Raise Your Hand If You Have Been Taking Yourself Too Seriously
Behold me as I return triumphant from my most recent excursion: a trip to San Francisco for the WonderCon with Joey Moore, Brian Young, and Nick Gordenski. I had many a good time and learned many a lesson.
I have finally fulfilled my life-long dream of getting drunk in a comic-book store while sampling fine cheeses. The owner of the store was throwing a party for the comic artists that were in town for the WonderCon (a comic-book convention) and Josh Hagler had been invited. I believe that we were serving as his entourage, a role I embraced. No, Josh (who had gone to Mountain Pointe) was working on a comic for Vertigo and was friends with the owner. So we were in.
Actually, I had to sneak in since I was the only one under 21. It wasn't too much of a James Bond operation; Josh went in and talked to the owner, the owner came out and told the bouncer, "Hey, sneak this guy in." and I was in. There was an open bar, but I had brought a couple of forties (Mickey's, of course) so I was good to go. I don't remember when we left, but I do remember finishing my last forty while stumbling down the streets of San Fran back to Josh's apartment (another life-long dream of mine.)
Oh, more proof that I have no idea what goes on in my head when I am asleep: The four of us slept in the living room of Josh's apartment, usually wherever we fell. I have been told that I snore and had warned my traveling companions ahead of time. "If I am snoring," I advised, "It means I'm on my back so just wake me up and make me turn over." Joey Moore had been paying attention when I said this.
Apparently that night I was snoring mightily. Joey wakes up, takes off one of his socks, and from across the room throws it at me. He told us all that upon being hit by the sock, I immediately sat up, looked at him, and said, "See? It's that easy." Then I laid down on my stomach and went right back to sleep. Well, at least I didn't try to kiss anybody.
I learned that a lot of places in San Francisco don't care if you're not quite 21, like the Sasquatch Bar, or the Italian restaurant where Joey and I had a couple pitchers of beer.
I also learned that the world is a small place, since I ran into Merik Woodmansee (a Mountain Pointe Theatre Co. Alumni) on the bus. That was groovy. He says he is doing well, and I believe him.
Again, it was very cool to be around people just doing what they do. Even the odder ones, like the two kids shouting insults at each other on the bus. One got off, and then the insults continued until the doors closed, at which point the kid on the outside began punching the door and broke the glass. There was also the bum we kept running into on the bus who must have thought our conversations were pretty entertaining since he would move and come sit closer to us once we got on. Erik Larson, creator of The Savage Dragon, humoring me while I drunkenly tried to tell him how much I had loved to his comics when I was little (I had prefaced our conversation with, "Against the advice of my friends and my better judgment, I thought I would come over and say hello.") Mistaking men for women and vice versa enough times to make me very wary when drunk and in dimly lit rooms. The guy in the kilt crossing the street. Heh, and being a minority again was nice. In Phoenix, one tends to forget.
Overall, a great time. I look forward to the next one in San Diego this summer. If you happen to be interested...
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
A Surly Beginning
I wrote this almost exactly a year ago, but I still like it.
The scruffy, red-goateed kid looked quite comfortable upon his perch, a thick iron bar set in front of a side entrance to my high school like a giant blue horseshoe sticking up out of the cement. I had presumed the placement of the bar was to prevent any vehicles that might lose control in the adjacent parking lot from crashing in through the doors. I had less idea as to what purpose the corduroy-clad sophomore upon it might serve.
I sat in my usual lunching spot, a small patch of shade outside the door that was already dwindling as the sun crept ever-higher. The diligent sun was a firm reminder that the precious 35 minutes of freedom and sustenance I enjoyed in the middle of my daily sentence of droll scholastic study was dwindling away. The sun also served to chip away at my shade patch, forcing me closer and closer towards the outward-swinging door. At some point, I would be forced either to enter its swinging radius and risk being struck as soon as the next student with an early release anxiously hurtled through the door to freedom, or brave the delicious-but-deadly sunshine. It was autumn in Arizona, but the only thing dropping was my tolerance level for other people. The daily battle against sun-stroke and physical bodily harm was typical of a school day. If one were to suggest to me that I go inside and eat to avoid these things, I would coldly assure them that I was aware of this solution, but doing so would bring a far greater accompaniment of problems.
The stress involved in enjoying a quiet repast can be considerable.
All of these conditions made me wary about the stranger invading my little corner of habit and routine. I resolved to avoid eye-contact and pretend to be completely engrossed in my cafeteria-supplied lunch, which consisted of some ambiguous breaded meat, limp french fries, and an equally questionable fruit cup. The unkempt youngster hovering ominously above had no such discipline of etiquette. He ejaculated a cheery "Hello!", and thus began my torment.
I do not recall the exact content of our conversation. It dealt mostly with trivial matters from which I gleaned nothing of the boy's past or political leanings. I did not offer my name, nor he his. I was irritated by the apparent ease and familiarity in his voice. I found it somewhat offensive. I would certainly never take such liberty in assuming such a �buddy-o-pal� tone with a complete stranger. I spoke as levelly and as formally as my growing dislike of the boy would allow. I wolfed down the last of my fries, then gulped down the fruit cup like a shot of unsalted tequila. Finding the napkins inadequate at cleaning off the grainy ketchup remaining on my fingers, I muttered something about going to wash my hands and excused myself. Safely in the restroom, I rejoiced in my undisturbed quiet for all of 30 seconds until a bell resounded through the school, heralding the eminent return to the drudgery of academia.
These events took place almost four years ago. From the rocky ground of our first meeting a friendship grew, and surprisingly, has flourished to this day. He is still an un-refined boy, as I believe he will always be even if in man-form. This characteristic, at first highly irritating, went hand-in-hand with my own refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever for anything. We were also both involved in theatre at the Mountain Pointe and excelled in improvisational comedy. Around our junior year we also began drinking heavily. All of these factors helped congeal our friendship into a quivering goo that has withstood the test of time, although it does tend to get runny whenever it gets above room temperature.
We have worked together on shows. We have constructed ghetto robots. Countless liquor bottles have met an untimely demise at our hands. Along with Alan Schuler, we have been declared Best Comic Trio. We have seen each other naked (far too) many times. We had been unofficial roommates back when I had my apartment and he was over so often he became universally known as, "the couch guy." I know him as Matt Summerfield, aka "Surly" due to his bouts of assholicness. I laugh at this nickname, since I will always remember how friendly he was the first time I met him, and how I foolishly risked not making a great friend by being overly "surly" myself. It would have been a tragic loss, although I do not think either of our livers would have greatly missed the other. But I can honestly say that I will take that scruffy, no-good Matt Summerfield over any healthy, fully-functioning organ. As long as it isn't one of the vital ones, of course.
I wrote this almost exactly a year ago, but I still like it.
The scruffy, red-goateed kid looked quite comfortable upon his perch, a thick iron bar set in front of a side entrance to my high school like a giant blue horseshoe sticking up out of the cement. I had presumed the placement of the bar was to prevent any vehicles that might lose control in the adjacent parking lot from crashing in through the doors. I had less idea as to what purpose the corduroy-clad sophomore upon it might serve.
I sat in my usual lunching spot, a small patch of shade outside the door that was already dwindling as the sun crept ever-higher. The diligent sun was a firm reminder that the precious 35 minutes of freedom and sustenance I enjoyed in the middle of my daily sentence of droll scholastic study was dwindling away. The sun also served to chip away at my shade patch, forcing me closer and closer towards the outward-swinging door. At some point, I would be forced either to enter its swinging radius and risk being struck as soon as the next student with an early release anxiously hurtled through the door to freedom, or brave the delicious-but-deadly sunshine. It was autumn in Arizona, but the only thing dropping was my tolerance level for other people. The daily battle against sun-stroke and physical bodily harm was typical of a school day. If one were to suggest to me that I go inside and eat to avoid these things, I would coldly assure them that I was aware of this solution, but doing so would bring a far greater accompaniment of problems.
The stress involved in enjoying a quiet repast can be considerable.
All of these conditions made me wary about the stranger invading my little corner of habit and routine. I resolved to avoid eye-contact and pretend to be completely engrossed in my cafeteria-supplied lunch, which consisted of some ambiguous breaded meat, limp french fries, and an equally questionable fruit cup. The unkempt youngster hovering ominously above had no such discipline of etiquette. He ejaculated a cheery "Hello!", and thus began my torment.
I do not recall the exact content of our conversation. It dealt mostly with trivial matters from which I gleaned nothing of the boy's past or political leanings. I did not offer my name, nor he his. I was irritated by the apparent ease and familiarity in his voice. I found it somewhat offensive. I would certainly never take such liberty in assuming such a �buddy-o-pal� tone with a complete stranger. I spoke as levelly and as formally as my growing dislike of the boy would allow. I wolfed down the last of my fries, then gulped down the fruit cup like a shot of unsalted tequila. Finding the napkins inadequate at cleaning off the grainy ketchup remaining on my fingers, I muttered something about going to wash my hands and excused myself. Safely in the restroom, I rejoiced in my undisturbed quiet for all of 30 seconds until a bell resounded through the school, heralding the eminent return to the drudgery of academia.
These events took place almost four years ago. From the rocky ground of our first meeting a friendship grew, and surprisingly, has flourished to this day. He is still an un-refined boy, as I believe he will always be even if in man-form. This characteristic, at first highly irritating, went hand-in-hand with my own refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever for anything. We were also both involved in theatre at the Mountain Pointe and excelled in improvisational comedy. Around our junior year we also began drinking heavily. All of these factors helped congeal our friendship into a quivering goo that has withstood the test of time, although it does tend to get runny whenever it gets above room temperature.
We have worked together on shows. We have constructed ghetto robots. Countless liquor bottles have met an untimely demise at our hands. Along with Alan Schuler, we have been declared Best Comic Trio. We have seen each other naked (far too) many times. We had been unofficial roommates back when I had my apartment and he was over so often he became universally known as, "the couch guy." I know him as Matt Summerfield, aka "Surly" due to his bouts of assholicness. I laugh at this nickname, since I will always remember how friendly he was the first time I met him, and how I foolishly risked not making a great friend by being overly "surly" myself. It would have been a tragic loss, although I do not think either of our livers would have greatly missed the other. But I can honestly say that I will take that scruffy, no-good Matt Summerfield over any healthy, fully-functioning organ. As long as it isn't one of the vital ones, of course.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
Sociology 101
I hadn't accomplished much this morning, but between the hours of 2 and 3 pm I managed to experience a fair chunk of life.
I pulled out of my neighborhood onto University where my progress was abruptly stopped by one of those "stop lights." Stop lights, such a negative name. Hereafter I shall refer to them as "go lights." So I'm waiting for the go light to assure me safe passage through the intersection when in my rearview mirror I see a car rapidly approaching. I remember thinking, "I don't think he's going to stop." And the driver didn't dissapoint me. He shot through the intersection, swerved to avoid another car, lost control, and then plowed into a minivan waiting to make a left-hand turn.
Then the light turned green.
I was behind another car, and we both crept slowly forward, very unsure of what to do. There wasn't much time to decide, however, as the light-runner threw the car in reverse and tried to make a quick escape. The car continued down University, and was quickly pursued by a couple of other cars who had witnessed what had happened. The car then turned down another side street to try to get away from its pursuers. Another car and I raced ahead to the next street to cut off any possible escape routes. The car had turned into an alley which was then blocked off on both sides by our impromptu posse. The police were being called, and the driver appeared to be giving up. I couldn't really see, but it looked like the car had crashed into something else in the alley. At that point I decided that things looked under control and that I had best be on my way. If I had a hat I certainly would have tipped it to all the people who wouldn't just let it be someone else's problem.
The whole experience was surprising. I suppose our old hunter instincts are still alive and strong. The coordination of everyone's actions was impressive. From the initial chase to the splitting up to box the villain in was beautifully executed, and without a bit of actual communication. It was simply a group being aware of a goal and deciding the best course of action they could possibly take all the while considering what the other members were doing and responding. It was sweet.
So I was pondering this as I made my way to Mountain Pointe, my old high school, to get my transcripts sent to ASU. Classes were just getting out, and as I was walking by the old Theatre hallway I hear "Guillermo!" Tim had seen me walking by and had decided to do something about it. I just called it the old theater hallway, but it is as young and vibrant as it ever was. Walking in there that moment brought incredible nostalgia and and immense pride as I beheld an immensely talented group of people, some friends that I had worked with on shows before, but most strangers that I knew only through seeing the musical "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" that they had just performed. I still have trouble being on this side of the curtain. At the same time, to see such growth and evolution in both the people and their performances is very encouraging. It is a seething, wriggling mass of skilled people having a great time. Envy, yes, that's also what I felt. It's almost surreal walking in there. It is like the feeling I get watching Beth Froehlich perform Shakespeare for our Advanced Acting and Directing class, or from helping Eric Piatkowski run his lines in my apartment. It is the feeling that you know someday you are going to be telling a rapt listener, "Oh yes, I was there." It is a good feeling. And walking into that hallway today was like being hit with a big, gooey sledgehammer of that feeling. Like I said, it is a good feeling.
Then D.C. asked if bunnies masturbate and that pretty much killed the magic of the moment. Which I've been thinking about...
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Yes, That would explain the high demand for eyesight-improving carrots.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. No, as a revered pagan symbol for reproduction, doing so would be akin to someone from Wisconsin buying a can of Cheez Whiz. It just ain't representin'.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Of course, there are three other seasons they have to sit through to get to the mating one.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Not technically. They actually get off by twitching their noses.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Their eyes are all red and they startle at the sound of a door opening. Sound like anyone you know?
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Take away their bunny porn and watch how cuddly they get.
I can't believe I just spent my time on this. Well, I don't hear answers out of you! Someone has to tackle the tough questions in life.
And then Brian had to show me why bunnies don't need to masturbate...
I hadn't accomplished much this morning, but between the hours of 2 and 3 pm I managed to experience a fair chunk of life.
I pulled out of my neighborhood onto University where my progress was abruptly stopped by one of those "stop lights." Stop lights, such a negative name. Hereafter I shall refer to them as "go lights." So I'm waiting for the go light to assure me safe passage through the intersection when in my rearview mirror I see a car rapidly approaching. I remember thinking, "I don't think he's going to stop." And the driver didn't dissapoint me. He shot through the intersection, swerved to avoid another car, lost control, and then plowed into a minivan waiting to make a left-hand turn.
Then the light turned green.
I was behind another car, and we both crept slowly forward, very unsure of what to do. There wasn't much time to decide, however, as the light-runner threw the car in reverse and tried to make a quick escape. The car continued down University, and was quickly pursued by a couple of other cars who had witnessed what had happened. The car then turned down another side street to try to get away from its pursuers. Another car and I raced ahead to the next street to cut off any possible escape routes. The car had turned into an alley which was then blocked off on both sides by our impromptu posse. The police were being called, and the driver appeared to be giving up. I couldn't really see, but it looked like the car had crashed into something else in the alley. At that point I decided that things looked under control and that I had best be on my way. If I had a hat I certainly would have tipped it to all the people who wouldn't just let it be someone else's problem.
The whole experience was surprising. I suppose our old hunter instincts are still alive and strong. The coordination of everyone's actions was impressive. From the initial chase to the splitting up to box the villain in was beautifully executed, and without a bit of actual communication. It was simply a group being aware of a goal and deciding the best course of action they could possibly take all the while considering what the other members were doing and responding. It was sweet.
So I was pondering this as I made my way to Mountain Pointe, my old high school, to get my transcripts sent to ASU. Classes were just getting out, and as I was walking by the old Theatre hallway I hear "Guillermo!" Tim had seen me walking by and had decided to do something about it. I just called it the old theater hallway, but it is as young and vibrant as it ever was. Walking in there that moment brought incredible nostalgia and and immense pride as I beheld an immensely talented group of people, some friends that I had worked with on shows before, but most strangers that I knew only through seeing the musical "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" that they had just performed. I still have trouble being on this side of the curtain. At the same time, to see such growth and evolution in both the people and their performances is very encouraging. It is a seething, wriggling mass of skilled people having a great time. Envy, yes, that's also what I felt. It's almost surreal walking in there. It is like the feeling I get watching Beth Froehlich perform Shakespeare for our Advanced Acting and Directing class, or from helping Eric Piatkowski run his lines in my apartment. It is the feeling that you know someday you are going to be telling a rapt listener, "Oh yes, I was there." It is a good feeling. And walking into that hallway today was like being hit with a big, gooey sledgehammer of that feeling. Like I said, it is a good feeling.
Then D.C. asked if bunnies masturbate and that pretty much killed the magic of the moment. Which I've been thinking about...
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Yes, That would explain the high demand for eyesight-improving carrots.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. No, as a revered pagan symbol for reproduction, doing so would be akin to someone from Wisconsin buying a can of Cheez Whiz. It just ain't representin'.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Of course, there are three other seasons they have to sit through to get to the mating one.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Not technically. They actually get off by twitching their noses.
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Their eyes are all red and they startle at the sound of a door opening. Sound like anyone you know?
Q. Do bunnies masturbate?
A. Take away their bunny porn and watch how cuddly they get.
I can't believe I just spent my time on this. Well, I don't hear answers out of you! Someone has to tackle the tough questions in life.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
An Experiment
Matt, Mai Linh, and I have been watching cartoons for the past couple of hours. At some point Mai mentioned alcohol, so Matt and I went down to the liquor store on the corner which is also owned by our next-door neighbor. Yes, when he sees cars pulling up to our house for parties he must get big dollar signs in his eyes. "Wait till I'm 21," I want to tell him, "Then I'll see what I can do about putting a dent in that tequila surplus."
The party Mai and I threw this weekend wasn't as big as we were expecting, but it was still good times. I fulfilled my duty as a host and quickly got drunker than everyone else there.
One odd thing: I was walking with Alan and Jenny out and we see this guy across the street throwing up. Everything was pretty blurry at that point, so I asked Alan if he was one of ours. Alan said he didn't recognize him. Then I was a little irritated. I mean, since I know we're going to get blamed for any vomit found in the vicinity, I would prefer it was one of our friends so I could at least give them a hard time about it later. But this guy did look familiar. Then the driver of the BMW that puking guy had gotten out of steps out to see how his friend his and lo and behold, it is my old manager from Gold's Gym. "Will?", he says. "Steve?", I cleverly reply. He seemed drunk too, and I never really talked to him anyway so that was about it for the conversation. We had never been on great terms because I didn't like how he ran the gym and he probably didn't like that the two friends of mine that I had gotten hired for graveyard shifts didn't quite work out. For instance, Brian Young: I had to train him his first night. By training I mean I showed him how to check people in for an hour and then he went off to sleep in the daycare while I watched "Trigun" on his laptop he had brought. Ah, the graveyard shift. My friend Jake also got hired there, but then he got fired so that the friend of the other graveyard guy could get hired. For such a boring job as the 10 pm to 6 am front desk worker, it was pretty interesting. Once I was working on a Friday night and some pretty cool guys brought me a six-pack of Corona. Yeah, I drank them. I think the regulars might have noticed I was a little tipsy, but they didn't say anything. Then there was Phone-Sex Girl, who would call and try to get me to describe in detail my sexual fantasies while I tried to get her to describe in detail what the furniture she was moving into her new place looked like. Then one guy brought his duck into the gym one night and I fed it lettuce while he worked out. And on the night I broke through the internet access restrictions and bought so much stuff online that I was actually losing money going in to work. There was the delinquint member that I mocked over the intercom because he wouldn't pay and wanted to fight me, there was the donut guy who ran in all out of breath and told me that the Circle K down the street was being robbed, the guy who asked me out and I didn't even realize it (we just went out to breakfast after I got off work), the really cute girl who I would discuss literature with (I was all about sci-fi and fantasy, and she was all about realistic fiction), and my favorite, friends randomly dropping by at all hours of the night. Oh, and I could read all night, that was great. I was able to read "Atlas Shrugged" for practically my entire shift for three nights straight. It rocked. Plus, people would see me reading and we would discuss the book and other books the author had written. I had a huge list of books that people told me that I should read.
Certainly not the worst job I've ever had.
Matt, Mai Linh, and I have been watching cartoons for the past couple of hours. At some point Mai mentioned alcohol, so Matt and I went down to the liquor store on the corner which is also owned by our next-door neighbor. Yes, when he sees cars pulling up to our house for parties he must get big dollar signs in his eyes. "Wait till I'm 21," I want to tell him, "Then I'll see what I can do about putting a dent in that tequila surplus."
The party Mai and I threw this weekend wasn't as big as we were expecting, but it was still good times. I fulfilled my duty as a host and quickly got drunker than everyone else there.
One odd thing: I was walking with Alan and Jenny out and we see this guy across the street throwing up. Everything was pretty blurry at that point, so I asked Alan if he was one of ours. Alan said he didn't recognize him. Then I was a little irritated. I mean, since I know we're going to get blamed for any vomit found in the vicinity, I would prefer it was one of our friends so I could at least give them a hard time about it later. But this guy did look familiar. Then the driver of the BMW that puking guy had gotten out of steps out to see how his friend his and lo and behold, it is my old manager from Gold's Gym. "Will?", he says. "Steve?", I cleverly reply. He seemed drunk too, and I never really talked to him anyway so that was about it for the conversation. We had never been on great terms because I didn't like how he ran the gym and he probably didn't like that the two friends of mine that I had gotten hired for graveyard shifts didn't quite work out. For instance, Brian Young: I had to train him his first night. By training I mean I showed him how to check people in for an hour and then he went off to sleep in the daycare while I watched "Trigun" on his laptop he had brought. Ah, the graveyard shift. My friend Jake also got hired there, but then he got fired so that the friend of the other graveyard guy could get hired. For such a boring job as the 10 pm to 6 am front desk worker, it was pretty interesting. Once I was working on a Friday night and some pretty cool guys brought me a six-pack of Corona. Yeah, I drank them. I think the regulars might have noticed I was a little tipsy, but they didn't say anything. Then there was Phone-Sex Girl, who would call and try to get me to describe in detail my sexual fantasies while I tried to get her to describe in detail what the furniture she was moving into her new place looked like. Then one guy brought his duck into the gym one night and I fed it lettuce while he worked out. And on the night I broke through the internet access restrictions and bought so much stuff online that I was actually losing money going in to work. There was the delinquint member that I mocked over the intercom because he wouldn't pay and wanted to fight me, there was the donut guy who ran in all out of breath and told me that the Circle K down the street was being robbed, the guy who asked me out and I didn't even realize it (we just went out to breakfast after I got off work), the really cute girl who I would discuss literature with (I was all about sci-fi and fantasy, and she was all about realistic fiction), and my favorite, friends randomly dropping by at all hours of the night. Oh, and I could read all night, that was great. I was able to read "Atlas Shrugged" for practically my entire shift for three nights straight. It rocked. Plus, people would see me reading and we would discuss the book and other books the author had written. I had a huge list of books that people told me that I should read.
Certainly not the worst job I've ever had.
Friday, April 11, 2003
A Measure
This town has decided to be beautiful for a while.
I'm sure it doesn't bode well when a post begins with a reflection on the weather, but I make no apologies. I'm pleased that I noticed.
My drive home from MCC takes me past an elementary school playground where children fight and frolic behind a chain-link fence with the words, "Build Peace" weaved in with colored ribbons. Today, I saw a group of them running excitedly out to the field, each clutching the outer edge of a circus-colored parachute. A teacher plodded after them, looking as if she hadn't the energy to hold her whistle up much longer. The parachute bubbled madly as the children began to flap their ends up and down and up and down, faster and faster until I half-expected them to rise completely off the ground and catch a slipstream to some fantastic world. They may have, for all I know. I was just driving by and only saw them for a few seconds.
I turned down one of the next streets, past the house where a little girl gets dropped off from school by her bus. I don't often see her arriving home, but I usually notice because she screams and cries and yells and falls on the ground and refuses to get up.
Apparently, all that separates Heaven and Hell are a couple of blocks and a chain-link fence decorated with faded ribbon.
This town has decided to be beautiful for a while.
I'm sure it doesn't bode well when a post begins with a reflection on the weather, but I make no apologies. I'm pleased that I noticed.
My drive home from MCC takes me past an elementary school playground where children fight and frolic behind a chain-link fence with the words, "Build Peace" weaved in with colored ribbons. Today, I saw a group of them running excitedly out to the field, each clutching the outer edge of a circus-colored parachute. A teacher plodded after them, looking as if she hadn't the energy to hold her whistle up much longer. The parachute bubbled madly as the children began to flap their ends up and down and up and down, faster and faster until I half-expected them to rise completely off the ground and catch a slipstream to some fantastic world. They may have, for all I know. I was just driving by and only saw them for a few seconds.
I turned down one of the next streets, past the house where a little girl gets dropped off from school by her bus. I don't often see her arriving home, but I usually notice because she screams and cries and yells and falls on the ground and refuses to get up.
Apparently, all that separates Heaven and Hell are a couple of blocks and a chain-link fence decorated with faded ribbon.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Still The Big Brother?
My little brother, Donaldo, is somewhere in Iraq right now, possibly inside a liberated Baghdad. I am proud of him. I don't honestly know what he thought of the war, or what he's seen and done since I haven't received a letter from him since it started. But I can't wait to hear it.
I am a bit worried about what he will be like when he comes back home. For me, I mean. What if he takes every opportunity to rub it in?
Donaldo: "Yeah, so I liberated a country."
Me: "Um, I started a weblog."
Donaldo: "Hey, that's cool."
Me: "Not really, I still don't even know how to put pictures on it."
On a less global note, I interviewed for an internship at Walt Disney World today. I had to attend a presentation at 6:00 pm down at ASU. If I didn't attend the interview, I would be ineligible to apply. So a little after five I had gotten all business-casual and hopped in my car. I turned the key. The engine made a half-hearted attempt to start, realized that it was only lying to itself, and quit. I harnessed all my mechanical knowledge and plotted my next move. I sat for a minute, then turned the key again. An interesting noise, but little else. My car was not going anywhere very soon.
But I didn't share my car's stationary aspirations. I popped the trunk and whipped out my discount skateboard. Best 14 dollars I've ever spent. I grabbed the folder containing the printout of my online application, the resume I had worked on until three this morning, and of course, a pen, and rolled triumphantly towards ASU.
The interview was to be held in the Student Services Senter Ampitheater. I straightened myself up a bit and proceeded towards the entrance. As I was walking, I heard the enthusiastic voice of a certain Mikey Rodriguez. He was speaking to a a group of people in maroon shirts outside of Student Services. He finished whatever he was saying and began to walk in the direction opposite from me. Well, I would have none of that, so I sprinted towards him and tackled him. We talk for a minute and then he goes on his way. I was disheveled again, so I straightened myself out and walked in the Center. That's when I noticed that the glass walls, though difficult to see into from the outside due to the sunlight, provided a fine view of the outside to whomever might be gazing out of them. The one's gazing out this particular evening were the people I was going to try to impress in a few minutes. I played it cool, though.
Yeah, I tackled that guy. What, you want some?
No, the Disney Representatives just introduced themselves and bade me take a seat (probably for fear of being tackled.) I did just that, and the rest went as well as could be expected.
I don't know if I will be accepted. If I am, I don't know if I'll go. Seven months is a very long time. Orlando is very far away. Disney is very Disney.
Eh, I will burn that bridge when I come to it. I've just been running around setting up my options the way a little kid sets up dominos. I may not have much time, and there is still one domino, the most important one, yet unplaced.
I used to like dominos.
My little brother, Donaldo, is somewhere in Iraq right now, possibly inside a liberated Baghdad. I am proud of him. I don't honestly know what he thought of the war, or what he's seen and done since I haven't received a letter from him since it started. But I can't wait to hear it.
I am a bit worried about what he will be like when he comes back home. For me, I mean. What if he takes every opportunity to rub it in?
Donaldo: "Yeah, so I liberated a country."
Me: "Um, I started a weblog."
Donaldo: "Hey, that's cool."
Me: "Not really, I still don't even know how to put pictures on it."
On a less global note, I interviewed for an internship at Walt Disney World today. I had to attend a presentation at 6:00 pm down at ASU. If I didn't attend the interview, I would be ineligible to apply. So a little after five I had gotten all business-casual and hopped in my car. I turned the key. The engine made a half-hearted attempt to start, realized that it was only lying to itself, and quit. I harnessed all my mechanical knowledge and plotted my next move. I sat for a minute, then turned the key again. An interesting noise, but little else. My car was not going anywhere very soon.
But I didn't share my car's stationary aspirations. I popped the trunk and whipped out my discount skateboard. Best 14 dollars I've ever spent. I grabbed the folder containing the printout of my online application, the resume I had worked on until three this morning, and of course, a pen, and rolled triumphantly towards ASU.
The interview was to be held in the Student Services Senter Ampitheater. I straightened myself up a bit and proceeded towards the entrance. As I was walking, I heard the enthusiastic voice of a certain Mikey Rodriguez. He was speaking to a a group of people in maroon shirts outside of Student Services. He finished whatever he was saying and began to walk in the direction opposite from me. Well, I would have none of that, so I sprinted towards him and tackled him. We talk for a minute and then he goes on his way. I was disheveled again, so I straightened myself out and walked in the Center. That's when I noticed that the glass walls, though difficult to see into from the outside due to the sunlight, provided a fine view of the outside to whomever might be gazing out of them. The one's gazing out this particular evening were the people I was going to try to impress in a few minutes. I played it cool, though.
Yeah, I tackled that guy. What, you want some?
No, the Disney Representatives just introduced themselves and bade me take a seat (probably for fear of being tackled.) I did just that, and the rest went as well as could be expected.
I don't know if I will be accepted. If I am, I don't know if I'll go. Seven months is a very long time. Orlando is very far away. Disney is very Disney.
Eh, I will burn that bridge when I come to it. I've just been running around setting up my options the way a little kid sets up dominos. I may not have much time, and there is still one domino, the most important one, yet unplaced.
I used to like dominos.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
Corrections:
I technically lied about not kissing Kate.
My first night aboard the cruise ship I was having difficulty sleeping. It may have been the rocking of the boat, the strange part-man, part-animal, part-machine noises that echoed through the labrynth of corridors where time has no meaning, or maybe I just wasn't used to sleeping in a bed anymore after two nights of sleeping under my trusty bench.
So it's my first night aboard the cruise ship and I'm having difficulty sleeping. I'm lolling about my tiny bunk in a stuporous half-sleep when I clearly hear in my head Phill's instructions to me before I left: "Gurg, give Kate a big hug and kiss for me." I had agreed, of course, in that way that you promise someone that you will say "Hello" for them while knowing perfectly well that on the off-chance you actually remember, you may be too cool at that moment to actually relay the sentiment.
But I had remembered. I had said "Hello" and given her a big hug. I hadn't kissed her for reasons that may be obvious to any person that is not Phill. But now, when the No Man's Land of the mind (that all thoughts must cross in order to become an action) is at its least patrolled, I was remembering what I had promised Phill.
So I stumble out of my bunk, stumble some more just trying to stand up straight (either the ship was really rocking or I was standing on my luggage.) I pulled myself up so that I was standing on my bunk and could reach the top bunk where Kate was sleeping, and kissed her for Phill. I remember getting a face-full of blanket, so I didn't think it ranked as one of the greatest kisses of all time unless there is a separate category for linen. Pleased with myself for having completed my mission, I focused my attention on getting back into my bed. It was a bit more difficult to find it than it should have been considering I was already standing on it. I found it, nestled in, and curled up to go to sleep.
Whereupon I became completely awake. Have you ever been trying to get yourself up out of bed and then imagined you took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast even, only to become shocked to find that you are still in bed under the covers? This was similar. I frantically tried to figure out if I had actually kissed Kate, or had just been dreaming about kissing Kate. I fell back asleep, a bit more warily, sure only that neither answer was very encouraging.
So I had kissed her. I didn't remember it right away, but something reminded me and I told her what I thought had happened. She said, "I was wondering what the heck you were doing." She had been half-asleep as well and didn't remember anything about it clearly, only that I had been bumbling around in the dark. We laughed about it then, mostly because my nocturnal antics are not unheard of. Like the time I was dreaming that I was in a fight and actually began punching her (not hard at all, she exaggerates.)
The moral of the story is: I'm a man of my word, particularly when unconscious.
I technically lied about not kissing Kate.
My first night aboard the cruise ship I was having difficulty sleeping. It may have been the rocking of the boat, the strange part-man, part-animal, part-machine noises that echoed through the labrynth of corridors where time has no meaning, or maybe I just wasn't used to sleeping in a bed anymore after two nights of sleeping under my trusty bench.
So it's my first night aboard the cruise ship and I'm having difficulty sleeping. I'm lolling about my tiny bunk in a stuporous half-sleep when I clearly hear in my head Phill's instructions to me before I left: "Gurg, give Kate a big hug and kiss for me." I had agreed, of course, in that way that you promise someone that you will say "Hello" for them while knowing perfectly well that on the off-chance you actually remember, you may be too cool at that moment to actually relay the sentiment.
But I had remembered. I had said "Hello" and given her a big hug. I hadn't kissed her for reasons that may be obvious to any person that is not Phill. But now, when the No Man's Land of the mind (that all thoughts must cross in order to become an action) is at its least patrolled, I was remembering what I had promised Phill.
So I stumble out of my bunk, stumble some more just trying to stand up straight (either the ship was really rocking or I was standing on my luggage.) I pulled myself up so that I was standing on my bunk and could reach the top bunk where Kate was sleeping, and kissed her for Phill. I remember getting a face-full of blanket, so I didn't think it ranked as one of the greatest kisses of all time unless there is a separate category for linen. Pleased with myself for having completed my mission, I focused my attention on getting back into my bed. It was a bit more difficult to find it than it should have been considering I was already standing on it. I found it, nestled in, and curled up to go to sleep.
Whereupon I became completely awake. Have you ever been trying to get yourself up out of bed and then imagined you took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast even, only to become shocked to find that you are still in bed under the covers? This was similar. I frantically tried to figure out if I had actually kissed Kate, or had just been dreaming about kissing Kate. I fell back asleep, a bit more warily, sure only that neither answer was very encouraging.
So I had kissed her. I didn't remember it right away, but something reminded me and I told her what I thought had happened. She said, "I was wondering what the heck you were doing." She had been half-asleep as well and didn't remember anything about it clearly, only that I had been bumbling around in the dark. We laughed about it then, mostly because my nocturnal antics are not unheard of. Like the time I was dreaming that I was in a fight and actually began punching her (not hard at all, she exaggerates.)
The moral of the story is: I'm a man of my word, particularly when unconscious.
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