Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Helloooooo over there! It's me and Nelson Mandela. To the left. A little further. Here we are!
My friend Becky recommended this little Internet quiz... I haven't had this much fun since we all turned out to be Thomas Paine and/or Alexander Hamilton in that "Which founding father are you?" quiz last year.
Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.
Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.
Helloooooo over there! It's me and Nelson Mandela. To the left. A little further. Here we are!
My friend Becky recommended this little Internet quiz... I haven't had this much fun since we all turned out to be Thomas Paine and/or Alexander Hamilton in that "Which founding father are you?" quiz last year.
Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.
Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.
Monday, October 18, 2004
GBC Topic 1: To myself, on the occasion of my 13th birthday.
Hey you,
Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.
I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.
That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.
Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)
Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.
Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.
Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.
What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.
And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.
I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.
This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.
Love until later,
Angie, 25
PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!
Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.
I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.
That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.
Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)
Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.
Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.
Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.
What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.
And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.
I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.
This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.
Love until later,
Angie, 25
PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!
GBC Topic 1: To myself, on the occasion of my 13th birthday.
Hey you,
Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.
I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.
That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.
Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)
Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.
Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.
Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.
What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.
And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.
I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.
This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.
Love until later,
Angie, 25
PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!
Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.
I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.
That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.
Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)
Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.
Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.
Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.
What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.
And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.
I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.
This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.
Love until later,
Angie, 25
PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!
Friday, October 15, 2004
I gagged. I actually gagged.
I was just looking on the Knot.com (involuntary shudder) for a basic Must-Take List that I could modify and send to Pleasantly Passive Bride, with the suggestion that she edit accordingly.
I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.
Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!
Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.
Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?
From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)
From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"
From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"
From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"
Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?
I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.
Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!
Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.
Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?
From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)
From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"
From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"
From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"
Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?
I gagged. I actually gagged.
I was just looking on the Knot.com (involuntary shudder) for a basic Must-Take List that I could modify and send to Pleasantly Passive Bride, with the suggestion that she edit accordingly.
I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.
Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!
Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.
Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?
From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)
From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"
From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"
From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"
Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?
I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.
Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!
Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.
Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?
From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)
From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"
From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"
From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"
Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Mmmm... Good weekend
Last week totally sucked, but I feel ready to face the world again after this weekend.
There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.
Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.
Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...
On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).
Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.
I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.
There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.
Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.
Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...
On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).
Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.
I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.
Mmmm... Good weekend
Last week totally sucked, but I feel ready to face the world again after this weekend.
There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.
Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.
Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...
On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).
Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.
I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.
There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.
Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.
Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...
On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).
Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.
I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Better get cozy. This might take a little while...
In some versions of the King Arthur story, Merlin the Magician is described as having been born at the instant the world came to an end. He lived his life backwards. As a result, he had already lived through the future by the time he was an old man. Unlike other people, who grow older and wiser with time, Merlin experienced the consequences before the catalysts. Because he was a younger, less wise man when he witnessed the outcomes, he didn't always have the best understanding of which thing caused what. He had to constantly sift through his memories, which, because he lived backwards, were comprised of everyone else's destinies, trying to warn (or teach) people about the right thing at the right time. Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin occasionally got confused and gave off the impression of having a Swiss cheese-like memory: strong and full of holes.
The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.
And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.
The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?
Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.
Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.
Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.
[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.
*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.
*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*
[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.
*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*
*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*
[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.
The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.
*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*
[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.
Intermission.
I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.
*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*
*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*
*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*
[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.
I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.
The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.
[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"
*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*
[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.
I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.
I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.
Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*
[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.
We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."
The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.
And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.
The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?
Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.
Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.
Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.
[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.
*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.
*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*
[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.
*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*
*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*
[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.
The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.
*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*
[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.
Intermission.
I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.
*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*
*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*
*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*
[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.
I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.
The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.
[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"
*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*
[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.
I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.
I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.
Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*
[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.
We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."
Better get cozy. This might take a little while...
In some versions of the King Arthur story, Merlin the Magician is described as having been born at the instant the world came to an end. He lived his life backwards. As a result, he had already lived through the future by the time he was an old man. Unlike other people, who grow older and wiser with time, Merlin experienced the consequences before the catalysts. Because he was a younger, less wise man when he witnessed the outcomes, he didn't always have the best understanding of which thing caused what. He had to constantly sift through his memories, which, because he lived backwards, were comprised of everyone else's destinies, trying to warn (or teach) people about the right thing at the right time. Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin occasionally got confused and gave off the impression of having a Swiss cheese-like memory: strong and full of holes.
The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.
And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.
The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?
Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.
Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.
Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.
[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.
*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.
*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*
[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.
*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*
*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*
[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.
The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.
*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*
[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.
Intermission.
I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.
*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*
*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*
*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*
[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.
I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.
The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.
[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"
*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*
[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.
I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.
I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.
Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*
[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.
We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."
The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.
And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.
The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?
Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.
Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.
Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.
[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.
*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.
*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*
[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.
*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*
*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*
[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.
The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.
*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*
[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.
Intermission.
I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.
*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*
*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*
*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*
[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.
I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.
The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.
[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"
*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*
[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.
I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.
I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.
Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*
[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.
We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."
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