along with rainstorms come warmer weather, flowers blooming, green grass producing oxygen so we can breathe, etc. But we get caught up in the lightening. Which, while lightening is really beautiful, makes me sad.

I don’t have a solution. I’m just pointing out something that I agree with Michael Moore on – the media is too focused on the negative in this country. I think we need to work on that.