| Writer's Block: Two Truths and a Lie |
[Sep. 4th, 2009|04:30 pm] |
* I was hit by a truck and nearly killed once.
* I once dragged an ice cube across someone's bare nipples while he was laying on the floor of a maze.
* Someone once pushed me directly into the path of Steve Martin, who had to dodge past me. |
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| Writer's Block: It Is What It Is |
[Sep. 4th, 2009|04:29 pm] |
Melodramatic. I hate when people say that because it implies that I'm somehow making up my reactions for effect. I'm not melodramatic, I'm emotional. Very emotional. |
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| 33. |
[Jun. 22nd, 2009|02:02 am] |
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| Closet case. |
[May. 28th, 2009|08:39 pm] |
I don't know why I'm showing the blog so much love today. OK, maybe it's because I've barely shown it any written love in a while and didn't want those of you who care enough to come here to think that I'd stopped, you know, writing. I have not given up on the whole writing thing, even though I've become a vlogger, even though newspapers I used to read are dying slow deaths all around, even though I have a boyfriend and such a phenomenon is usually accompanied by me going blog silent.
The boyfriend and I have been dating for five months now, and I think we're in a good place. The roommate situation - warts and all - is going mostly well. I want to go back to improv, and I've made that desire known - or, at least, I think I have - to the people who can make those kinds of calls.
I thought about HOW TO WIN FRIENDS again, picking up and finishing that project. I thought about starting different projects.
For a variety of reasons, I've started reading and writing (and occasionally napping) behind the closed door of my large bathroom closet every night. The close, confined space, the time to be alone with my thoughts with a specific focus and specific goal and the throw pillow I rest my head on while I'm in there have made for a nice, writing-with-the-door-closed sort of creative space. I like it a lot.
It reminds me of when I was a kid and used to find comfort by hiding under beds or reading in closets.
My bathroom closet helps me to feel more like myself. So every night, I take a novel, a suede journal that snaps shut and a copy of WRITING DOWN THE BONES in there, and I have fun with some or all of those things until I get tired. And Stephen, if he's in the bedroom, can surf on the Internet or watch TV. (Some guys wouldn't be OK with a boyfriend who spends time in the closet - a literal closet, which is just a sign that I'm lucky to have found the person that I've found.)
Who knows what might come of the closet time, whether I'll ever write something significant or just make a dent in all the books I own but have never read?
It just feels important to have the time, the space and someone who cares enough not to mock you on the other side of the door. |
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| I'm in the middle of this book, and I love it. |
[May. 28th, 2009|12:16 pm] |
I've recommended books some of you have liked before, so take this recommendation into consideration. Part of me just wants to have someone to talk about it with when I'm done.
Anyway, Elizabeth Strout's OLIVE KITTERIDGE won the Pulitzer for fiction this year, and it was in paperback already, so I figured I would just pick it up and read it eventually. But it's a novel written as a collection of stories about one gruff, difficult retired schoolteacher named Olive Kitteridge and her whole entire town. Sometimes she's a major character in the stories, sometimes she's on the periphery. Every time, though, she makes an impact on the larger scope. Each story has been individually satisfying, which means that I've gotten the sense of closure and relief at having finished something profound and beautiful every time I pick it up, and I'm only 100 pages in. It's really, really good. |
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| What I want. |
[May. 28th, 2009|11:22 am] |
I want one of these Kindle devices. I really, really want one. I've been trying to save up money for months in order to get one, and I've been talking and talking and talking about getting one.
Has anyone who reads this blog gotten a Kindle, seen a Kindle, used a Kindle? I want some feedback on them. |
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| McElderly. |
[Mar. 28th, 2009|01:49 pm] |
I'm watching MADE OF HONOR - don't ask - and the opening scene has Patrick Dempsey as a college senior in 1998. As in, when I was a college senior. Patrick Dempsey is A DECADE older than me in real life. So that means, in the decade that the actual movie takes place, Patrick Dempsey's aged 20 years. Or that I look as old as Patrick Dempsey in my actual life. I hate movies. |
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| How to deal. |
[Feb. 13th, 2009|06:39 pm] |
This is the tribute I read at my grandfather's funeral yesterday.
When I was 12 and generally insecure, Grandpa came to Atlanta for a visit, sat with me and my brother at the kitchen table and taught us both how to play cards, a game of Rum 500. My brother picked the game up easily, whereas I was having difficulty even shuffling the deck because of my disability. So I complained, talked about how I didn’t want to play. But Grandpa wasn’t having any of that.
He showed me how he shuffled cards. He split the deck and then put it back together. And he did it again and again. It wasn’t fancy, but it got the job done. And he taught me that I could do it the same way. And I did it. Then I didn’t think I was dealing the cards fast enough. He told me that people would wait, that you do what you can with what you have. That’s how you deal cards. And that’s how you deal with life.
A couple times, I asked him for mercy, told him that I would get the hang of the game if he just “let me win” a couple hands.
He laughed at me.
“Let you win? LET YOU WIN? I’m not going to let you win anything. You’ll win when you know how to play.”
This was a man who’d beat you at checkers and not let you forget about it for the rest of the day. He was one of the funniest people ever, a real character. He was tough. He taught me how to make a quick, sarcastic comment. He taught me how to be strong, how to be confident. It works with a deck of cards. And it works when you’re going through your day.
And he was right. Victories aren't given. You win when you know how to play.
Once, when I was a toddler, he put me on the tire swing behind his house, and I was nervous. And I think my parents were even a little scared. But he told me it’d be OK. He told me that all I had to do was hang on. I’m still hanging on.
Grandpa was great. He inspired this passion and strength in every member of his family. I will carry him with me – in every card game, in every joke, in every stubborn argument and in every accomplishment worth fighting for - for the rest of my life. Every one of us who loved him, who learned from him will do that.
Thank you, Grandpa. |
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| Mocked by Germans. |
[Jan. 10th, 2009|01:44 pm] |
Yesterday's video about the book I read caused these guys to make this video about how boring I am. It's really, really funny.
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| Things to do to get in the holiday mood. |
[Dec. 22nd, 2008|02:53 am] |
- Every year, I have trouble getting into the spirit of things around (I'm going to say it even though I'm an self-described agnostic) Christmastime. This year has been no different. With temperatures in Atlanta approaching and occasionally surpassing 70 degrees and with me not working at the bookstore for the first holiday season in eight years, I still feel that I have little grasp of this "most wonderful time of the year." So, since this is the year of my perpetually changing game plan, I had to try something other than the usual holiday plan of "Watch THE REF. Cuss out my bass-ackward family during a screening of HAPPY FEET." So I'm trying to psych myself up for things by, for the first time in what feels like a long time, trying to be happy it's Christmas. Not trying to be happy as a matter of some gimmick, plan or assignment. Not trying to be happy because some book tells you that it's better to be happy than sad or better to be positive than negative. I'm flying blind here at Christmastime, playing fast and loose with my writing even, and - damn it - I think I'm doing OK. Not great. But OK.
- Above is a photo of the VA Hospital on Clairmont Road in Decatur, and because I work for a great company that I love that gives me a sense of service through its contract with the military, I very happily joined a group of my co-workers to go caroling in the halls for the disabled, sick and injured veterans in the nursing home section of the hospital on Wednesday. We were grouped with other volunteers, who were distributing stockings to the servicemen. I wore a pair of reindeer antlers for the first time since I played an ailing Rudolph the Buford Middle School production of "Randy the Red-Horned Rainmoose" with my friend CJ. And, at the VA hospital, I sang and sang and sang, sometimes well and sometimes not. (Another Christmas goes by without me being able to truly nail a solo on "O Holy Night.") But I did my best. And the experience wasn't bad, even if the VA hospital felt to me like a really sad, crowded place. The songs lifted spirits for some of the vets, and my spirits were lifted, too.
- I went to the office holiday party. I wore my blue pinstripe suit. I talked with the really nice guy from HR whom I never get to see because we work opposite shifts. And it was great to talk to the CEO again. And it was great that the guy who gave me a ride to the party won "Employee of the Year." And it was great fun when the band - made up of Crawford employees - actually attempted to cover Bob Dylan's seemingly impossible "Subterranean Homesick Blues." And it was great to boogie - yes, I used the word boogie - with the CEO's assistant to "Sexual Healing." And then I went to a hookah bar with some friends of mine who had their own office's holiday party that night and had a really, really good and really, really light-headed and overly relaxed time with some apple tobacco, salsa music and a dimly lit, curtained booth filled with pillows.
- JaCKPie, my improv theater, has its own holiday tradition. Its big reunion show is on Sunday, and the original JaCKPie duo of Chris Pierce and Jim Karwisch will be performing. This is a treat, and - if I can get away from work, I really, really want to be there. I miss playing at JaCKPie, for the place and the philosophy behind the place really did change my life. (And if you want to change your life and boost your creativity and learn how to work on teamwork and positivity and attitude adjustment and trust in relationships and trust in an environment that is a safe place, you should take JaCKPie classes, too. BLATANT PROMO. BLATANT PROMO.)
- Earlier this week, I went with the roommates James and Mauree - wow, I'm living with people - to a read-through of the latest Out of Hand Theater performance, and I signed up for their weekend theater boot camp in January. I can't wait for this. It seems really different from the way I'm used to approaching theater. Mauree's been training with this group for months now, and she loves it.
- As of last week, I've lost 23 pounds since September through Weight Watchers, and I hope that saying that doesn't mean I've jinxed myself. (I mean, damn, I actually weigh what is listed on my Georgia driver's license.) Still, tonight, because I needed to get into the holiday spirit, I went to Barnes & Noble and ordered myself a grande Godiva Mint Hot Chocolate and a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. And I refuse to feel bad about it because it made me feel like it was Christmas. And it was worth it. (And I'm probably not going to eat at all tomorrow, even if I'm supposed to.)
- I love that, the week of Christmas, I'm showcasing my lack of religion by reading THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH, a rollicking, fun, violent read about building a cathedral in the 12th century, and going to the movies to see DOUBT, which was OK but I didn't really find the play to be a satisfying read a couple years ago.
- I'm working Christmas Day. A couple years ago, on Christmas Eve, I made the mistake of seeing MUNICH and SYRIANA back-to-back. They were good movies, but watching them consecutively made me feel like I was spending too much of my holiday in war-torn Lebanon. This year's movies, thankfully, are plentiful and don't seem to follow any sort of weird, unified theme. I mentioned that I've seen DOUBT. I've also recently seen THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL (boring, even with FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS star Kyle Chandler and MAD MEN star Jon Hamm in IMAX), TRANSPORTER 3 (which, for the regular readers of this blog, I saw with Kacoon and still need to write about), TWILIGHT (ugh, though not as bad as that damn book - I hate Bella), SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE (pretty good), MILK (made me cry), FOUR CHRISTMASES (eh), HAPPY-GO-LUCKY (won me over, and I was resisting it ...), AUSTRALIA (crazy and old-fashioned but not too bad), QUANTUM OF SOLACE (disappointing), VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA (I really liked this, particularly batshit crazy Penelope Cruz), RACHEL GETTING MARRIED (very good) and SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK (great, and I could watch it about a dozen more times without figuring it all out) ... Do not talk to me about current movies with Will Smith in them or movies with dogs in them.
- Oh, and if you don't watch absolutely fantastic MAD MEN, get the DVDs for yourself this holiday. Set in the '60s, it's all about beginning of the advertising boom, operated by sexist, misogynistic adulterers who keep lots and lots of secrets and have lots and lots of sex and the women under their thumbs.
I mean, "Peggy, this isn't China. There's no money in virginity."
"Try not to be overwhelmed by all this technology ... The men who designed it made it simple enough for a woman to use."
- Movies I want to see this week, including things coming out on Christmas:
* THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON
* REVOLUTIONARY ROAD
* FROST/NIXON
* THE SPIRIT
* LET THE RIGHT ONE IN
* THE TALE OF DESPERAUX
* A CHRISTMAS TALE
* I'VE LOVED YOU SO LONG
- I've still got shopping to do for my nephews and the rest of my family. Living with them this year wasn't the disaster that I thought it would be. In fact, we came away from all of it seeming to understand better how to get along, when to walk away from one another, what we all seem to want and how exactly not to get in each other's way. (I hope I don't jinx it by saying anything.)
- A friend of mine sent me an e-mail with a very good holiday message in it, and - since I have grudges I should release and forgiveness I should grant and seek - I'm going to repost it - despite its sentiment and its catch-all approach to creating holiday magic in your heart - here. Hell, I need this more than anybody, even if I'm better this year than I have ever been. There is so much work left for me to do for myself.
"This Christmas mend a quarrel. Seek out a forgotten friend. Dismiss suspicion and replace it with trust. Write a love letter. Share some treasure. Give a soft answer. Encourage youth. Manifest your loyalty in word and deed. Keep a promise. Find the time. Forgo a grudge. Forgive an enemy. Listen. Apologize if you were wrong. Try to understand. Float envy. Examine your demands on others. Think first of someone else. Appreciate. Be kind, be gentle. Laugh. Deserve confidence. Decry complacency. Express your gratitude. Go to church. Welcome a stranger. Gladden the heart of a child. Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth. Speak your love. Speak it again. Speak it still once again."
- Happy holidays, you guys. Do your best to have the best time that you can. And now I will make the yuletide gay.
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| Writer's Block: Live from New York |
[Oct. 11th, 2008|02:45 pm] |
Dana Carvey was great on SNL, then never as good ever again, so I say Dana Carvey. Oh wait, motherfuckin' Gilda Radner.
The best host was Steve Martin. |
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| Mom's Glamour Shot. |
[Aug. 22nd, 2008|03:32 am] |
My mom took the day off work today so that she could go to Glamour Shots and get her casket photo taken. She went with her best friend Debbie, who also wanted a coffin-topper portrait in soft lighting.
As Mom explained to me, she and Debbie had discussed doing this photo shoot for nine years, but the plan moved from discussion to action a couple weeks ago when Mom found a two-for-one Glamour Shots coupon in the newspaper. They redeemed it today.
Debbie and Mom didn't just want updated, good photos of themselves. They wanted their going-away portraits. Mom wanted the photo that we're going to put on her casket during her wake.
Debbie and Mom devised this plan, as I said, nine years ago after Debbie's sister died. Debbie's sister - who was fine-looking but not a knockout - had a framed, filtered-lighting Glamour Shots photo of herself in heavy makeup looking her most "fashion model beautiful" atop her casket during the viewing of the body, and Debbie's family loved the photo so much that there was an actual fight over who got to keep it after the burial. And Debbie's sister's lying, cheating ex-husband apparently stole it off the coffin during the service when it looked like the photo was going to go to some other relative.
My mom said she and Debbie made a pact after that white-trash funeral photo theft incident that they should have pretty pictures taken of themselves for their coffins before, as she suggested, they became craggy, ugly, fat old women. She didn't want us to use a photo of her that was from the 1980s, and she didn't want a more recent photo that was unflattering. So she went to Glamour Shots today.
(My mom's pretty. But my mom doesn't think she's pretty. Just like I'm cute. But I don't think I'm cute.)
She told this to my stepfather and me, and our reactions were different.
My stepfather Jerry, with his Southern twang and his idea that funerals should be all about weeping, wailing, snake-handling and histrionic, down-on-your-knees begging for mercy from an almighty God (even though he doesn't go to church), was vehement in his disapproval of my mom's funeral photo shoot.
"THERE AIN'T NO MATERIAL THINGS LEFT AT THAT POINT! YOU AIN'T SUPPOSED TO FOCUS ON WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE! IT'S SINFUL!" Jerry roused to my mother, and she actually would laugh and argue her point, rather than just stay quiet like she usually does with Jerry, who prefers to proclaim his conclusions rather than listen to other people's points-of-view.
"We've been talking about it for years, Jerry," she explained. "And Debbie and I want to do this before we get any uglier. Have you seen some of the photos they run on the obits page?"
Jerry scoffed and said he'd just have her cremated. (I scoffed at that, for I'm betting he dies first.)
My mom's whole perspective on this photo shoot for the past couple weeks has been refreshing, actually. She's been very matter-of-fact about all the deeper ramifications of this, like that she's openly acknowledging that she's going to die eventually. She knows that the photo shoot is shrouded in this morbidity, and she's tackled it with a certain admirable, sick sense of humor.
As a result of this, my main objection to the photo shoot was not that I didn't want Mom to plan her funeral. (She's been carrying around sheet music for it in her briefcase for years. I know that. She's just being zealous about preparation.) No, my main objection was her choice of photography studios.
"Seriously, Mom, I know photographers who could do this for you," I said to her today while she ironed three outfits that she wanted to wear. "Why Glamour Shots?"
"Well, we have a coupon," Mom said. "And Debbie and I want to do this together. You know how we'll probably get there and just start laughing about it. We've wanted to do this for years."
I understood what she wanted. I understood why she wanted it. So I tried to work with that by telling her what my fears about the whole thing were.
I said, "I don't want you to wear a hat. I don't want you to wear a boa. Don't clinch your collar. I don't want you to do any shots where you rest your hand on your chin. I don't want them to light the shot so much that it looks like you've been glazed. I don't want the photo on your casket to make it look like you were the madam at some New Orleans brothel."
It was wrong of me to concern myself over how potentially tacky this whole thing might be. It's not my funeral.
My mom explained to me that Glamour Shots has changed.
"You wear your own clothes now, so I won't be wearing a hat or a boa," she said, propping up the iron. "They do your makeup while you're there, but I'll still be in my own clothes. I've got the black-pinstripe suit, the red suit and this denim one that will, you know, look more casual. Don't worry about it."
My mom hasn't worn much facial makeup in years. She abandoned lipstick when she started dating my stepfather. She's never been a Glamour Shots type of woman before. I had mixed feelings about this whole thing because I couldn't quite grasp what she was out to prove about herself.
And then, while she was going over the clothes, I thought that maybe my problem with all of this is that, because I'm her son and because I love her, I see something in her that she doesn't. It's the same thing I can't see in myself.
And so I looked at my mother and said, "You know you're pretty, right?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh come on," I repeated, "you've always been pretty."
She kept ironing.
"Even when you were a kid, you were pretty. You're pretty now. You dress well. You're pretty, and you know that."
She thanked me, but, unfortunately, I don't think she quite bought it.
Still, this evening, she called me up and said, "I didn't wear a hat. I didn't wear a boa. There was one shot in close-up where they told me to rest my head on my arm, and I did that. But most of them came out really good. I got several 5x10s of one where I was wearing the denim, and you can have one of the wallet-sized ones."
My mother is not dying. My mother just allowed herself this fun, silly act of vanity to fly in the face of aging and death. And I just want her to like herself and have fun. I think she wants to like herself.
Today, at that photo shoot, she did.
When I put that photo on her casket one sad day, I hope I remember this. And I hope I laugh about it.
_________________
(EDITOR'S NOTE: The lovely woman in the above photo is not my mother, just some nice person who posted her photo on the Internet.) |
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