a woman under the influence

Lists I've Been Meaning to Start

2008-11-14T16:08:00.008-07:00

Bridges I've Burned in Cameron, AZ

Reasons I Only Sometimes Respond to Unbridled Enthusiasm

People in My Daily Life Who Look Like Phil Donahue

Possible Stages in Life to Learn Shame

Other Jobs to Pursue on the Side

Why "Q&A" is Not the Appropriate Time to Share Your Personal Examples (Because No One Gives a Shit)

Shameless Self-Promotion: Webcomics and Robot Chicken

2008-11-12T12:52:00.001-07:00

I wrote a little article for Flixster.com on webcomics that ought to make an appearance on Robot Chicken. Hopefully, this will be the first in a line of blog postings. http://www.flixster.com/blog/7-webcomics-ready-for-robot-chicken-sketches

Obviously, you should go read the article. But, more importantly, you should Digg the article when you're done. Click the little Digg It button at the top of the article. It will take you to the Digg website. You'll see another Digg It button. Digg It, baby, Digg It! You'll know you've succeeded when the vote count increases by one. Think of this as your civic duty. Support local authors and all that.

Also, a very lonely webcomic fan has already commented that he wanted more from the article. I probably snubbed a favorite hentai strip somewhere. Don't let him win! Digg It! Forward it! Digg It some more!

And thank you. :)

Drunk with Assistant Managerial Power, Part II

2008-10-27T09:28:00.003-07:00

After the last posting, so many examples of this phenomenon have surfaced. I just had to revisit...

When the group is all going out to lunch together, I purposefully make sure I'm the last one to meet in the lobby before we leave. I just like to imply that I'm the most important in our group.

Because you were curt with me, I'll wait until you've already started steaming the milk to tell you I want my latte iced.

Normally I'd let you return that item without a receipt, but I won't because that girl from Housewares is standing here.

I'd like to screw you tonight, too, but I won't because of that crack you made about my cooking.

I'm going to finish my part of the project way ahead of schedule, at great personal inconvenience, just to make you look like a slacker.

I was a little late to the meeting myself, but I'll still make you feel bad for keeping me waiting.

I will act as if I've never had car trouble when you call into work explaining yours.

Drunk with Assistant Managerial Power

2008-10-17T13:10:00.004-07:00

Having spent this past week at a conference for work, I am reminded of how ludicrously specialized these things can be and how inundated they are with big fish in little ponds. But what's worse is when conferences find themselves pressed for presenters or panelists. This creates a different problem: moderately sized fish in little ponds. I hate these fish. These fish have something to prove. They need for you to recognize their abilities and accomplishments.

"I pioneered that listserv group in my county."

"The presentation I'm going to give on Friday will revolutionize the way we prepare for our periodic standards reviews."

"Here's my business card, but don't lose it! I don't give it out easily." (Note: And don't these people mean "readily"?)

"There's a great secret to surviving a performance evaluation, and you don't have to go to the Him-all-yas to get it. I'm going to tell you and save you the trip." (I swear to God that's how he said Himalayas. I swear it.)

You know what all of these statements were really saying?

Please recognize my station at this conference.

Maybe I really do underestimate the power of people's fear of public speaking. Maybe I undervalue the honor associated with being asked to sit on a Q&A panel at a specialized conference. Maybe I'm just being bitchy.

But I promise you this: the next person who tells me how important they are is going to get punched in the throat.

Grotto of the Apocalypse?

2008-09-25T16:11:00.004-07:00

Growing up, there was a Disney cartoon featuring Goofy hunting down, killing, and cooking a decoy duck. A drumstick has never looked, and subsequently will never taste, as good as it did in that cartoon.

As much as she thought getting married would change things, he continued to introduce her as his "friend."

The third time he changed careers it only took a couple months before he thought, "I'm unhappy here."

Highlander 2.

His little town never had big names come through, so he saved all summer for tickets to hear Michael Crawford. Too bad this Michael Crawford did motivational speaking for agricultural communities to apply for federal monies.

The next morning, the still of the bedroom after a night of fighting and tears, realizing you will make all the mistakes your parents made.

Fifth grade selling Christmas wrap for weeples. Conceptually cute, but what do you do with them?

Years of promises and reassurances that hard work would prevail over an easier courseload only resulted in a pile of single page rejections.

They had decided to move together, but when her job didn't pan out, it became her fault.

The tray of cookies gets passed around the boardroom table. The tension that mounts. Will there be enough? Turns out they're just crumbly, crap cookies.

It took a failed suicide attempt to discover near death experiences feel the same as general anesthesia.

Things That Have Saved Your Life

2008-09-17T16:35:00.011-07:00

After Life - a brilliant Japanese movie where people awake in purgatory. They are told they only have a handful of days before they "move on." Once they have moved on, however, they will forget everything of their lives, save a single memory. They must choose that single memory from their lives which they want to relive throughout all eternity.

The English Patient - specifically, the scene without words when the score swells to the forefront and we only see Ralph Fiennes weeping.

English Breakfast tea - served hot, with milk and sugar, preferrably sugar in the raw. Sweet, milky, delicious.

A Good Massage - not a half hearted affair done sitting in front of a TV somewhere, but a real massage. A dimly lit room, Enya or the sounds of tropical birds somewhere, oils, quiet, and elbows. Lots and lots of elbows right down into the organs.

Blackbird/I Will by The Swingle Singers - despite this being a medley of sorts, it has an airy quality that soothes the soul. It all comes to a head by "For the things you do endear you to me..."

Kiwi! - It always helps to be reminded that the most hopeless and seemingly meaningless of tasks can have a much larger, much more glorious purpose. And sometimes that purpose is simply to bring a moment's peace before a total failure.

Raymond Carver - Despite whatever happens, revisiting Mr. Carver can bring it all into perspective - disappointment, mediocrity, loneliness, small successes.

Happiness - What a fantastic movie. No mood is ever so dark that this film cannot raise you up.

What We Learn

2008-09-11T14:45:00.004-07:00

When she was five her parents discouraged her from dressing as a princess for Halloween, and that was when she learned she was ugly.

After the honeymoon, they moved into their new home together. He marveled at how little junk mail comes to a new address, and he wondered why he hadn’t moved sooner just for this benefit. It wasn’t until years later when he realized she skimmed the mail before him, never getting over that time he signed them up for a wine club which cost them hundreds of dollars for not reading the fine print.

She didn’t love him anymore, that much was certain. When his mother died, she held him and ran her hands through his hair. But she kept eating that sandwich.

At the salad bar, her mother filled her plate with lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, sprouts, carefully avoiding the beets. “I don’t like beets,” the child realized.

He tried out for the basketball team and came home to tell his father he hadn’t made the cut. His father nodded knowingly. “You choke under pressure.”

Among their group of friends, she had always considered herself to be one of the cooler, hipper ones. She knew of bands before they became big. She did daring things with her clothes years before they became trendy. But no one asked her advice when it came time to pick outfits for their senior trip.

And then one day, in a fit of rage, he admitted he had only married her out of fear of growing old alone. Yet, without tears, she simply nodded.

Here's to the complications of living!

On the Verge of the Next Great Thought

2008-08-28T16:57:00.008-07:00

In case you have forgotten, Amadeus is a magnificent film.

For a moment, let us forget how abso-freakin-lutely brilliant Tom Hulce is in it. I mean, that laugh alone takes moxie. And F. Murray Abraham, powerhouse that he is, plays the duplicitous and political antagonist like he was born to it. Hell, let's even forget the soundtrack which any idiot, film lover or otherwise, can appreciate.

Let's put all of that aside.

Above all else, Amadeus is a film about what it means to live a life dedicated to the arts, but to lack the talent to live up to that dedication. And, more than that, about what it means to know true talent, true genius, and having that knowledge only underscore your own mediocrity.

Salieri was a man living on the verge of the next great thought. He just could never quite get there.

This is the saddest condition in all of human existence. Or maybe just the most terrifying. And maybe I just mean for me.

Let's consider this for a moment.

If I want to be a doctor when I grow up, it means I take all the requisite courses and pass my exams and become a doctor. Now, I may not be naturally suited to being a doctor. I may be terrible at math. I may have to study ten times harder than any of my peers in labs. I may have to overcome a fear of touching blood or vomit or snot or any other of the human body's fluids.

But I can be doctor with enough work and perseverance. And whether I breezed through or earned it through sweat and grit, I will be recognized by others as a doctor.

But what if I want to be a writer? A sculptor? A musician? Sure, I can take courses. I can attend the finest art schools and live my life dedicated to nothing else. But that does not mean I will ever have enough talent to be recognized for my efforts. I mean, who amongst us hasn't known that "painter" who works at the locally owned coffeeshop?

"Jeremy? Right, the [insert finger quotes] painter. Think they'll ever sell that painting of his mother crying hanging near the men's room?"

How terrible is that? It's almost unbelievably so. Jeremy may love art more than the rest of us put together. He may live, breath, and sleep painting. But none of us may ever give half a damn because he lacks the talent.

And what's worse is that Jeremy may be more aware and better able to judge true talent in painting than the rest of us. When he looks at a truly talented painter, do you think he aches inside? Does part of him recognize his own mediocrity and cringe when faced with the work of a true master?

All I wanted was to sing to God. He gave me that longing... and then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire? Like a lust in my body! And then deny me the talent?

Why indeed, Salieri.

I'm Not a Gymnast, Maury

2008-08-20T20:15:00.001-07:00

Try as I may, try as I might, I simply have not been getting to my keyboard every week as regularly as I would like.

Admittedly, posting to my blogs every week might be a bit excessive for me. After all, I have other creative projects I'm trying to maintain - I need to practice drawing, I should learn to play the guitar, I need to work out, for Christssake.

Even still, blogs are important to me. I have hopes and aspirations for them, for what they can do for me psychologically and creatively. However, they will never live up to their potential unless I get around to actually posting to them.

Failed Plans to Enforce Regular Blog Posts

Remind myself daily to create a new habit
Make color-coded weekly schedule that includes writing time
List blogging on Weekly Objectives list in organizer
Creating a monthly calendar of creative activities
Make weekly trips to local coffeeshop with free wireless access

Clearly, I require a new plan.

Let us begin with #1.

1. Reminding myself daily to create a new habit is, in itself, creating a new habit. I have accomplished setting a new habit, a habit of daily self-recrimination for not starting other habits. I have both accomplished and failed here.

2. I have had some success with this. Through my recognized addiction to my BlackBerry, I have managed to schedule weekly blog writing time, as well as a nagging reminder window which pops up until I dismiss it. I've even colored coded it blue, blue for Scheduled Task. But you know what the problem is?

Impermanence.

That's right. I can move things around on my calendar. So what happens when my phone tickles me to write a blog post but I don't feel like it, I have other plans, or I am busying talking to a man with seven motorcycles but no keys? I can move my writing task to a different day or even delete it outright if I'm feeling rash.

If I had the strength of character and will to abide by these technological reminders, wouldn't I have the strength of character and will to just write my posts on my own?

3. I gave up keeping the Weekly Objectives list. It was a good idea, in principle. Make a list of those things which are most important to me to accomplish in a given week. This list was not to be used for mundane tasks. No bills to be paid, errands to be run could appear there. The Weekly Objectives list was reserved only for those actions which advanced my higher aims.

And I gave up writing it. Why did I give up writing it? Because I got tired of how many things made the list and how few got done.

I know what you're thinking. The same thing I was thinking when I encountered this problem. Why not limit myself to fewer objectives in a week? I'll tell you why. Such a short list makes one feel like you have no objectives at all. When I looked at a list of only a handful of things, I felt like I was not holding myself to a high enough standard.

Well, screw that! I hold myself to high standards or none at all! At least, apparently that is the case.

4. Monthly calendars are, in theory, a great way to accomplish these bigger objectives. Take a large scale objective, say master the art of perfectly diced onions. You break this objective into small objectives: buy onions, sharpen knife, think about cubes. Then you schedule these smaller objectives across a month, ensuring steady successes and ultimate completion.

You know the problem with this approach? The small steps can feel intensely stupid. Insanely stupid, in fact. Why do I want to learn to dice onions anyway, if it means sitting around with this stupid whetting stone sharpening a knife I bought because it was cheap at the Safeway. Pointless!

5. This one was clearly to round out a list of five. First of all, I spend enough time drinking coffee without giving myself more reasons for hyper-consumerism. Secondly, what is with that proviso about free wireless? Like I can't do this shit from home? Like my real impediment here is connectivity?

"Oh," I daily swoon, "if only I had a wireless connection, I could finally post this blog I've been working on."

Please. Even I can see through this one.

I can spin this situation any way I like. I can create a thousand systematic methods to ensure my writing and then create a thousand mechanisms to escape them. Sadly, I cannot adapt to this new way of being with the regularity and grace that I desire.

I guess I'm just not an ambiturner.

What I Though on Flight 1450 to Denver

2008-08-12T19:59:00.002-07:00

That baby looks like an old man.

An old man who has lived sixty years hard years.

On his face.

I could really use a soda.

Did I pack deodorant?

What do I remember about my dad?

I wonder if that kid would let me color a page in his Transformers coloring book.

I shouldn't have worn these old Converse. They smell. I can't take off my shoes now. I wish my feet didn't stink.

Does my breath still stink? He said it did last night. Time for a temporary complex.

His parents must know he looks like an old man.

I mean, look at that shirt.

I feel conspicuous pulling out Obama's book next to this lady with the trashy crime novel and sleeve tattoos.

I wonder how I'm going to get to the hotel.

Seriously? Do we need the drop-down TV's for an hour and a half flight?

When we finally landed in London, our wing was on fire. I was the only one entertained.

If my life were a novel, that would mean something.

He said Paul Auster's first five novels were superb. I should have picked up that used copy of The Music of Chance

This is that show about Chris Rock as a kid. It has a terrible knock-off name. What is it? Everybody Hates Chris? My Big Fat Chris Childhood? CSI: Chris Rock?

I wonder if Alan Alda is fun to talk to.

The best part of the opening scene of Me and You and Everyone We Know is when she says...
When I call a name...
When I call a name...
It'll be your name....
What's your name?
Nevermind. Let's go. Say it...
Let's go.

Sometimes we need to be willing to take a risk with someone knowing nothing about them but that they are willing to take the risk with you, too.

In Dispatch's The General, he dismisses the troops before they have even begun to fight. The line says Go now, you are forgiven.

I love that. They are forgiven not for their actions, but for their intent to act.

Some intentions require forgiveness.

On Nomenclature

2008-08-02T01:07:00.006-07:00

My Uncle David. Well, technically my great-uncle David, but we've never been a family terribly loyal to the traditional familial naming structure. My entire life I knew this man as Uncle David, my paternal grandmother's brother. I had always assumed that he knew himself as David his entire life as well.

In going through an old family album, I came across this picture of Uncle David as a young man. It came with this caption:

Your great-uncle David. He lives in San Francisco and you will see a lot of him in the next few yeras. He was born Mack Ladd Faulkner...was always known as "Buddy" but legally changed his name to "David" when he was older.

Uncle David was actually Uncle Buddy who was actually Uncle Mack Ladd? An odd prospect, but not one that rocked me to my core. But it had piqued my interest.

I called my grandmother and asked her when it was that Uncle David had changed his name. She did not remember what I was talking about. More specifically, she remembered that people called him Buddy, but she did not remember what his name had been before that.

What a sucess! My mind spins thinking of what such a transformation would entail. First, deciding to change your name. The implications of it! Imagine having to have that conversation with all the people in your life. Your family. Your friends. Your co-workers. Your neighbors. Then there are all the people you'd have to inform for purely legal reasons. The HR lady at your office. Social security office. Insurance agents. DMV. How often you would have to give your explanation speech, how rehearsed it would start to sound before you had even made it part way through your list.

"Hey there, Mack! What'd you do this weekend?"

"Yeah, about that. My name is David now. If you could please start calling me David, I would really appreciate it."

"What?"

"I have legally changed my name, and I would appreciate it if you called me David from now on."

And that's only for the people you think of giving the speech to. Think of all the incidental explanations you would have to give! All those people who reach out to us from our pasts, those people we run into at coffeeshops, at random get togethers. I imagine my Uncle David at a business lunch, after he had been David for years, and having some past acquaintance come up to the table, slapping a hello on the back to his old friend Buddy. By then, Uncle David's business associates might not have ever known him as anything else. How awkward must that have been? Not only the explanation to his old friend, but then a revamped explanation to his current friends.

And how does one go about choosing a new name? I've always considered the act of naming a child to be an incredible responsibility. But choosing a name for yourself? If you're named Mack Ladd, that burden lies with your parents. But if you rename yourself, the responsibility for that act of nomenclature is yours alone.

It seems like such a simple act, going by a different name. But the act of changing your name implies a whole series of transformations. When you think of yourself, which name do you think? When you dream, in that way that dreams have no coherent sense of time, by what name do you go when your grandmother appears to you on your seventhieth birthday? How thoroughly can that act of transformation penetrate? Into your memories? Into your daydreams? Into your future?

When my uncle dreamed, did he dream he was Mack or Buddy or David? Did it vary? When he chided himself for a poor choice, how did he call himself? It must be exhausting, relearning to turn your head when a name is called, filling out forms, creating your signature.

What a tremendous act of will. I wonder, have I the strength of will to be so transformed?

What I Am

2008-07-23T17:14:00.004-07:00

By design, this title violates the principles of e-prime, a linguistic experiment of sorts that avoids the use of all forms of the verb "to be." The verb "to be" inaccurately suggests that nouns - those inimical persons, places, and things of the world - can ever attain a static, definable state.

This is not a new idea.

The beauty of avoiding "to be" and all its trappings lies in avoiding ever being tied down to a single definable notion.

"I am married" seems a simple enough statement. I permanently exist in the state of marriage. But does that make sense? Of course not. Existing in that state of marriage boils down to a series of choices, perhaps an unending series of choices, to continue behaving as a married person.

I choose to love this person though I could stop now. I choose to come home to this person though I could always move. I choose to remain faithful to this person though I could commit an infidelity. "I am married" glosses over a lifetime of choices, placing a relationship with another person above all others.

All this said, I am not married. But the example still stands.

This act of assessing "what I am" seems decidedly more difficult than my task of assessing "what I was" a year ago today.

I listen to NPR all day at work.

I neglect reading the blogs of others with dedicated frequency.

I either love or ignore, immediately, absolutely, devoutly, intently.

I drink more coffee than I ought.

I proffer my assistance to others without forethought.

I wait longer than I should to use the restroom because I remain convinced at every moment that I will miss something.

I accept stories as bait.

Someone set me a trap...

What I Was

2007-07-23T15:50:00.001-07:00

Heidi Haru (1980-2047)

The president of something. The president of everything.

Somebody’s cool aunt.

A gay parade – fun, funny, flamboyant, and a little unsettling.

A writer’s writer.

The dean.

A pair of pants that make you feel incredibly cool. These pants add weight when you’re feeling skinny and take it off when you’re feeling fat. These pants have special pockets for a knife and a book. These pants have area codes behind the fly zipper.

All of these describe Heidi Haru who is presumed dead after disappearing Tuesday before last while on a winter’s walk; speculation has been directed at a “lady-sized hole” in the ice on the lake.

Heidi Haru was an ambitious, unrelenting, but generally well-liked writer whose human impact is arguably greater than her literary one. In public, Heidi tended towards periods of solitude while she wrote. One friend commented, “She was often really difficult to get a hold of for long stretches of time.” However, when she was accessible, Heidi was “like an escape of sorts – sometimes a realistic one, sometimes a dream-like one.”

Friends and family seem to have a convergence on a melee of adjectives – brilliant, arrogant, hurtful, generous, hilarious, insincere, driven – all equally contradictory and accurate. A close friend remarked, “[Heidi] was like the small principality between chaos and stability. Something like Punkrockistan, but not cliché and stupid.”

Heidi loved English Breakfast tea with milk, singing, and the sounds of traffic outside her loft window. She first fell in love at fifteen. She last fell in love at sixty. Heidi was prone to fits of uncontrollable tears prompted simply by recalling tender moments from favorite films. This, evidentially, was a family tradition, the entire family often rendering waitstaff mute and helpless as they wept and recounted heartbreaking movie magic.

These emotional outbursts earned Heidi a reputation of being something of “an earthquake-tidal wave-hurricane-flood.” She was particularly fond of John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence and Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre.

Though unanimously described as a professional success, there appears to be some confusion as to what it is that Heidi Haru actually did professionally. This perhaps contributes to the fact that few of Heidi’s friends were able to accurately name the city of her last residence.

Some noted that she was like Los Angeles: hip, glamorous, creative, hyper, sometimes insincere, inclusive with contrasts. Yet others claimed she was really most like New York: too much volume to easily quantify, but too hard edged to be LA. There were calls for Las Vegas: loud, unashamed, full of sex. There were calls for poets’ favorite spots in Paris: sensitive and lovely.

But most cited the rough parts of Chicago: stairs that lead up to an apartment and an open closet, the smallness of it, crammed full of her stuff, her own small kitchen and bed.

Whatever it is that Heidi actually did all day, there is unanimous agreement that it was directed. “The sheer force of her determination was overwhelming,” a close friend reminisced. “Heidi would say, ‘I want this to happen’ and woe for anyone in her way!”

Heidi excelled in academia, paying her way through all manners of post-secondary education with scholarships and grants. Heidi enjoyed a short tenure as a professional taiko player in Phoenix. She travelled to Gallaudet University to study deaf cultural stories; she was fluent in ASL. She played rugby for the University of New South Wales, Australia. She wrote plays, poems, and stories – all of which were relatively well received and composed.

“Heidi was unapologetic and uncompromising about her pursuits,” said a friend, sometimes to her detriment. Heidi’s penchant for near-instant success in a variety of fields made her well-liked often before she was well-known. A valued colleague remarked, “When I knew Heidi (though I never felt I knew her well), she was one of my favorite people.”

Heidi’s sense of adventure and daring were infectious, often verging on the pathological. At the drop of a hat she might decide to abandon a career, move to a new city, shave off her hair. A quiet night at Stanford might easily become a balmy night wandering the steam tunnels of Palo Alto. A simple visit might become a week’s tryst into a multimedia sloth extravaganza, complete with fulfilling the dreams of friends who could never order that perfect combination of pizza toppings. A longing for her sister would become a plane ticket to Paris without so much as a consultation with finances. “Heidi was capable of getting stuck for some of the right reasons and maybe some of the wrong ones.”

Though she could be incandescent and a delight to be around, if even for a brief period, Heidi was guilty of not applying her phenomenal determination sometimes when she should have. She was unaccustomed to failure and met it fully without aid from grace or style. After leaving a prestigious doctoral program at the University of Chicago, Heidi allowed herself to fully stagnate for several years before reemerging as an unstoppable force.

“At her worst, Heidi could be isolated and stalled,” reflected a friend. “She was wonderfully confident yet beautifully insecure all at the same time.” Heidi could spend half an hour in the soda aisle of grocery stores, debating a three dollar purchase, immediately after blowing through hundreds of dollars in DVDs and books.

Born in Los Angeles and straight into a blood transfusion, Heidi grew up in the plots of novels and films she loved, though apparently splitting her childhood between L.A. and Phoenix. As an adult, she was really, amazingly, extraordinarily messy, some sort of cross between Pat Robertson, Bukowski, and Bono, with a bit of Margaret Cho and Salvador Dali thrown in to taste.

“Heidi was like no one else I know, thank God,” said a close friend. “For the present purpose I can only say that I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a liquid. A commissioned vessel will not give her a shape.” Heidi delighted in asking people, especially the newly acquainted, difficult and personal questions, always equally willing to answer them herself. Her favorite emotion to experience was bittersweet.

In all, Heidi was the family home she grew up in – freedom, creation, comfort, love, and kindness.

Or maybe that house on fire.

Be Careful of the Larva

2007-06-13T18:05:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, my sister and I liked to curl up on the couch together and enact life-threatening disasters.

Occasionally, our disasters included the fantasy of lying on our mattresses as flood waters filled our home. We would lie peacefully on our mattresses, slowly drifting away forever. This was a lyrical version of our shared disaster fantasy. But when we were feeling a touch hysterical, it was always the fantasy of the larva.

This particular fantasy did not begin so exotically. When we first began playing this game, we would lie on the couch side by side, usually with my sister on the outer edge. We would lie tense, waiting. Then, without warning, as disasters often come, my sister would begin to slide of the couch toward the floor.

"Save me, Heidi! Save me!"

My sister would go limp, all but for her hands that would grapple with mine. I would pull furiously at her arms, trying desperately to keep her legs from falling off the brink.

"Save me, Heidi! Save me from the lava!"

Somehow the reality of the lava all around us never clashed with the reality of the lava devouring us on the couch-like precipice where we lay. All I know was that we needed to keep away from that bright, red stuff.

"The lava, the lava," I would scream.

Sometimes I would succeed in saving my sister. I'd manage to get her safely back on the cushions, and we'd smile. There was a moment of rest before she would then restart her slip-slide to imminent death.

Sometimes I would fail in saving my sister. I'd grab at her arms, her clothes. She would look at me, wide-eyed.

"Save me from the lava!"

But once her legs made it over the edge, it was all over. Her foot would touch ground and that would be the end of her.

"You killed me," she would say sometimes.

But she'd always get back on the couch for our refractory period. Then we'd begin again. We loved to play this game.

I'm not sure how long we played this game before we changed the enemy.

My sister was sliding; I was pulling. I don't remember which of us said it first, but the other heard:

"The larva!!"

For years we had been plagued by a free-flowing river of molten rock. But now - now we were faced with a river of seething, squirming larvae. The heightened sense of terror and danger was palpable. Our living room would fill with millions of larvae, and we would teeter on the edge of sanity as we fought for survival.

I don't regularly save anyone anymore from menaces, real or imagined. There was something to it, that feeling where fear and exhilaration join. That feeling comes with an inflated sense of purpose, a certainty that what you do is truly a matter of life and death, that all your actions are matters of consequence.

I think it might be quite lovely to find that particular variety of excitement again. I could be at a coffeeshop watching an old woman sift through some pre-packaged cookies. Dark storm clouds would begin to form overhead. In an act both graceful and sudden, I would whisk her aside just as a bolt of lightening scorched the ground between the pillars of her walker.

On a day like that, I bet I could fly through the rest of my To Do List, fueled by my own sense of good-doing.

Perhaps it would be just as uplifting to be saved so dramatically. I could be sitting in traffic, listening to music and being oblivious to the unprecedented herd of buffalo charging towards my car. Some stranger would throw open my door and drag me out of harm's way. I would watch as my car was trampled. My sense of gratitude would be matched only by my zeal to be alive.

On a day like that, I would relish every task I laid my hands to.

It is clear to me now that my life needs larva. Disgusting as they are, my life is lesser without them.

Save me! Save me from the larva!

Dodge, Weave, Weave

2006-10-10T23:47:00.000-07:00

I am to be held responsible for my financial downfall.

I had always found a way to make my ends meet. I have always been employed, or at least otherwise funded.

I should have paid more attention when I began to fall behind. I should have answered the phone when calls for payment first began coming in. I should have spent that last $30 on gas and an oil change rather than on dinner and a last ditch attempt to have a real date with you.

I am to be held responsible for my declining health and expanding waistline.

I had never been a slim woman, but I had never paid my health or weight much mind. I have always enjoyed my life casually.

I should have started looking in the mirror when that first pair of pants didn’t fit. I should have made the time to use the gym I paid for for over a year. I should have noticed I was happy after a cheeseburger.

I am to be held responsible for my tendency to attack in an argument.

I had always known it would make you retreat. I have often wished I could exercise the sort of patience in the moment that I regard so highly ten minutes later.

I should have exercised more patience when we argued. I should have been thinking about the sort of environment I wanted us to exist in and not about saying what was self-gratifying in that instant. I should have noticed when I began to attack you more often than I elicited from you.

I am to be held responsible for my inconsistency.

I had always been there for friends, willing to take calls at any time. I have always regarded my friends as high priorities in my life, second only to my family.

I should have kept in better contact with everyone when things got sour. I should have reached out for a friendly voice more often, especially when I realized I had made a mistake. I should have let my friends be better friends to me, like they had let me be to them.

I am to be held responsible for my willingness to believe in her three times, even though none of her promises ever came to fruition.

I had always been more of a cynic than a humanitarian, so I still do not understand why I was so take by her proposals. I have always thought critically about people and their words, even those close to me.

I should have learned the first time not to trust the second. I should have learned the second time not to believe the third. I should have questioned the third time if it was prudence or pride that keeps me saying it’ll all work out.

I am to be held responsible for my inconsistency.

I had been so frustrated for so long, I threw you out before I calmed down. I have tried to tell you in so many ways, but have only shown you in a few.

I should have waited another day, not because it was the wrong decision but because it was the wrong way. I should have stared with the things I still love rather than lead with the things I will not stand. I should have waited until I didn’t want another kiss goodnight.

Box clever, I am.

He Never Got To Kick The Football

2006-09-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

i regret taking life and myself too seriously at various points in my life. man, what a douche i was.

i regret having dreams where i feel antagonized in uncomfortable circumstances that i thought i have overcome long ago.haunted by what really happened and what possibly could of happened.

I regret not being able to catch my dog when I was ten and he fell from the balcony, ten feet down to concrete.

Having sex with someone I shouldn't have.
I quit something I enjoyed doing because I didn't like the authoritative figure.
Not knowing when to leave the dance floor and say enough is enough.

I have knowingly starved loves that would have lived.

i regret being so self-absorbed as to not listen to people that have something important to say.

As a child, I told my sister that a ring she wore was not made of real precious stones. I did this to hurt her because I was jealous of her costume jewelry.

I regret letting life interfere with art.

I took my opportunities for granted and now I have none.

I had arranged, and promised, to take my 12 year old daughter and her best friend to a hospital ward on Halloween, in costume, to cheer up the patients, and I backed out at the last minute – unforgivable.

I regret having remained a child for far too long.

My regret, one of several, is that I didn't take better care of my body all these years.

I regret not thinking more clearly about the future when choosing my daughter's Father.

Getting married. Twice.

I regret not being more convincing while encouraging my parents to purchase Sega stock in 1987.

I regret that I want you to regret how you have treated me.

I regret nothing because the choices make the person and I like who I am.

Not telling my soulmate that I love her.

Wasting years of my life on someone else's goals.

I regret moments/hour/days of insecurities not spent on laughing/learning/living.

I regret not having gone to bed earlier.

I regret not talking with my grandmother more before she died only because her mental state was too hard for me to bear.

I regret looking at my uncle when he was lying in state.

I regret compromising my life's comfort by not speaking up and making my
voice heard loud and clear; strong and bold, so many times in my life.

I regret every time I didn't put my foot down.

Thank you, everyone. This couldn't have happened without you.

My Udder Often Tastes Sour, Asshole

2006-09-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

As those of you who know me know, and those of you who don't can well imagine, I am a bit sensitive about my udder.

Having an udder has always been a challenge to my sense of self-worth and body image. It makes swimming difficult, dating awkward, sex messy in a lactosey way. Naturally, junior high and high school were tremendously hard on me. And let me put this out there right now: Please do not leave me comments such as:

Wow. It's you, the udder girl from Toll Middle School. How are you? I'm glad to see you're doing so well. Hey, btw, no hard feelings about that thing in gym class, right? I mean, we went overboard with the volleyball net and leaving you there overnight, but we that milking machine was totally funny. I mean, it isn't funny now, but it was back then. Anyway, good to see you came out ok.

I do not need comments like this.

So, a friend of mine introduced me to this guy named Chris, though everyone calls him Becky. His last name is Beck or something. In any case, I go to meet Becky unsure of whether or not my friend has told him about the udder.

I should put this out there: I assume when people describe me to others, they refer to me as "the one with the udder." Wouldn't you? I would, if it were someone else. Hell, I do it sometimes to myself.

So, in order to meet a new friend, I spent quite some time selected my outfit. Looking cute is right out; I have much larger, milk-filled problem. I found a cute baggy knit sweater and stirrup. I looked like Lisa Bonet from The Cosby Show era. Plus, my udder was completely hidden. I met Becky at some cheap Mexican restaurant with nice, high tables. Becky and I hit it off, laughing a great deal about our mutual friend's latest haircut. What a nightmare.

It occurred to me that things were going quite well with Becky. Meeting for lunch extended into a jaunt for coffee. It was a generally pleasant afternoon. Then, I brought it up. I shouldn't really say that I brought it up. I more hinted at it.

Were you apprehensive meeting me today? I know how [mutual friend named deleted] can be when she describes me, I ventured.

What do you mean, he asked. He sipped his mocha frappuccino and ate the whipped cream off the straw.

You know, I said. The udder thing.

Your mother thing? I had his undivided attention. I regretted it immediately.

And so I began my standard speech introducing my udder. The rare nature of the birth defect. The generally uncomfortable way it rode in clothing. Puberty and uncontrollable lactating. Those of you who know me have already gotten this speech; those of you who don't will just have to imagine.
As per usual, Becky was blank-faced and stammering for a moment or two. He blushed a bit, oscillating between incredulous looks and embarrassment for those looks. Ultimately, he began to nod and seemed to take it all in.

An udder, huh? Well, at least now I can say I have a friend with an udder, right? He tried to take it in good spirits.

We continued to talk for awhile, mostly about books. I was raving about Kafka on the Shore and how it was like reading a dream. He was raving about On Beauty and how it made him wish his house had more mirrors. We continued on this way for over an hour, under a thin veneer of comfort.

Abruptly, Becky interrupted our conversation.

Does your udder still produce milk, he asked.

Yes, indeed, I told him. I have to use something like a breast pump and drain out every night. It usually isn't all that much, but it gets really bad if I let it go more than a day. Bad how? Well, it just becomes uncomfortable, the pressure. It's what I imagine blueballs to feel like, but in my udder. No, I don't drink my own milk. First of all, it would be like drinking my own breastmilk. Second of all, the milk I produce tends to be sour.

This seemed to throw Becky for a loop. What did I mean I produced sour milk?

I told him that the milk is made by my body, and my body is pretty consistently under stress. Stressful lives lead to stressed bodies which leads to sour milk.

This is where the conversation also turned sour. Becky suggested that if I took better care of my health, I would probably produce better milk. People who don't take care of their health also tend to be people who just don't think about the reprocussions of their choices on their bodies and lives. That's how people become obese, he said.

This, admittedly, pissed me off. It pissed me off because who the hell was this guy to tell me I was in poor health? He would have never suggested I was in poor health if he didn't know I had an udder. My health is just fine, thank you.

I was also pissed off because he's right. I should take better care of my health. But that has nothing to do with my udder and I resent the implication.

Becky could see that I was irritated and tried to correct things. He was only making a suggestion. He was just trying to help make my udder less of a burden by improving the quality of the milk I produce. I informed him that there is no need to improve the quality of my udder or my milk. The milk I produce is the milk I produce. It is simply the way my body works.

At this point in things, my tone because a bit nasty. Becky could sense it and was not amused. He made a comment, only slightly under his breath, that I could probably achieve sweeter milk if I tried a sweeter disposition more often.

So I said- well, you know what I said.

Random Quotes to a Spoiled Whiner

2006-08-31T16:43:00.000-07:00

I recently received a comment from the wonderer. Being the curious sort myself, I investigated and found a newly created blog with two lovely posts about the hassles of poorly designed signage and the efficacy of motivational quotes. I recommend that readers go see what I mean.

spoiledwhiner.blogspot.com

To the wonderer, whomever you may be, I commend you. Also, I must commend your taste in links.

1) "There's an old joke: Two elderly women are at a Catskill Mountain resort. And one of 'em says: 'Boy, the food in this place is really terrible.' The other one says: 'Yeah, I know. And such small portions.' Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly." - Annie Hall

2) "I could always live in my art, but never in my life." - Autumn Sonata

3) "Politicians, public buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough." - Chinatown

4) "There are people in this world, Bob, who look very official while they are doing what they are doing. And do you know wny? Because they don't know what they are doing. Because if you know what you are doing, then you don't have to look like you know what you're doing, because it comes naturally." - The Big Kahuna

5) "By listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of - that a certain type of perfection can only be realised through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect." - Kafka on the Shore

6) "I think and think and think. I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it." - Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

7) "Half my life is an act of revision." -John Irving

In reviewing this list of my motivational quotes, it becomes abundantly clear to me why I struggle to make weekly postings.

Call It "Pure Being"

2006-08-26T22:03:00.000-07:00

Caution: Hot. Yield to Oncoming Traffic. Do Not Place in Eyes. No Diving in Shallow Waters. Warning: Chili Causes Gas

These signs and warnings have always seemed redundant to me. Of course I should not reach into the cage holding the wild gorilla; the damn thing could tear my arm off. Of course I should not walk onto a high rise construction site without protective headwear; my skull is not impervious to tools falling from heights greater than a few feet. Naturally I should not pull directly out into traffic without checking for oncoming cars; I am not the only person in the tri-city area who might want to drive somewhere this morning.

In short, the American necessity to over-warn its citizens and protect itself from litigation has always been a mild irritant. For years, I have felt that all of these signs, these warnings, these safety reminders could be replaced with a single sign by a simple reminder.

I

AM

MORTAL

Perhaps it overestimates the thoughtfulness of people, but I like to believe that reminders like this would nullify the necessity to warn people against stupid behavior and provide people with a daily dose of scope and perspective.

For the first time in my life, I need this sign. I feel it in my gut. It seeps through my skin. It is striking.

The circumstances surrounding this realization are both chaotic and inconsequential. Suffice it to say that I have recently been party to what can only be described as a moving fiasco. I am, at once, homeless and bordered, broke and financially secure, terrified and calm. For the first time in my life, it has occurred to me that there is a dark cloud over this time in my life.

I recognize how pampered and juvenile all this could seem. What difference does it make if some twenty-something would-be writer checks her life's forecast and sees a chance of mid-morning thunderstorms? Not much, and writing about it may only be an addition to the myriad of self-indulgent narrative in the world.

Point well taken. But this topic is interesting to me at the moment. And guess whose name is at the top of the page?

This inescapable sense of mortality seems such an affront to me. I have been trying to relish this dark period as an opportunity to develop my perspective. Every day I remind myself that this is merely the third act, that period in of my life in which all the odds are against me and I have to pick myself up from a minor defeat in order to sail victorious into the fourth. I have taken as my mantra that this lingering sense of nausea is the best way to experience my own existence, to divorce myself from the bad faith of being. I even hum Eye of the Tiger, for Christssake.

Try as I might, I am allowing myself to succumb to the little indignities of this situation, and they are beginning to flag flash-flood warnings.

For instance, a family of three has been kind enough to act as the safety net throughout this fiasco. This all-American family boasts a home with pool, husband-wife team, TV addicted son, and German Shepherd. They are delightful people. I have tried on numerous occasions to show my gratitude by helping around the house. To date, I have met with the following reactions:

· Upon trying to do laundry: Could you please not do our laundry? Or at least, not our clothes. I'm particular about how we do the clothes. And don't dry them. Let me hang them. And thanks for trying to fold the laundry I did, but I have a way. (Proceeds to unfold and refold laundry)

· Upon trying to do dishes: You know what? Let me do that. We only put certain things in the dishwasher and I like to hand dry the other stuff.

· Upon trying to help clean up the kitchen: Thanks for trying, but I'm a freak about cleaning the kitchen. (Proceeds to reclean the kitchen)

· Upon trying to make dinner of stuffed cabbage: You make make that for dinner, but I'm not going to eat it. I had to grow up with that stuff. It looks disgusting. And it has onions in it. We don't do onions or garlic or anything spicy. (Note: After cooking the dinner, only the husband had any. Both the mother and son said that it was nasty and had breakfast foods instead)

Stormy period or no, I feel certain that there was a time in my life when I could effectively help people around the house or express gratitude. I think the lightning is causing some interference in my ability to transmit clear signals.

Though it is a struggle, I feel that I will be able to continue to weather-proof my life through this period. I am certain that these daggers from without will be parried off with my mantras and delusions of grandeur. But I am less certain of these daggers from within. They have a way of embedding themselves under the skin like a thousand fiberglass splinters.

I once had thousands of fiberglass splinters along the insides of both my arms. They ached incredibly and were terribly resistant to removal. In the end, it took painstaking sessions with duct tape and hot showers to remove them all.

Right now, all I've got is a giant dodge ball to the face.

What I Was Thinking

2006-08-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

That time you were drunk in Tokyo. You flopped down the subway stairs, like the exaggerated walk of a silent film drunkard. You sang loudly and without regard for your volume as we waited on the platform and then sat on the train. And, when hushed, how you leaned over and whispered, "TOFU!"

That Halloween we both went as jack-o-lanterns. I felt like we deserved out own parade.

How you felt sorry for Ike Turner in What's Love Got To Do With It? when he proclaimed, "But, baby, I'm off the narcotic!"

How much I loved that period of time when we were living together, both driving to school together everyday, and being able to meet up with you at random intervals around campus. We could listen to CDs on the drive in and sing along at full blast. That was the best period of my college life.

The way we both got the church giggles when we went to see that old Japanese woman perform on the shamisen. I have never so instantly regretted front row/center seats before in my life. The giggles were so much worse, so much more fun with you sitting next to me.

That I've always envied your ability to draw and your penmanship, even when we were children.

Roooooiiiiiinnnnned!!!

The way we could both leave My Dinner with Andre playing all day and never get tired of it.

That we have the same memories. I'll never have another person in my life who has my memories. You will always be the only one.

How freakishly good you are at Tetris.
Seriously. It is freakish.

Your happy dance - the one where you close your eyes, tuck your lips into your mouth while you smile, and you alternately swing your bent arms with gently made fists.

How great you look with a shaved head.

Is It Something I Said?

2006-04-21T02:37:00.000-07:00

First, I need to have a child. I must admit this is an abhorrent thought to me, but all things may, under the correct circumstances, be a means to an end. I must rear this child until it is prepared to speak, much as if I cared whether it lived or died. It is only when the child is of age to begin meaningful interactions with others that it will be of the least use.

Once the child is able to speak, the training will begin. I want a child that only exists within the realm of television commercial reality.

If I drop a dozen eggs on the kitchen floor -

"Mom, it looks like you need this new Swiffer Upright Wet Jet disposable mop!"

If I get into a fender bender on the highway -

"Uh-oh! It looks like we need Anderson, Anderson, Louie, and Frank, the automobile accident discount lawyers!"

If I have to buy a car -

"The new Toyota Miracular has the highest safety rating in its class and it comes with a $3000 cash rebate at signing! Plus, it'll be perfect for when I've got a soccer game!"

It is of the utmost importance that the child be trained to speak in this manner all the time. Even when in public. Especially when in public. When met by the looks of confused or horrified adults, I will shake my head and remark, "Damn TV generation."

Over time, I will be able to sell the rights to the child to some media firm, providing them with the human embodiment of advertisement. The child will eliminate the need for 90% of commercial writers; the remaining 10% of advertisements that attempt to "be innovative" by selling socks by showing ten middle-aged men playing tag on a lawn like children. However, the majority of advertisers will be able to utilize this child. No longer needing writers, nor needing to hire child actors, media firms will be able to drastically minimize the cost of commercial production. I will reap enormous benefits. As my child grows in popularity, I will be able to live off its profits like the stage moms of old. As the child grows older, it will be able to fill older demographics in advertisements - beginning with bubble bath and toy commercials, it will move on to microwave-safe snack foods and board games, finally peaking in its teens with acne creams and abstinence public service announcements.

A lifetime as an advertisement whore coupled with the realization that the child's entire fortune has been masterfully siphoned out of its name and into mine, the child will turn to drugs in its later teens, slowly and sadly self-destructing. Ultimately, it will overdose and die shamefully, likely in the arms of some other ruined child actor. Naturally, with a television star for a child, I will have a hefty insurance policy in place.

At this point, my dreams will begin to come true. In the wake of my child's untimely and tragic death, the book and movie deals will begin to pour in. I will sell my child's story to all the major networks; I will allow the networks to create as much hype and scandal as they please. The same will go for book deals; I will authorize as many biographies as come in. Moreover, I will pen my own memoirs, recounting how much I loved my child and almost died of grief when it turned to drugs. With all the attention, I will finally be invited to be a guest on Oprah.

Now, of course, an audience with Oprah Winfrey herself is not something to be taken lightly. This is when I will have to unleash the big guns. Despite everything that I have confessed in my memoirs, it will be on Oprah that I finally admit, to the world and myself, that I have always blamed myself for my child's destructive behavior and death.

My child always wanted to be on television. I didn't want to become one of those mothers who force their child into pageants. And I never wanted my child to be a phony, like most child actors. I wanted the work my child did in commercials to be completely natural, so that it would never have to confuse reality from fantasy, so that it would always be in its own reality. I just wanted the best for it....I just wanted the best....

My memoir will be part of Oprah's Book List. I will inspire Oprah to join with me in creating a philanthropic foundation to protect and educate children in the arts. Through this organization, I will be able to work with the world's leading artists. These contacts, over time, will allow me to have access to the world's most prolific agents and promotors. Ultimately, my writing career will take off, as well as my work as a performance artist. My performances, book signings, and lectures will double as fund raisers for the organization. Oprah and I will be come lucrative business partners; with time, we will become friends.

Is all of this so much to ask to befriend one of the most powerful and humanitarian women on the planet?

The Rules of My Game

2006-04-15T17:12:00.000-07:00

WANTED: Illustrator/programmer for new RPG game, Somebody; game should be in style of Final Fantasy or Kingdom Hearts series; previous experience preferred but not necessary; sample of work must be submitted with application

SYNOPSIS: Kyle is a tall, lanky fifteen year old boy with bad hair. Last year, Kyle spent most of his time hiding from the town's band of miscreants: Frankie (a tubby dullard with unwashed black curls), Jackson (a short, stupid looking boy who has the habit of saying, "There's a ditch with your name on it"), Morton (the group's muscle-man, though they rarely say his name aloud for fear of his wrath; in truth, he is perfectly comfortable with his name), and Olivia (a long-haired redhead who would just as soon kick an old woman in the mouth than wear anything other than jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt). Kyle was so traumatized by his frequent beatings and tauntings by the gang that his parents sent him to a camp for the summer so that he could find himself. This camp taught Kyle how to identify the destructive behaviors that others around him were engaging in and armed him with the tools to protect himself and develop his own identity. Unfortunately, Kyle has also learned how to use his enemies' weapons against them....

This year, Kyle has vowed to stand up to his tormentors, as well as enlist as many new friends as possible in his crusade against psychological cruelty. However, Kyle was not anticipating meeting with resistance from some of the most respectable people in town. The town's mayor, Mayor Lanson, feels that Kyle should not be so analytical and enjoy his childhood; Mayor Lanson often interferes and outright prevents Kyle's actions. Kyle's parents are also displeased with Kyle's new take on life; they feel that he has become manipulative and presumptuous with adults, often providing unqualified psychoanalysis to their friends at dinner parties. And Kyle can't prove it, but it seems that every time he turns a corner, there's the shadow of another school counselor....

Join Kyle has he tries to improve the world one psyche at a time. But can he spread healing without succumbing to an unhealthy psychological worldview himself?

GAMEPLAY: The battle system for this game is unlike traditional RPGs. It will have a turn based battle style, much like the Final Fantasy series. However, although actions taken during battle will decide the winner, the repercussions of the battle actions last well beyond the battle itself. For example, during a battle, Momentary Guilt may be cast against an opponent. This casting may cause enough Hit Point (HP) damage to cause the opponent to lose the battle; in this respect, the battle system is much like any other RPG. However, once normal gameplay has resumed, the damage done by Momentary Guilt to the player's Psychological Points (PP) may cause the actions and options available to that character to be altered. If PP becomes impaired, a character may no longer be able to bring him or herself to ask a stranger at an Item Shop for assistance; the character may instead be forced to shop only at a local Item Shop where they feel more comfortable.

The use of PP is the signature element of Somebody, and its most significant effect on gameplay is its long range implications on game options. In some instances, it may be impossible to continue a given mission simply because a character's PP does not allow them to cope with the requirements of that mission. It should be noted that PP is a double-edged sword. A character's PP can be damaged through a battle sequence, as described above. However, a character's PP can also be damaged by inflicting too many Psychological spells on his opponents.

For instance, if a character relies too heavily on casting Persistent Low Self Esteem, it will begin to affect his own PP as his own need to damage others becomes a shield for his own insecurities; bullying is as damaging to the bully as it is to his victim. For example, Kyle may battle Frankie and Olivia on a bus. When Frankie initiates battle by taunting Kyle, Kyle can respond with a Single Handed Shove or a Two Finger Shoulder Push if he is at Level 2. However, Kyle has substantially less physical strength than most players, and this course of action will only serve to further battle. Level 2 Kyle can then cast Conduct Disorder on Olivia, which will lower her HP during the battle; it will also reduce her PP during battle, causing her to lash out at Frankie, particularly when Frankie's attacks fail to inflict much damage on Kyle. However, after the battle, Olivia's PP will continue to drop, making her willful and difficult with her friends, increasing the likelihood that she will be unhelpful in future battles. Unfortunately, casting Conduct Disorder too often will also decrease Kyle's PP when he is not in battle. In this situation, Kyle will develop a sinister nature, having prompted so many others into bad behavior. This will make Kyle less trustworthy at first glance and, therefore, shopkeepers will raise prices when he attempts to make purchases. Also, strangers in town will be less willing to provide him with clues and free items to help him along the way.

The following are a list of spells and actions available to characters within Somebody:

ICY PSYCH SPELLS: Freezes ability to cope psychologically
Level 1 Embarrassment
Level 2 Shame
Level 3 Momentary Guilt
Level 4 Lasting Guilt
Level 5 Hellish Introspection

FIERY PSYCH SPELLS: Burns up sense of self worth, leaving only the husk of a man
Level 1 Self Doubt
Level 2 Insecurity
Level 3 Persistent Low Self Esteem
Level 4 Self Loathing
Level 5 Depressive Suicide

THUNDEROUS PSYCH SPELLS: Shocks personality into meltdown
Level 1 Irritation
Level 2 Minor Frustration
Level 3 Debilitating Frustration
Level 4 Incapacitating Frustration
Level 5 Sudden Aneurism

WINDY PSYCH SPELLS: Blows sanity away like a Tibetan sand painting
Level 1 Borderline Personality Disorder
Level 2 Conduct Disorder
Level 3 Bipolar Disorder
Level 4 Institutionalized Depression
Level 5 Catatonic Schizophrenia

PHYSICAL ATTACKS:
Level 1 Two-Finger Shoulder Push
Level 2 Single-Handed Shove
Level 3 Double-Handed Shove
Level 4 Groin Kick
Level 5 Face Punch

HEALTHY PSYCH SPELLS:
Level 1 Compliment
Level 2 Positive Reinforcement
Level 3 Nurturing Environment
Level 4 Group Therapy
Level 5 Permanent Support Web

In Defense of the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

2006-01-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

Let me begin by stating that I love the mentally unstable.

I don't mean this in a coy "I'm cool like Wednesday Addams" kind of way. I don't mean it in a vacant "No one feels my pain" way. I mean it genuinely. I enjoy the company of those people who have been diagnosed with various forms of mental illness.

Bipolar? OK. I know you're not literally going to be Jekyl and Hyde with me. Unless you're off your meds, and that'll be ok, too. Tourette? Sure. I know you likely won't have sudden bursts of foul language unless I beat you at Mah Jong. I know to expect ticks and difficulty maintaining eye contact. And that will be fine with me.

I have probably had more contact with the mentally unstable than the average person. Sure, I'm no psychiatrist or orderly at a hospital. These are people who live, sleep, breathe, and shit the mentally unstable. I am not one of these people. But I am someone who has had a great deal of contact with the mentally unstable. Or perhaps I should put it this way: Compared to the average person, I have probably had more informed contact with the mentally unstable. When I talked with these people, I knew damn well that they had some sort of mental instability, and it made very little difference in the way I treated them. I don't say this as if I'm a saint. All I mean to say is that I likely treated them with the same indifference and nonchalance I do to everyone else. Just because you're crazy doesn't mean that you're on the top of my "To Do" list, for Christssake. You will harbor just as many self-defeating thoughts over there as you will sitting on the other side of my desk, thank you very much and wait your goddamn turn.

All that being said, let me sum up: I love the mentally unstable. They play a significant role in our society and should not be ashamed of who they are. If there were a ribbon for the mentally unstable, I probably wouldn't wear it. But I would support it.

However...

I have grown tired of a certain phenomenon that I find is growing increasingly common - the "crazy" ex-girlfriend. Everyone seems to have one nowadays.

"Hey Jeremy, how're you doing? I heard you and Melissa split up. Is that true?"

"Yeah, jesus. She's fucking crazy, man."

"No way. You two were great. Weren't you together for, like, three years?"

"Yeah, but she went totally psycho on me. I told her I thought we were better off apart and she went totally fucking nuts. Crying, screaming, throwing shit at me. She kept calling me, over and over."

"Holy shit, man, I'm sorry. Is she still after you? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. She shows up at my work, sometimes. She always says she wants to talk, but I just keep telling her the same thing over and over again, you know? I just think we're better off without each other, you know? Then she starts crying again, and it all starts over. Christ, look - that's her calling on my cell."

"Fuck me. I had no idea Melissa was crazy like that. I'm sorry."

And so on. I hear conversations like this all the time. Of course, the tables are reversed sometimes, too. Sometimes it is the crazy ex-boyfriend who is being maligned. This is not meant to be a gender specific phenomenon. But I am not a tripod, so from here on out we relate to my needs.

Why are people so surprised that people are upset after a break-up? Break-ups hurt. They are painful. They are nasty. They throw your entire world into upheaval. You wake up one day, knowing you have a partner, someone to be there for you and to be your sounding board. Think you'd like to quit your job? Great, you have a partner to discuss it with. Have a bizarre dream about having sex with your dog, except it had the face of your best friend in kindergarten? Perfect, wake up your partner. Your partner is one of the few things in this world that you can rely on day to day. I can rely on my job sucking my ass. I can rely on my $0.82 coffee refill at the Mobil On-The-Go. I can rely on my partner.

And then they go and screw it all up. They've met someone else. They've grown away from you. You've grown away from them. You've grown apart from each other. They have finally realized that you're fundamentally different and can never have a healthy relationship. Whatever. No matter what the reason, it all hurts the same. They reject you.

Rejection hurts.

After a kidney transplant, you take heavy duty medication for the rest of your life. Know why? Because rejection hurts.

Teenage suicide spikes from mid-March to mid-May every year, just after college acceptance letters come out. Know why? Because rejection hurts.

When we get rejected, we hurt. When we get hurt, we experience pain. This pain can be physical, emotional, psychological, or existential. This is not news to anybody.

So, why are we so surprised when our ex's are so distraught after a break-up? Where are all these "crazies" coming from?

Granted, there is a very small percentage of the population who actually get a crazy. One out of a million of you reading this really will find a crazy. You'll be going along and realize you're in
Fatal Attraction or any Josh Hartnett movie. OK, I'll give you that.

But the rest of you are simply not recognizing the repercussions of your actions. What is surprising about crying, screaming, ranting, raving, begging, pleading at the feet of the person who has just tried to break ties with you? A partner, a real boy/girlfriend, is like a psychological appendage. You don't need it to live, sure. There are plenty of amputees out there living full and productive lives. But you certainly don't want to offer up an appendage unless absolutely necessary. And you'll fight like hell to keep it, often even when it is gangrenous and threatening to intoxicate the rest of the body.

Dismissing someone else's pain is cruel and it minimizes the quality of the partnership you had when it was in its prime. The pain that you cause the person you are leaving is part of that partnership still; just because you have decided that this partnership is over does not end the partnership. The story continues because the emotions continue. Denying that there is any cause for pain denies that there was ever anything there to begin with. And if that's the case, then you were both crazy, living together and pretending that you were doing something.

I want to live in a world where I can overhear these conversations:

"Hey, Jeremy. How're you doing? I heard you and Melissa broke up?"

"Yeah, we did. I realized that we weren't good for each other, even though we love each other."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know, exactly. But I know it is true. I feel it. And I told Melissa so."

"Jesus, how did she take it?"

"As well as I would have taken it if our places were reversed. She cried. She screamed. She threw things at me. She begged. She pleaded. She tried to have sex with me one last time."

"That's crazy."

"No, it isn't crazy. I hurt her. I hurt the hell out of her. And that is not a rational state to be in, so why should I expect her to respond rationally? This is what people do."

"Do you feel sorry for her? Are you going to take her back?"

"No. I'm not saying I'm going to take her back. I'm just saying that her response is understandable. I don't like it. I don't regret my decision. But this is the natural consequence of my decision. I have to accept that."

Yes. Yes, that would be lovely.

I'm An Extraordinary Machine

2006-01-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes. Mostly, I've been enjoying a long overdue period of narcicism and ego inflation. Over the past several years, I have developed a strange obsession with the shape of my skull. It is perfectly spherical. Perfectly. The roundness of my face and skull have come to dominate my self-image. I presume hats won't fit because of my skull. I am dissatisfied with my face because I think it is too round. I have taken to simply running my palms along my skull to perceive its shape. I am tired of feeling this way. So, taking my cues from the Bill Withers Sourcebook, I shaved my head. I look wonderful, round head and all.

I notice that my opponent is always on the go. Although, I suppose saying that it is hard to pin down my trouble with impulse control should be obvious. I'm trying not to post the sort of blog full of whiny "I have too many ideas" or "I am just too creative for my own good" or whatever other self-promoting drivel tends to be out there. My primary problem is that I have no filter for what constitutes a "good" idea from a "bad" idea. I act on them all indiscriminantly. This zero-criteria pattern has left me with mixed results. I admit I enjoy the irregularity of it. But I would also like a better sense of my own motivations. I am tired of feeling this way. I want to make my motives clear to myself. To hell with everyone else.

I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way. Knowing me in my early twenties meant to know this inextriciably. Knowing me in the past several years has meant to only gain a gleaning. I need to learn to "play the game" in the workplace. Like a dumbass, I overdid it. I feel I have done a sufficient amount of moving the work way. I am good at it. I am efficient at it. I hate it. I am moving backwards. I'm no good with choreography; I'm better with improv.

I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me. Why pick the road less travelled? Half the time I don't know if I'm on dirt or pavement. Things have always seemed to just work out for me. This new mode of making explicit directives for myself is new. I am going to make a schedule to exercise by. I am going to force myself to make time for my creative endeavors. I am going to practice telling myself, "Fuck this job. Fuck it long, and fuck it hard." I am going to spend time just loving on my cat. I am going to embrace my giant, Charlie Brown, globe of a head. I am going to schedule myself exercise time. I am going to spend more time introspecting and less time extroverting.

If there was a better way to go, then it would find me. I choose to believe that it will all work out for me. It is not the natural order of things; often things go from bad to worse naturaly. It is not God's plan for me; if there is a God, His plan for me, at best, is an eternity in the gusty layer of hell and, at worst, is an eternity of painful introspection and discomfort. I choose to believe that it will all work out for me because I believe, to the core of my being, in my own ability to succeed. And not in a Tony Robbins, self-helpy sort of way. There is nothing healthy about this belief. My unwaivering belief in myself comes from a pure Arrogance, with the capital A. I choose to believe it will all work out for me because I cannot but help believing in my myself. I am that great.

Thanks, Fiona.

If I Had to Have Sex with an Alien, It Would Be Marcia Cross

2006-01-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

If I had to have sex with an alien, it would be Marcia Cross. As aliens go, she's not all that bad. Her eyes are still ludicrously far apart, but at least there are eyelids; her forehead is massive, enclosing a supposedly superior brain, but at least there's hair. True, her nose could pierce a steel plate, but at least the nostrils are symmetrical. From all that I am to understand about the alien abduction experience, probing of some sort seems to always be on the menu. Moreover, this probing often seems to involve one's naughty bits. The experience is widely reported to be traumatic and unpleasant. So, if abducted, I would prefer to have my alien be as becoming as possible.

If I had to have sex with an alien, it would be Marcia Cross.

In my dreams, the most important part always happens on my grandma's front yard. I could be in a classroom, and the chalkboard will just be hovering over the grass with the desks and chairs set up across the lawn. I could finally chase down the shadowy man who has been stalking me, and I will finally overtake him in my grandma's poorly hedged bushes by the porch. My dreams rarely feature, co-star, or even cameo my grandma. Moreover, my dreams rarely take place in or around my grandma's house. My dreams tend to take place at work or at home; I have boring dreams. And so, in my dreams of being at work, I am going through the tasks of my job. I pick up some files. I talk to my boss. I mutter under my breath for her demise. Then, I realize that some important task has been left undone. I realize I'm an hour late for work. I realize I have failed to make an important phone call the night before. As the other foot begins to drop, the backdrop melts away into my grandma's front yard.

Sometimes my dreams know what is significant better than I do. I may be dreaming about an evening out with friends, catching a movie and a bite to eat. That our original movie is sold out and we are forced to select another would seem to me to be the most significant aspect of the dream. But, instead, a length of time walking between the restaurant and the theater crosses my grandma's lawn. I try to remember, "Who was I talking to at that point in the dream? Who was in frame with me? Did I feel anything out of the ordinary?" This experience always leaves me unsettled, frustrated that my psyche keeps secrets from me. What does it know that I don't know? I despise the feeling that I'm being duped, that I am being cut out of the loop. These dreams can ruin my entire day, preoccupying me and making me irritable.

If, in my dreams, it is significant, it happens on my grandma's front yard.

During my inner monologue, the loudest voice of criticism belongs to Lizzy Sampson, a girl I wronged in the eighth grade. She was pretty and popular. And sweet. A social darling without a malicious bone in her body. I hated Lizzy Sampson for her beauty, her social grace. In the eighth grade, Lizzy's parents when on vacation, trusting her alone. Being thirteen, Lizzy decided to host a small party in her parents' absence. Being thirteen, she invited the other popular kids. Being thirteen, she (wisely) opted not to invite me.

Being thirteen, I was devestated and then wrathful. The week leading up to the much tauted party was filled with my careful sifting of completed assignments, secretly removing and destroying Lizzy's homework. The night of the much tauted party, despite the utter absence of drugs, alcohol, sex, even a pathetic and prepubescent game of spin the bottle, I called the police and made a noise complaint. Lizzy's parents returned to a daughter with missing homework, falling grades, and a complaint on public record for holding a racous party without adult supervision. Being thirteen, Lizzy cried and protested. Being thirteen, Lizzy was not believed. At thirteen, Lizzy was sent away to a boarding school.

During my inner monologue, the loudest voice of criticism belongs to Lizzy Sampson.

When I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always accidental yet resolved. Often, I interrupt some act of violence being committed against my loved ones, such as an armed robbery at a local store or through some random act of mechanical failure that endangers all of our lives. I never sacrifice my life in an act of heroism, jumping in front of a bullet or shoving a child out of the path of a falling piece of steel. Instead, when I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always a simple matter of being 'in the wrong place at the wrong time.' While keeping my eye on the lead robber, one of the secondary robbers, one that was nervous and unsure about robbing the place at all after a bad omen that morning, panics and shoots me in the gut. Or, while trying to position myself and loved ones out of range from falling bits of buildings, a large and sharp reinforcing bar skewers me through the midsection. Come to think of it, I always die through an injury to the torso - never a head wound.

Although my fatal injury is always accidental, I never succumb to the thralls of mortality, begging not to die or weeping to those around me for help. Instead, my finals moments are always calm and accepting. My loved ones gather around me, and I smile. They always try to apply pressure to my wounds or make me comfortable until an ambulance arrives. I always shake my head gently. "It's alright. It's alright," I tell them. Next comes a barrage of "I have always loved you's" and "Please don't cry's." I always finish this last siloloqy recounting some fond memory of mine involving those around me. They are never telling memories, such as the first day I met my lover or a special family event. These last memories are always small, anonymous incidents, ones that only I would remember especially. This always brings an onsurge of tears from those around me. Then, as I begin to fade, I always end with some single, small regret. "I would have liked to have seen Montana" from The Hunt for the Red Octber comes to mind.

Then, I die. The music swells and tears begin to fall on my body. Those around me don't just cry, they wail. This part is always akin to the cave scene from The English Patient. The moments immediately after my death are always filled with the sort of anguish and sadness that defies description and sound. Open, contorted mouths without sound.

When I envision my tragic and untimely death, it is always accidental yet resolved.

Plausible Deniability

2005-12-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

Generally speaking, I am more than happy to take responsibility for poor writing, plot holes, weak characterization, and general pompousness in my written works. Everyone writes duds every once in awhile.

But I cannot take the credit for this one.

On Saturday, 26 November 2005, Modified Arts in Phoenix, Arizona celebrated the two year anniversary of Thru The Wires with a catered gala event.

Thru The Wires features both the established and up-and-coming starts in the Intelligent Dance Music (IDM) world; in short, it is a monthly showcase of electronic music. Thru the Wires has featured such groups as Terminal 11 and Speak, Memory.

Unfortunately, neither of these groups performed at the two year anniversary gala.

Instead, it featured a barely pubescent teenage boy screaming songs about DeGrassi Junior High over formulaic technohash a half step above the Casio-generated action score in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. It was bad. I got the church giggles.

In an attempt to entertain myself and the group I was with, I took out a piece of notebook paper and wrote:

"I never would have gone to that party if it hadn't been for those
pants," he confessed.

I passed this note along to my friend, More than meets the I. She added a couple sentences and passed it along. Once the page had made it through our group, we began passing it through the crowd. Each crowd member who got a hold of the story added to it. Ultimately, I had to provide a second page because contributors had begun writing in microscopic script in the margins of Page One. After two hours of crowd surfing, the story began threatening to need a third page. Not being prepared to start a crowd novel, I was forced to tell the couple in possession of the story that they had the responsibility of providing the story with closure.

In any case, here is the story in full. I feel I have made an adequate case for diffusion of responsibility. All spelling, grammatical, and conceptual errors have been retained to maintain realism and journalistic integrity. Box breaks indicate change in authorship, or at least handwriting.

PLEASE ADD TO ME!
-and make sure it gets returned to the guy doing
the visuals - thanks!
[marked on top of first page; added by
More than meets the I]

Gentibus carentibus spe multa dedimus.[written on strip of paper by crowd member and affixed to page
with gum]

"I never would have gone to that party if it hadn't been for those pants," he confessed.

"My girlfriend gave them to me. I never would have chosen assless rubber for myself, personally."

And then I passed out probably from too much pot and drink.

What aforetohere said pot and drink from wherewat I know not from. The pants were chafing, surprisingly hot from heat and such and such etc. they had not been assless but instead a new wave of inverse-assless, where two leather patches caressed and careened the folds of my austere bottom. I didn't even know it, but I lived for quite some time in Florida with said pants. The slow beat community relished my pants, myself, and my long-windedness.

Florida made my bottom less austere so I had to get out. I tried Colorado. The assless pants did follow me, and the cold helped with the chafing, but my bottom was still not as austere as it could be. I moved on.

The chafing was beginning to turn into third degree burns at this point. Blisters? Yes. Infection? Yes. Worth it? Yes.

Yet, something was sorely missing. Something completely unexpected

busted right through the window and plopped in the mashed potatoes on my dresser. I pulled it out and immediately recognized it as the Eye of Hrothgar, I fell into a trance.....

but woke up on the back of a donkey with lemon wings and cupcake knee caps. He was taking me to the land of forgotten knickles. Their he would train me in shoulder pit sling pucking, a move once removed from this world because to dangerous for human beings, but he showed me anyways, so I learned it and went on my mary way.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world,

Quintus and Pompei raped Caesar and there was much rejoicing. After Pompei's naked grandfather rose from the bathtub,

we gave many things to nations lacking hope.

Like heroin to Somalian children and venereal diseases to Native Americans. On the next full moon,

I ate the mashed potatoes on my dresser and went to japan to have sex with native americans under the blistering sun. The mashed potatoes were still tasty.

Still, it bears repeating that: an incessant need to validate one's childhood experiences, leading to an affection with Christian dogmas or perhaps a bizarre sexual fetish, is still merely a drop in the bucket of the larger human yearning for a balance of compassion with greed.

With this creed in mind I went into hiding, not so much for self gratification as for the pressures of social atmosphere. In my seclusion I discovered many of life's mysteries. One of which was the purpose of ass-inverted-chaps. But that is a mystery whose answer I cannot unfold to the masses. It requires a personal experience.

The inverse assless pants did something to me, something I cannot fully understand at this point in my life but something very completely real. Riddled with maddening recurrant dreams that I have long feared would rob me of my sanity, I sought help from a wise old grampa, called GRAMPA2000 by those fortunate enough to find refuge in his infinite intelligence. After a long voyage to the top of super awesome high rise apartments inhabbited by tons of whacky monstaz, I found the apartment[No. 90575]I had been looking for. Yay the finalie of my awesome sik voyage, it has come to an end. Phew! No more sweating bullets.
THE END ----->

But its not really the end...this story will continue into the infinite complexes of the universe until the end of time.
To Be Continued...

Inventory

2005-12-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

arrested development, season one
shallow grave
the great escape
spirited away
my own private idaho, criterion collection
straw dogs, criterion collection
cinema paradiso
hamlet, kenneth branaugh version
lord of the rings trilogy

make a career as a novelist
become and remain healthily slim
be a performance artist
become multilingual
be fashionable yet comfortable
live in bustling metropolitan area

stuffed cabbage rolls
hot coffee with vanilla coffeemate
pastrami sandwich
lox and bagel
pineapple
smoothie mix skittles

how to speak italian
where is the best funding for artists
when is the "prime of life"
how to effectively decorate a room/living space
why did biometrics lose out to mendelism
how to play acoustic guitar
where to buy quality kitchen knives
how to bellydance
who i have to fuck to hang out with oprah

mike
gray
mike
gray (again)
jesse
jesse
kohl
matt
justin

everybody poops
underwear
sleep
milk
more info on new apt

the unbearable lightness of being
hard times
the little prince
a woman in the dunes
the world according to garp
the usa trilogy
cassavetes on cassavetes
kafka on the shore
the satanic verses
the moon is a harsh mistress

a lifetime of servitude
stretch marks
risk of permanent bladder damage
precocious toddlers
it might want to be a cheerleader
post-partum depression
extreme expense
pta meetings
bake sales
talent shows
school plays

extreme makeover
oprah
dr phil
debt
while you were out
the simpsons

david sedaris
bill cosby
jim jarmusch
bjork
roger ebert
joyce carol oates
george michael
alan alda

tv shows i occassionally fantasize of being on
movies to buy
things to get this weekend
good things to eat
books to (re)read
people i would love to have dinner with
things to learn
reasons to never have children
life aspirations
boyfriends, old and current

Just Need a Little Because Because

2005-11-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

My sister and I have shared a long held belief that our 30's will be the period of our lives that we hold in highest regard.

Birth to 20 certainly is too early into a life's career to be its pinnacle. All the firsts must be experienced. Puberty must be contended with. Brain cells must continue to grow.

20-29 surely cannot be the prime of life either. This seems to be a decade filled with strife, poverty, indecision, exploration, regret, and disillusionment. This is where the ideals of early adulthood give way to the realities of adulthood.

And so, my sister and I have felt that 30-39 must be the highlight of a biographical timeline. Still young enough to be active, established enough to be comfortable, old enough to have grown into your skin. I look forward to my 30's for all of these reasons. I look forward to being without the insecurities of my 20's, to finally feel settled and accomplished. I believe my sister and I will not be disappointed.

However, there is one facet of my 30's which I think will still be sorely lacking: a sense of experience. I have a terrible problem with life decisions. Large and impactful life decisions are made on a whim and quickly; for instance, I may wake up one morning and simply decide to drop out of school or quit my job or move out-of-country. These decisions are always as much a surprise to myself as they are to those around me. On the other hand, I have a great deal of trouble making mundane decisions. Do I want Diet Dr. Pepper or Diet Coke? How seriously should I consider shifting my wardrobe towards business casual? Am I really the sort of person who wants to drive a Volvo? These minor life choices are the ones that plague me and cause the majority of my unneccessary unhappiness. I cannot imagine that I will have solved the mystery of these indecisions before my 39th birthday.

I spent a great deal of time on Friday considering how to get around this problem. Who? Who is beyond these petty worries? Oprah? Of course, Oprah was the obvious answer. That woman is miraculous. But, after careful deliberation, I realized that I could not use Oprah as the solution to my perspective problem. Everyone wants to be Oprah. Besides, idolizing Oprah is too idyllic - what does it mean to want to be Oprah outside of wanting to be rich, influential, philanthropic, approachable, personable, popular, and lovely? I can generate as many adjectives as I want, but none of them will teach me how to reach a sense of stability in my life choices.

There are two groups of people, by my reckoning, that seem to take life's little crises in stride. There are two groups of people who seem to be able to handle the minor decisions of life with ease and grace, without minimizing the importance of those decisions. These two groups of people are old Chinese men and post-menopausal American Jewish women.

Why? Why are old Chinese men so serene? The obvious solution: tai chi. A lifetime of peaceful mediation, balanced movement, controlled power. An alternative solution: Taoism. A perspective on life that encourages seeking harmony and inaction. A medicinal solution: acupuncture. A lifetime of pinpoint tension release is bound to have its effects.

Why? Why are post-menopausal American Jewish women so level-headed? The obvious solution: the Torrah. A lifetime of experience realizing that if a passage is too dense to be understood, it will be discussed again next year. An alternative solution: heritage. A history of religious and ethnic persecution culminating in a worldview that allows for true anxiety to be reserved for the truly pressing.

Why? Why are these two groups the only ones exempt from these pitfalls? What do they have in common? I believe I have the answer:

Mah jong.

That's right. Mah jong. I am not referring to the popular solitare versions of mah jong that are out there, pyramids of illustrated tiles eliminated one pair at a time. I am referring to the ancient game of tiles. Four people sit around a table, designated as East, West, North, and South. These compass points then take turns, discarding and picking up tiles, trying to create a set of fourteen tiles that will win the game. Beyond these basics, I have no idea how to play this game. It is an utter mystery to me. I do not know what the tiles are called, any of the rules, or even if game play is clockwise or counter. All I know is that mah jong is the answer.

Old Chinese men and post-menopausal American Jewish women play mah jong. Lots of it. They play it long. They play it true. They play it often. They sit around in groups of four, playing a quick and exciting game of chance. They gamble, whether it be with small antes or favors or matchsticks. They play. They socialize. They have perspective.

I want that. I want to have a group of young women like myself to play mah jong with. I want a group of women like myself to pretend with. I want to sit around and play mah jong, pretending that we have already been through it all. A couple hours a month of relaxation and perspective, even if it is only through an act of fantastic escapism. I want that. I want that for three of my closest friends. I am already fed up with all the why's in my life. I want to give up my wherefore's early. I am ready to trade in my why's and wherefore's a set of little plastic tiles.

I suppose we all need what we need.

My Sorrows Swim

2005-11-01T01:54:00.000-07:00

Chris Knight has been lying to me, and I am not entirely emotionally prepared to handle the repercussions.

A part of my formative years were spent with Val Kilmer at the pinnacle of his bleached-blonde glory in Real Genius. This movie taught me everything I know about being a smart person. It taught me I could be brilliant and casual, doggedly bookish and comically irreverent, blow the bell curve and emit sex appeal. Chris Knight gave me hope that I could be smart and cool at the same time.

But most of all, Real Genius instilled in me a sense that there was something inherently necessary in being brilliant. Sure, we are encouraged to get good grades, make the honor roll, get into a good college and all that. But there is a glass ceiling to precisely how smart we want our smart kids to be. We have as many stigmatized labels for smart people as we do the truly inept. Americans simply do not trust people who are too smart, too educated. Straight A's are congratulated but curve-breakers are disparaged. Be smart enough to make a living in marketing, but not smart enough to hold the patents on marketable items . There is a careful balance between being a good student and being a social outcast, and not the television caricatures of cheerleaders versus geeks. Chris Knight was my role model. He knew that, come hell or high water, the world would always come back to its upper 2%.

The same thing that has made your life miserable can make it great: your brain. When you're smart, people need you; and you can learn how to work that for fun and profit.

And I believed him. Chris Knight convinced me as easily as he convinced his naive compatriot, Mitch. I was sold all the way to the Jiffy Pop real estate crescendo that gave way to Tears for Fears finally welcoming me to my life.

So, how did I end up over-educated? I skimmed over high school; I puddle-jumped across college; I am fast on my way to multiple doctorate. I have a nice little vitae to supplement the transcripts and such. And with all this on my side, what great career have I attained? None. Oh sure, I am employed. But it is a job, not a career - a few years of experience without insurance or permanence. I struggle to pay my bills, let alone begin a substantive savings account. All these years I have been working towards a promise that intellect would prove an investment.

The worst of it is that it seems to run in the family. I have an uncle who was faced with similar problems in the 70's. His plight was so bad, Time Magazine ran a story on him.

Education
Too Many Doctors
Jun. 29, 1970
After five years of hard work at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, David Ernst, 26, will get his Ph.D. in August and emerge as one of the
best-trained young physicists in America. Unfortunately, that may not be enough
to assure him job security in his field.

Is that fucked, or what?

What was Chris Knight talking about? Even now I cannot seem to shake the notion that Chris was right and somehow I am not executing this plan correctly. Am I just being impatient and the call for my brain will be soon coming? Am I supposed to be seeking out a career through some diabolical Mensa career counseling service? I keep turning to Chris for guidance, carefully examining Lazlo's descent into the steam tunnels for keys, for clues. As far as I can tell, Chris' only comment is, "I drank what?"

Sorry, Chris. No amount of drink can drown these babies.

I Should Have Gone to Belly Dance

2005-10-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

Despite my best intentions, I was once again unable to motivate myself out of bed this morning. Every weekend I vow to get more out of my days, and every weekend I lounge in bed, giving myself excuses about my only chances to sleep in.

Despite my best intentions, I believe that my choice in font will somehow make-or-break my blog quality. I have never had a blog and want to make my inaugural site both intellectually and aesthetically pleasing.
Is this the font that communicates the nuances and subtleties of my character?

Despite my best intentions, I will get little to no work done today. At this point, I am still rallying myself to leave my bed. It will only be a minor victory to go put in my contact lenses, but getting into the shower and bathing will require a lengthier internal monologue than I am willing to commit to here. I have let myself go. I am not sure when.

Despite my best intentions, I continue to be too cerebral and methodical. I have made honest attempts to redirect my thinking and infuse my life with even a modicum of the creativity and spontaneity I have enjoyed in the past. Somewhere along the line I have gone hard. Somewhere along the line I have moved away from the sensibilities of The Little Prince and My Dinner with Andre. I still believe in these sensibilities, but rarely abide by them when pressed. I am a holiday-only church goer who continues to maintain that I am a devote Christian at dinner parties. Jesus.

Despite my best intentions, this first blog has become a vague and ephemeral ramble doing very little to introduce myself or suggest future quality. I hope to make future posts specific to actual events and thoughts. I hope to make future posts wax less philosophical, especially because I hate those pretentious fucks who start blogs only to find a sounding board for their shallow, unperceptive, and clearly unresearched personal philosophies. If you're going to espouse a "new" philosophy for life, at least have the decency to read the works of the truly great thinkers before claiming that there is something in any way revolutionary about throwing caution to the wind and acting without regard to social norms.

Despite my best intentions, this post has ended on a bitter note. I was hoping to stave that part of myself off for a bit longer.

It all comes from not making front doors big enough.