I have, as you may recall, mentioned my issues with my car before. To make a long story short, there is something wrong with it. The check engine light has been on on for, oh, about three years. It runs fine for a car that has 108,000+ miles and has always received absolutely indifferent maintenance. The engine is still fucking there, so whatever is wrong cannot, to my mind, be that goddamn important.
Unfortunately, though, I live in area that requires car emissions tests. Check engine light=fail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I made a good faith effort to try to cheat, but alas, it's not as easy as it used to be and I was unable to procure a crooked mechanic who would pass me for $50 cash and a photo of my boobs.
I was not for a moment naive enough to believe that this problem could actually be fixed. Two years ago I pissed about $600 into a hole before some clever lad worked out a cheat that got me through the test (a cheat I was unable to duplicate this time, god knows I tried). Instead I faced the problem head on.
I called the dealership and made an appointment. "Hi. Lemme tell you what's up. My car is not going to pass emissions. The check engine light is on because my car throws a code for a crank shaft positioning sensor--that's always been the issue, and I know it's still the issue because I've hooked it up to a code reader. There is nothing wrong with that sensor, it's been replaced at least twice. I don't expect you to fix whatever the problem is, I don't care what the problem is. I just need to spend $450 so that I can get an emissions waiver. Do what you need to do to make that happen, but that's what I want."
Sensor? Not broken. Car? Not broken. Customer? Not stupid.
Car gets dropped off last night, phone call this morning. The Mensa representative at the dealership called me to let me know my crank shaft positioning sensor is bad, and his Odyssey of the Mind partner in crime on the floor has all these theories as to why that might be.
*blink*
Listen up, Braintrust. The sensor probably isn't bad, because like I said, that's always been the code it's thrown. But go ahead and replace it. Whatever turns you on, buddy. Seriously, I'm at peace with my check engine light. Please do me the courtesy of not fucking insulting my intelligence in the meantime.
"I didn't realize you had this problem before."
Look, asshole. I'm not your girlfriend; try listening to me. I know I told you that because every conversation with you people scars me permanently.
"Well, when your check engine light came back on then, why didn't you bring it back in?"
Because I was out of cars to borrow! And because, like most higher order mammals, I can learn to recognize patterns. I bring car in. I spend money. Car stays broken. After three weeks, the novelty wore off.
"Well, we'll replace the sensor and go from there."
Mmmkay. Bye.
I sit at work trying to keep the Dipshittery Express from flying off the tracks while trying to decide if it would be unseemly for a 31 year old to take up cutting. The phone rings.
"Hi. This is Braintrust from the dealership. We put in the new crankshaft position sensor, and it didn't work."
Really? Shocking. Do continue.
"So we took it back out and put the old one in, and then our tech did some stuff, and it didn't work, and then he did something and then the engine didn't even work and we thought oh shit that's bad and then some other stuff happened and now he thinks he's a woman trapped in a man's body and this one time at band camp..."
Braintrust? Hey. Lemme make this easy for you. The car has 108,000+ miles on it and it runs. I'm not spending thousands of dollars so you guys can go spelunking under the hood. I am there to spend money for an emissions waiver. That's all. So tell you what. Tell JimBob he can do whatever he wants. Seriously. He can do whatever he wants until my bill reaches $445. At $445, I want him to put all the screws back, and get out of my car.
"Well, he says it could be this..."
Great. Fine. Get him out of my car when he's done $445 worth of work. Buh-bye.
A very little bit of time passes before Braintrust calls me back to let me know that I've already pretty much spent that money, and can pick up the car whenever.
Perfect! Great. Thursday is looking up.
But then I start to think. Despite my saying repeatedly that the SOLE reason I have for bringing my car in was to spend $450 for emissions work, I wonder if I did. I mean, he might have done other work that wouldn't count towards that $450, so maybe he needs to throw in an air filter or new hamster or something. I call.
Braintrust is gone and someone else answers. And I explain the situation.
"Well. I have your bill here, and it's $458."
That's fine. I just need to verify that enough of that is money that I've pissed away on you not fixing a problem that you can't identify.
"Braintrust is gone, you see. And the tech that worked on it left at 3:30. I can call Braintrust on his cell phone."
Wait a sec. Don't you have an itemized invoice there? 'Cuz your little partner in crime told me I could pick the car up tonight.
"Well, let me call him on his cell and call you back."
I know then that this is going to end with someone getting called a motherfucker, and I'm equally confident that someone isn't going to be me.
"Hi, this is Mensa at the dealer."
Mmmhmmm?
"If what you're looking to do is pass emissions, then you can't pick your car up tonight. There are a couple of concerns..."
And that is when my left eyeball fell out of my head.
I don't CARE about your concerns. I don't CARE what the problem is. I told you people from the first conversation that I was knowingly throwing money into a hole to get an emissions waiver. I didn't believe for a second you would actually fix anything. THIS HANGS IT--AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER BUY NISSAN AGAIN. I don't give a shit what you do to the car, I would be perfectly happy to give you $450 to buy your wife something that means she'll have to touch your penis. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS ANY SIMPLER THAN I HAVE.
"Whenever you go for an emissions waiver, everything has to be documented in a really specific way."
I cannot IMAGINE a parallel universe in which I gave a shit LESS. I told you what I wanted you to do and why. I was clear. I was specific. I was assertive. I don't know how to explain this any better, Fucko. You people make me want to cave in my own forehead with a ball-peen hammer.
"Your car will be ready tomorrow."
Awesome, and only 24 hours later than it should have been. No time at all, really, considering all the shit you didn't accomplish.
My conclusion is this: I really will not be buying another Nissan. The cars themselves are mostly fine, but they hire absolute fucktards to work for their dealers.
If they give me any shit tomorrow, I'm paying with the goddamn title; getting the emergency bridesmaid dress out of the trunk, and going over to the Toyota dealer.
Showing posts with label Extreme Elimination Challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Extreme Elimination Challenge. Show all posts
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, August 6, 2007
Extreme Elimination Challenge: Outdoor Edition
You know what this day needs? A beach. A cabaña boy. Piña coladas. A nice big umbrella so that The Boy can hang out with me and not be killed by the sun, as he comes from a long lineage of cloud-loving people.
Alas, no. There will be none of that. There will only be Monday and boredom, two great tastes that go great together.
I should not complain, I guess, as I had a lovely and relaxing weekend. Between pink-collar-wage-slave jobs one and two, it had been some weeks since I had had a day off. Considering I’m a generally unpleasant person at the best of times, this was doing nothing for my personality. This weekend, though, I took Saturday and Sunday off for a non-camping and float trip.
I’m not proud of it, but I don’t camp. I just don’t. If there is a hell and I wind up there, after a hard millennium of having my flesh flayed from my body by cruel demons, I expect the only vacation available to me will be camping. I like looking at stars and trees and various other representatives from this, our natural world, but I care little for being eaten alive by mosquitoes or peeing in the woods.
The whole not liking to pee in the woods thing totally horrifies my mother. She took my divorce like a champ. The fact that I remain childless doesn’t make her bat an eye. My economic insecurity is just par for the course. But my reluctance to pee while leaning precariously against what may or may not be a poisonous plant? That’s indicative of some sort of maternal failure on her part.
Further, I don’t cope especially well with the great outdoors. I love it in principle, not so much in practice. Any woman whose reaction to the unexpected out of doors is to yell “Nature! Nature! Nature!” while flailing is NOT someone who much needs to be out in the wild.
My other objection to camping is one that is endemic to being a St. Louisan, that is, most of our camping is done at one of several campsites within two hours of the Lou. These campsites are, often, absolutely infested with the trashiest of white trash one can imagine. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune of waking up at Bass River Resort can back me up on the following statement: long-term human inbreeding should be discouraged. While the occasional marriage between first cousins might not be the end of the world, over generations it should be discouraged.
My initial adult experience of camping took place under such unfavorable and frightening circumstances about 5 years ago. By the end of that weekend there was literally no one in a one mile radius of me that I would not have willingly killed with perfect glee. Although my hatred of the people who dragged me into that doomed and fetid pit eventually passed, my disdain for camping remains to this day.
This weekend, obviously, was very different. First of all, I have a much better class of friends at 30 than I did at 25. It’s been a busy five years, what can I say? Second of all, this trip did not involve any of the major commercial camping killing fields so popular among Those Whose Family Trees Have No Branches. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, my significant other on this trip is not a total fuckwit. There is nothing more exhausting than having to worry about the idiocy of someone with whom you are involved. Since The Boy is a pretty stellar traveling companion and all-around thoughtful guy, it took a lot of the dread out of the situation.
This weekend was a camping/float trip in belated celebration of The Roommate’s birthday. Because she is a thoughtful type, she ensured that I had a place to stay that involved window screens and, more importantly, indoor plumbing. Consequently, I got to enjoy much great company and a moderate amount of intoxication in a lovely natural setting with very little of the actual “nature” getting on me.
Overall, I would count the weekend a success. There was a wardrobe malfunction—the hook that holds the swimming suit top in place finally suffered a failure of structural integrity, snapping in two while paddling the canoe. Hysterics ensured, and fortunately my friend had a very brave little safety pin who managed to keep the girls in check for the remainder of the trip, surviving even the trip on the rope swing.
Alas, no. There will be none of that. There will only be Monday and boredom, two great tastes that go great together.
I should not complain, I guess, as I had a lovely and relaxing weekend. Between pink-collar-wage-slave jobs one and two, it had been some weeks since I had had a day off. Considering I’m a generally unpleasant person at the best of times, this was doing nothing for my personality. This weekend, though, I took Saturday and Sunday off for a non-camping and float trip.
I’m not proud of it, but I don’t camp. I just don’t. If there is a hell and I wind up there, after a hard millennium of having my flesh flayed from my body by cruel demons, I expect the only vacation available to me will be camping. I like looking at stars and trees and various other representatives from this, our natural world, but I care little for being eaten alive by mosquitoes or peeing in the woods.
The whole not liking to pee in the woods thing totally horrifies my mother. She took my divorce like a champ. The fact that I remain childless doesn’t make her bat an eye. My economic insecurity is just par for the course. But my reluctance to pee while leaning precariously against what may or may not be a poisonous plant? That’s indicative of some sort of maternal failure on her part.
Further, I don’t cope especially well with the great outdoors. I love it in principle, not so much in practice. Any woman whose reaction to the unexpected out of doors is to yell “Nature! Nature! Nature!” while flailing is NOT someone who much needs to be out in the wild.
My other objection to camping is one that is endemic to being a St. Louisan, that is, most of our camping is done at one of several campsites within two hours of the Lou. These campsites are, often, absolutely infested with the trashiest of white trash one can imagine. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune of waking up at Bass River Resort can back me up on the following statement: long-term human inbreeding should be discouraged. While the occasional marriage between first cousins might not be the end of the world, over generations it should be discouraged.
My initial adult experience of camping took place under such unfavorable and frightening circumstances about 5 years ago. By the end of that weekend there was literally no one in a one mile radius of me that I would not have willingly killed with perfect glee. Although my hatred of the people who dragged me into that doomed and fetid pit eventually passed, my disdain for camping remains to this day.
This weekend, obviously, was very different. First of all, I have a much better class of friends at 30 than I did at 25. It’s been a busy five years, what can I say? Second of all, this trip did not involve any of the major commercial camping killing fields so popular among Those Whose Family Trees Have No Branches. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, my significant other on this trip is not a total fuckwit. There is nothing more exhausting than having to worry about the idiocy of someone with whom you are involved. Since The Boy is a pretty stellar traveling companion and all-around thoughtful guy, it took a lot of the dread out of the situation.
This weekend was a camping/float trip in belated celebration of The Roommate’s birthday. Because she is a thoughtful type, she ensured that I had a place to stay that involved window screens and, more importantly, indoor plumbing. Consequently, I got to enjoy much great company and a moderate amount of intoxication in a lovely natural setting with very little of the actual “nature” getting on me.
Overall, I would count the weekend a success. There was a wardrobe malfunction—the hook that holds the swimming suit top in place finally suffered a failure of structural integrity, snapping in two while paddling the canoe. Hysterics ensured, and fortunately my friend had a very brave little safety pin who managed to keep the girls in check for the remainder of the trip, surviving even the trip on the rope swing.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Extreme Elimination Challenge: Michael Vick Edition
I am not a sports fan. This won’t come as a shock to anyone who has ever talked to me for more than 15 minutes. I like to go to Busch Stadium once a summer or so to watch the Cards play, but that is mostly an excuse to drink beer and eat nachos. Hockey games are fun, but not worth the effort to actually procure my own tickets. Football bores me witless, although now that I’ve been divorced for a couple of years I no longer have an active antipathy to the game. On a boredom scale from 1 to 10, with a 10 being a 15 minute orgasm and 1 being a typical workday here lately, a conversation about sports rates about a 2 or a 2 ½. If I’m lucky.
So, the fact that I’m also going to wade into this whole Michael Vick thing really says something. It says, “I am sick of sports assholes.”
Having read the indictment, I would very much like for some enterprising reporter to figure out where the man was at the times alleged; I wouldn’t mind giving Vick the benefit of the doubt, assuming of course there is any doubt from which to benefit. I would hate to overstate myself or oversimplify the situation.
The fact is, though, I don’t much give a rat’s ass if he was actively involved in dog fighting or not, although the evidence in the indictment seems to point to the fact that he was far more than a passive dipshit who let his cousin freeload on his property. Best case scenario? Michael Vick is negligently stupid, buying property for a shitbum cousin and then failing to do anything to make sure said shitbum didn’t commit any felonies while crashing there. You know what? As a landlord, I feel that one does have some responsibility to make sure that one’s tenants don’t turn one’s property into a meth lab or a whorehouse or a dog fighting kennel.
I don’t know if Vick was legally responsible to make sure that the bruised fruit from his family tree wasn’t engaged in various and sundry illegal activities on his compound in the sticks, but he was morally obligated to do so. It’s not like the cousin was found with a bong full of weed in the kitchen, or even a patch of weed out in the woods (neither of which would even make me bat an eye). Nope. He was found with a farm full of fighting dogs. Unlike, say, a patch of weed out in the woods, dogs make noise. They smell. They do dog things. If anyone ever visited the property, he or she would have to know there were many, many dogs there. The rest would not require Mensa level reasoning to figure out.
I assume Michael Vick isn’t retarded. I assume he’s just a bastard.
I would like nothing more than to see him kicked off the Falcons and bounced out of pro-football. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t look at it as holding him to a higher standard because if one my Corporate Comrades was similarly worthless, I wouldn’t want to work with him, either. Of course, should my Corporate Comrades do something stupid, I feel certain the powers that be would be unable to suspend or fire him unless he was convicted of an actual crime. Just being a careless, callous cocksmack does not bar one from employment in corporate America.
The National Football League has different rules, though. They can suspend and dismiss their players for their behavior. Even if Vick were not ACTIVELY engaged in dog fighting (a claim which I don’t buy because my brain has not been replaced with paper bags and hairballs), his behavior was so outrageously negligent that it hardly bears thinking about.
Why doesn’t the NFL and their pro-league brethren, I dunno, make it a policy that players facing felony indictments are suspended pending trial? If they are exonerated, let them come back. Convicted? Pack up your cleats, son. Enjoy your life. For the bajillion dollars these dudes get paid to run, sweat, lift, and engage their god-given talents to chase balls around, it’s not to much to ask that they keep their questionably criminal behavior under control for the decade or so they get to play.
Sounds like a fucking plan to me. It's just another form of asshole tax.
So, the fact that I’m also going to wade into this whole Michael Vick thing really says something. It says, “I am sick of sports assholes.”
Having read the indictment, I would very much like for some enterprising reporter to figure out where the man was at the times alleged; I wouldn’t mind giving Vick the benefit of the doubt, assuming of course there is any doubt from which to benefit. I would hate to overstate myself or oversimplify the situation.
The fact is, though, I don’t much give a rat’s ass if he was actively involved in dog fighting or not, although the evidence in the indictment seems to point to the fact that he was far more than a passive dipshit who let his cousin freeload on his property. Best case scenario? Michael Vick is negligently stupid, buying property for a shitbum cousin and then failing to do anything to make sure said shitbum didn’t commit any felonies while crashing there. You know what? As a landlord, I feel that one does have some responsibility to make sure that one’s tenants don’t turn one’s property into a meth lab or a whorehouse or a dog fighting kennel.
I don’t know if Vick was legally responsible to make sure that the bruised fruit from his family tree wasn’t engaged in various and sundry illegal activities on his compound in the sticks, but he was morally obligated to do so. It’s not like the cousin was found with a bong full of weed in the kitchen, or even a patch of weed out in the woods (neither of which would even make me bat an eye). Nope. He was found with a farm full of fighting dogs. Unlike, say, a patch of weed out in the woods, dogs make noise. They smell. They do dog things. If anyone ever visited the property, he or she would have to know there were many, many dogs there. The rest would not require Mensa level reasoning to figure out.
I assume Michael Vick isn’t retarded. I assume he’s just a bastard.
I would like nothing more than to see him kicked off the Falcons and bounced out of pro-football. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t look at it as holding him to a higher standard because if one my Corporate Comrades was similarly worthless, I wouldn’t want to work with him, either. Of course, should my Corporate Comrades do something stupid, I feel certain the powers that be would be unable to suspend or fire him unless he was convicted of an actual crime. Just being a careless, callous cocksmack does not bar one from employment in corporate America.
The National Football League has different rules, though. They can suspend and dismiss their players for their behavior. Even if Vick were not ACTIVELY engaged in dog fighting (a claim which I don’t buy because my brain has not been replaced with paper bags and hairballs), his behavior was so outrageously negligent that it hardly bears thinking about.
Why doesn’t the NFL and their pro-league brethren, I dunno, make it a policy that players facing felony indictments are suspended pending trial? If they are exonerated, let them come back. Convicted? Pack up your cleats, son. Enjoy your life. For the bajillion dollars these dudes get paid to run, sweat, lift, and engage their god-given talents to chase balls around, it’s not to much to ask that they keep their questionably criminal behavior under control for the decade or so they get to play.
Sounds like a fucking plan to me. It's just another form of asshole tax.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Yardageddon
Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
This weekend is going to be Yardageddon 2007. It’s been a long time coming. From a tolerable distance, my backyard doesn’t look too bad. It’s shady and mostly green. A bit overgrown, sure, but I’m into that English Woodland Garden look.
Up close and personal though, it’s rather a clusterfuck. I have a superabundance of ivy, which looks fine, but allows for all manner of little fly-y bite-y creatures to breed without restraint and fuck with me mercilessly. There is tree life that knocks on my side door and invites itself in for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. I think a vine just tried to eat Bennet.
It’s time to get all NoCo on this shit.
I have a weed whacker, and I hope that I have better luck with it than I have with my nemesis the lawnmower. I also have some trimmer thing, I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t need to know what it’s called because I don't care; it will chop plants into smaller bits and that is a good thing. I am going to borrow some lop shears.
Here’s the thing, though, does anyone have any suggestions for how to kill plants at the root? I looked at Roundup, but Roundup costs A Lot of Money, and I am poor. Roundup is out. Off brand weed killer has proven no match for the plant life around here.
Here are the things I’ve been told:
I’ve been told that drilling several holes into the trunk of a tree and pouring salt in will kill it. Done. The house next door has some piece of shit weedy tree just at the fence line that is trying to move into my house. I could cut it back, but why? They have all but abandoned that house, making no moves to sell it or rent it or reattach that siding that blew off last July. Fuck it. I’m sending the tree to see Jesus.
I’ve been told that plain white vinegar will kill plants reliably. Is this true? While not entirely thrilled about the possibility of my yard smelling like a cheap douche, I’ll give it a shot.
Any other ideas? At this point, I would probably put down some fucking Agent Orange if I knew where to find it.
This weekend is going to be Yardageddon 2007. It’s been a long time coming. From a tolerable distance, my backyard doesn’t look too bad. It’s shady and mostly green. A bit overgrown, sure, but I’m into that English Woodland Garden look.
Up close and personal though, it’s rather a clusterfuck. I have a superabundance of ivy, which looks fine, but allows for all manner of little fly-y bite-y creatures to breed without restraint and fuck with me mercilessly. There is tree life that knocks on my side door and invites itself in for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. I think a vine just tried to eat Bennet.
It’s time to get all NoCo on this shit.
I have a weed whacker, and I hope that I have better luck with it than I have with my nemesis the lawnmower. I also have some trimmer thing, I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t need to know what it’s called because I don't care; it will chop plants into smaller bits and that is a good thing. I am going to borrow some lop shears.
Here’s the thing, though, does anyone have any suggestions for how to kill plants at the root? I looked at Roundup, but Roundup costs A Lot of Money, and I am poor. Roundup is out. Off brand weed killer has proven no match for the plant life around here.
Here are the things I’ve been told:
I’ve been told that drilling several holes into the trunk of a tree and pouring salt in will kill it. Done. The house next door has some piece of shit weedy tree just at the fence line that is trying to move into my house. I could cut it back, but why? They have all but abandoned that house, making no moves to sell it or rent it or reattach that siding that blew off last July. Fuck it. I’m sending the tree to see Jesus.
I’ve been told that plain white vinegar will kill plants reliably. Is this true? While not entirely thrilled about the possibility of my yard smelling like a cheap douche, I’ll give it a shot.
Any other ideas? At this point, I would probably put down some fucking Agent Orange if I knew where to find it.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
seven/24
So, this past weekend I did seven/24 VI, the 24 hour theater circus that The Tin Ceiling puts on every year. At 8 p.m. on Friday, 14 writers arrived at the Strasser’s gigantic and beautiful house. There, we were paired off to write 10-minute plays. At the same time, seven directors were auditioning actors over at the Theater at St. John’s. About 8 o’clock the next morning, the directors were presented with our scripts and began to cast and call actors.
Sounds simple, non?
Yeah, right. Nothing like 14 insecure lunatics let loose in pairs to try to assemble some vaguely entertaining narrative fueled only by exhaustion, booze, caffeine, and French onion dip. Further, the writers are constructing plays with absolutely no idea who might be available to act in them; while back at the ranch the directors are evaluating actors with no clue as to what they might need for their play. Figure in the vagaries of potential writer’s block and the ever-present possibility that a writing team might devolve into a sullen standoff, and the project begins with all the needed ingredients for disaster. And this is even before the actors try to memorize 10 minutes of dialogue and blocking over the course of a long day in a largely un-air-conditioned building.
Good times, my friend, good times.
Despite all that, seven/24 is an amazing experience. I understand that over the years there have been some disasters—bad plays or bad actors or writer shortages—but generally when all is said and done some amazing things happen. While I do not know that I would count my seven/24 work this year as an unqualified success, I think it went well overall.
This was the second year I wrote for show. My writing partner was the Boy, which absolutely floored the both of us since it is most unlike Robert the Producer to pair up couples to write. It could have gone one of two ways. Either the Boy and I were going to work smoothly and well, or we were going to wind up wanting to participate in a murder/suicide by the end of the night. I am pleased, and unsurprised, that it was the former. Our idea came early and the writing went smoothly. We finished at 2, which is practically early in seven/24 terms.
I was, and remain, extremely happy with how our script turned out. I have often complained of late that so very many plays tend to be so very, very male. They have male characters pursuing male interests and being compelling and interesting while women are mothers or love interests or pawns. Ours was a very, very female play.
I would like to take another opportunity to give a hearty thanks to god for our director and our actors. Had we not had an awesome female lead, our play would have slurped bilgewater and the baby Jesus would have cried. Who am I kidding? I’m sure our play made the baby Jesus cry anyway, but I thought it was lovely.
I was able to put my finger this year on a phenomenon that affected me last year as well. Writing something and anticipating its performance fills me with dread. All day, I just wanted to lock myself in the ladies room and cry my eyes out. I felt exactly the same last year, and the only thing both events had in common was that I had participated in the writing of something that was going to be performed. In front of people. Who were, you know, alive.
This year I exasperated the problem by getting a bit more personal with the work. When all was said and done it sort of turned into a “break your own femur and suck out the marrow” thing. I asked the Boy, a far more prolific and talented writer than I, if I could look forward to this part getting easier. “Nope,” he responds brightly.
Gotta love a man who tells the truth.
Sadly, my involvement with the production did not end with saving our script to the designated seven/24 flash drive. Oh no, that would be too fucking simple. After falling asleep at 4 a.m., I got a call at about 9:30. It was my inestimable future roommate. “Can you act?” she asks. Sure. Why the fuck not?
Well. I’ll tell you why the fuck not. Just because one was up writing until the wee hours and lacks much in the way of recent theater experience DOES NOT, contrary to what one might expect, mean that one will get a small part. Sometimes, the vagaries of seven/24 being what they are, it just means one is going to play an old lady in a muumuu for 10 minutes or so.
Zombie Killer and the incomparable Becky wrote a terrifically clever and funny play about a dysfunctional mother and son relationship and time travel, but, as I pointed out to Chris late in the evening after several cocktails, it had so many goddamned words. So. Many. Words. I never got those fucking lines anywhere near to cold. When all was said and done, I’m mostly happy with how the show turned out, but I still worry I didn’t do the script justice.
So. Picture this if you will. Me rehearsing and blanking on, oh, about every other line. I am not wearing makeup, which is fine because I haven’t brushed my hair either. I’m sweating and I suspect I’m starting to smell. I woke up with an “Oh my god I wrote a play” feeling of dread, and added to that a sense of “Oh my GOD I’m going to fuck up someone else’s play.” I think my fellow actors hated me before all was said and done, and frankly, I don’t blame them. Hoo-muthafuckin’-rah.
I like to act, and being on stage that night was mostly a good time (except when I was realizing that I’d just fucked up). There is nothing like the immediate “Love me! Love me!” that a loudly laughing audience provides. However, I cannot say that I would call THAT part of seven/24 “fun.” It was a wonderful challenge. It pushed me, not so much as an actor, but just personally. And I don’t think I would ever want to do it again.
Sounds simple, non?
Yeah, right. Nothing like 14 insecure lunatics let loose in pairs to try to assemble some vaguely entertaining narrative fueled only by exhaustion, booze, caffeine, and French onion dip. Further, the writers are constructing plays with absolutely no idea who might be available to act in them; while back at the ranch the directors are evaluating actors with no clue as to what they might need for their play. Figure in the vagaries of potential writer’s block and the ever-present possibility that a writing team might devolve into a sullen standoff, and the project begins with all the needed ingredients for disaster. And this is even before the actors try to memorize 10 minutes of dialogue and blocking over the course of a long day in a largely un-air-conditioned building.
Good times, my friend, good times.
Despite all that, seven/24 is an amazing experience. I understand that over the years there have been some disasters—bad plays or bad actors or writer shortages—but generally when all is said and done some amazing things happen. While I do not know that I would count my seven/24 work this year as an unqualified success, I think it went well overall.
This was the second year I wrote for show. My writing partner was the Boy, which absolutely floored the both of us since it is most unlike Robert the Producer to pair up couples to write. It could have gone one of two ways. Either the Boy and I were going to work smoothly and well, or we were going to wind up wanting to participate in a murder/suicide by the end of the night. I am pleased, and unsurprised, that it was the former. Our idea came early and the writing went smoothly. We finished at 2, which is practically early in seven/24 terms.
I was, and remain, extremely happy with how our script turned out. I have often complained of late that so very many plays tend to be so very, very male. They have male characters pursuing male interests and being compelling and interesting while women are mothers or love interests or pawns. Ours was a very, very female play.
I would like to take another opportunity to give a hearty thanks to god for our director and our actors. Had we not had an awesome female lead, our play would have slurped bilgewater and the baby Jesus would have cried. Who am I kidding? I’m sure our play made the baby Jesus cry anyway, but I thought it was lovely.
I was able to put my finger this year on a phenomenon that affected me last year as well. Writing something and anticipating its performance fills me with dread. All day, I just wanted to lock myself in the ladies room and cry my eyes out. I felt exactly the same last year, and the only thing both events had in common was that I had participated in the writing of something that was going to be performed. In front of people. Who were, you know, alive.
This year I exasperated the problem by getting a bit more personal with the work. When all was said and done it sort of turned into a “break your own femur and suck out the marrow” thing. I asked the Boy, a far more prolific and talented writer than I, if I could look forward to this part getting easier. “Nope,” he responds brightly.
Gotta love a man who tells the truth.
Sadly, my involvement with the production did not end with saving our script to the designated seven/24 flash drive. Oh no, that would be too fucking simple. After falling asleep at 4 a.m., I got a call at about 9:30. It was my inestimable future roommate. “Can you act?” she asks. Sure. Why the fuck not?
Well. I’ll tell you why the fuck not. Just because one was up writing until the wee hours and lacks much in the way of recent theater experience DOES NOT, contrary to what one might expect, mean that one will get a small part. Sometimes, the vagaries of seven/24 being what they are, it just means one is going to play an old lady in a muumuu for 10 minutes or so.
Zombie Killer and the incomparable Becky wrote a terrifically clever and funny play about a dysfunctional mother and son relationship and time travel, but, as I pointed out to Chris late in the evening after several cocktails, it had so many goddamned words. So. Many. Words. I never got those fucking lines anywhere near to cold. When all was said and done, I’m mostly happy with how the show turned out, but I still worry I didn’t do the script justice.
So. Picture this if you will. Me rehearsing and blanking on, oh, about every other line. I am not wearing makeup, which is fine because I haven’t brushed my hair either. I’m sweating and I suspect I’m starting to smell. I woke up with an “Oh my god I wrote a play” feeling of dread, and added to that a sense of “Oh my GOD I’m going to fuck up someone else’s play.” I think my fellow actors hated me before all was said and done, and frankly, I don’t blame them. Hoo-muthafuckin’-rah.
I like to act, and being on stage that night was mostly a good time (except when I was realizing that I’d just fucked up). There is nothing like the immediate “Love me! Love me!” that a loudly laughing audience provides. However, I cannot say that I would call THAT part of seven/24 “fun.” It was a wonderful challenge. It pushed me, not so much as an actor, but just personally. And I don’t think I would ever want to do it again.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Extreme Stupidity Challenge, Personal Edition
Sometimes, you just feel kinda bad.
There is no reason. Nothing is really wrong. The bills are paid. There is a little money in the bank. Weather is nice. The iPod is regularly spitting out music that is simultaneously unfamiliar and good. You’re just in a funk that you can’t fully shake.
So, what’s the stupidest thing you can do?
Look up your ex-husband’s name on My Space. For no fucking reason except morbid curiosity.
The bright side? His new baby is ugly. And they gave her a stupid name.
There is no reason. Nothing is really wrong. The bills are paid. There is a little money in the bank. Weather is nice. The iPod is regularly spitting out music that is simultaneously unfamiliar and good. You’re just in a funk that you can’t fully shake.
So, what’s the stupidest thing you can do?
Look up your ex-husband’s name on My Space. For no fucking reason except morbid curiosity.
The bright side? His new baby is ugly. And they gave her a stupid name.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Extreme Stupidity Challenge, Current Events Edition
So, I am finishing waking from the comfy nap that was my vacation and I am finding that, perhaps predictably, people did not get smarter while I was gone.
*sigh*
Let’s take a cursory glance at a couple of national, local, and not-quite-news stories from the past few days.
People Who Are Too Stupid Read Things Face Housing Woes
Certainly, everyone by now has heard that the housing market is circling the drain and that late mortgage payments and foreclosures are on the rise, especially among sub-prime borrowers, now that people’s adjustable-rate mortgages are beginning to “reset.”
Duh, motherfuckers.
I mean, come on. You have crappy credit, or don’t make enough to easily afford to buy a too big house in Whitehaven or some other exurban hellhole, so to get what you want you take on some incredibly stupid and risky loan. THEN, instead of addressing the problem by rebuilding your credit or selling a kidney or something, you expect a miracle to come along and fix your problem for you. Because, yeah, double digit percentage growth in home values is an historically common occurrence.
Look. I’m sure there are scumbags who lied outright about the terms of these loans. I am certain to my toes that there were tons of irresponsible mortgage brokers/loan officers/bankers/loan sharks who sold these loans to unsuspecting rubes without adequately explaining the terms. That said, though, who signs a document promising to repay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars without at least a cursory understanding of the terms?
It’s not important that you know what the “LIBOR index” to which your fully-indexed mortgage rate will be tied is, but it is pretty fucking important that you get that your sweet “teaser rate” will only be guaranteed for five years, and that after that it is going be tied to this other rate, which is almost certainly going to cost you a metric crap-ton of additional greenback dollars every month.
Back when I was married, and we had ARMs on our houses, I had a decent grasp on what was going on with my home loans. I knew the time frame for the expiration of the teaser rates (one was five years, one was 7); I knew the adjustment periods after that (one was once a year, one was six months); I knew the adjustment caps (2% max upward adjustment for each); I know that the 5/2 could be locked after the first adjustment into a 30-year fixed (which would have still left us forever with an APR below 7.5%); and I never intended to have the stupid loans that long, anyway (and didn’t).
How many people didn’t even attempt to grasp any part of that fairly simple information? When I worked at a mortgage broker, how many times did I hear her explain to people to whom we were giving subprime loans that they needed to rebuild their credit so they could get out of those loans at the conclusion of two years? How many times did I see the words go into one ear only to drift, like dandelion fluff on an April breeze, out the other?
Whatever. Yes, it’s a shame that folks are getting into trouble, and I’m sure that some have been legitimately deceived. Self-deception doesn’t count, and an inability to see the writing on the wall is not a legitimate handicap. It’s just stupid.
St. Louis City Schools See Writing On the Wall, But No One Can Read It
The Missouri Department of Elementary and Secondary Education has revoked the accreditation of the St. Louis City Schools. No one who has been paying the least bit of attention is the tiniest bit surprised.
There was a protest at the DESE meeting, complete with some teenager shoving a cop, then running, then getting maced, which makes me think this kid’s social studies’ teachers probably did an inadequate job covering civil disobedience and non-violent protest.
After the melee was quelled, the DESE Board predictably voted to, I don’t know, draw and quarter the school board and replace them with Muppets or whatever. Yes, this is terrible. The alternative? Immeasurably worse.
So, what’s noteworthy about this? Two things.
A current St. Louis board member called the decision, among other things, a move toward “regentrification” of the city, an attempt to make it more white. Huh? First of all, I don’t think “regentrfication” is a word (and neither does Microsoft Office). Second, saying that the district is grossly failing students and needs to do better—that’s a white thing? This woman should be forced to sit in room and write her inane statement 500 times as punishment for her all-encompassing idiocy.
Then, because I had not suffered NEARLY enough on my morning commute, the leader of the union that represents the St. Louis teacher’s union stood up and said that their primary concern was making sure that the state didn’t do anything to alter the current teachers’ contract.
Oh. My. God.
I hope this woman’s face rots and her brain falls out *splat* onto the sidewalk. That has got to be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard said by anyone who wasn’t trying to talk me into taking off my panties. Shouldn’t, oh I dunno, the miserably failing students be the teachers’ primary concern? Just maybe? Just a thought . . .
(This link might include the two above statements...like I said, I was yelling at my car stereo. Listen to the MP)
Mom Apparently Fattening Son For Slaughter; State Intervenes
I’m sure that you all saw the link to the video of the woman in West Virginia who is at risk of having the state take her 7-year-old son from her because he weighs more than 250 pounds. Okay, um, wow. I usually don’t watch these things, but this one got my attention. I gave it a gander.
Jay-sus. One of a few things is going on here:
1. This woman suffers from some neo-Krispy Kreme- Munchausen-by-proxy abuse thing. She’s intentionally fattening this kid up for some twisted purpose of her own. Sometimes, folks is just CRAZY.
2. This woman is a serious idiot, who despite what she has been told by the various doctors to whom she has dragged this poor kid, just doesn’t understand the basic principles of nutrition.
3. She’s dim, and the doctors she’s seen have been either weak-willed morons educated in offshore backwaters who have either failed to adequately educate this woman, or have failed to test this kid for some kind of awful disease or hormonal imbalance or something. Let’s not rule that out as a possibility.
I’m leaning towards numbers 1 or 2, and here’s why: If you watch the video, it shows at least a partial list of what she feeds this kid in a day. First is breakfast, which consists of “ 4 eggs” and some other stuff.
What? WHAT? FOUR eggs? This kid is SEVEN. I’m 30. I’m 5’10, and curvy, and even at my most hung-over; plummeting blood sugar; been-out-all-night-drinking-and-dancing so feed-me-before-I-gut-you morning time starvation the most I can choke down is three.
For a moment, let’s give this woman the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s not fattening this kid up for slaughter or something. If that’s the case, before the state further screws up this kid by yanking him from his mom, they should do the following (clearly, I feel all list-makey today):
1. Send a nutritionist to his house who will throw away all processed foods of any kind and re-teach Mom how to cook.
2. Hire a trainer to Mousercize this kid’s ass.
3. Repo the video games and disconnect the cable.
*sigh*
Let’s take a cursory glance at a couple of national, local, and not-quite-news stories from the past few days.
People Who Are Too Stupid Read Things Face Housing Woes
Certainly, everyone by now has heard that the housing market is circling the drain and that late mortgage payments and foreclosures are on the rise, especially among sub-prime borrowers, now that people’s adjustable-rate mortgages are beginning to “reset.”
Duh, motherfuckers.
I mean, come on. You have crappy credit, or don’t make enough to easily afford to buy a too big house in Whitehaven or some other exurban hellhole, so to get what you want you take on some incredibly stupid and risky loan. THEN, instead of addressing the problem by rebuilding your credit or selling a kidney or something, you expect a miracle to come along and fix your problem for you. Because, yeah, double digit percentage growth in home values is an historically common occurrence.
Look. I’m sure there are scumbags who lied outright about the terms of these loans. I am certain to my toes that there were tons of irresponsible mortgage brokers/loan officers/bankers/loan sharks who sold these loans to unsuspecting rubes without adequately explaining the terms. That said, though, who signs a document promising to repay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars without at least a cursory understanding of the terms?
It’s not important that you know what the “LIBOR index” to which your fully-indexed mortgage rate will be tied is, but it is pretty fucking important that you get that your sweet “teaser rate” will only be guaranteed for five years, and that after that it is going be tied to this other rate, which is almost certainly going to cost you a metric crap-ton of additional greenback dollars every month.
Back when I was married, and we had ARMs on our houses, I had a decent grasp on what was going on with my home loans. I knew the time frame for the expiration of the teaser rates (one was five years, one was 7); I knew the adjustment periods after that (one was once a year, one was six months); I knew the adjustment caps (2% max upward adjustment for each); I know that the 5/2 could be locked after the first adjustment into a 30-year fixed (which would have still left us forever with an APR below 7.5%); and I never intended to have the stupid loans that long, anyway (and didn’t).
How many people didn’t even attempt to grasp any part of that fairly simple information? When I worked at a mortgage broker, how many times did I hear her explain to people to whom we were giving subprime loans that they needed to rebuild their credit so they could get out of those loans at the conclusion of two years? How many times did I see the words go into one ear only to drift, like dandelion fluff on an April breeze, out the other?
Whatever. Yes, it’s a shame that folks are getting into trouble, and I’m sure that some have been legitimately deceived. Self-deception doesn’t count, and an inability to see the writing on the wall is not a legitimate handicap. It’s just stupid.
St. Louis City Schools See Writing On the Wall, But No One Can Read It
The Missouri Department of Elementary and Secondary Education has revoked the accreditation of the St. Louis City Schools. No one who has been paying the least bit of attention is the tiniest bit surprised.
There was a protest at the DESE meeting, complete with some teenager shoving a cop, then running, then getting maced, which makes me think this kid’s social studies’ teachers probably did an inadequate job covering civil disobedience and non-violent protest.
After the melee was quelled, the DESE Board predictably voted to, I don’t know, draw and quarter the school board and replace them with Muppets or whatever. Yes, this is terrible. The alternative? Immeasurably worse.
So, what’s noteworthy about this? Two things.
A current St. Louis board member called the decision, among other things, a move toward “regentrification” of the city, an attempt to make it more white. Huh? First of all, I don’t think “regentrfication” is a word (and neither does Microsoft Office). Second, saying that the district is grossly failing students and needs to do better—that’s a white thing? This woman should be forced to sit in room and write her inane statement 500 times as punishment for her all-encompassing idiocy.
Then, because I had not suffered NEARLY enough on my morning commute, the leader of the union that represents the St. Louis teacher’s union stood up and said that their primary concern was making sure that the state didn’t do anything to alter the current teachers’ contract.
Oh. My. God.
I hope this woman’s face rots and her brain falls out *splat* onto the sidewalk. That has got to be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard said by anyone who wasn’t trying to talk me into taking off my panties. Shouldn’t, oh I dunno, the miserably failing students be the teachers’ primary concern? Just maybe? Just a thought . . .
(This link might include the two above statements...like I said, I was yelling at my car stereo. Listen to the MP)
Mom Apparently Fattening Son For Slaughter; State Intervenes
I’m sure that you all saw the link to the video of the woman in West Virginia who is at risk of having the state take her 7-year-old son from her because he weighs more than 250 pounds. Okay, um, wow. I usually don’t watch these things, but this one got my attention. I gave it a gander.
Jay-sus. One of a few things is going on here:
1. This woman suffers from some neo-Krispy Kreme- Munchausen-by-proxy abuse thing. She’s intentionally fattening this kid up for some twisted purpose of her own. Sometimes, folks is just CRAZY.
2. This woman is a serious idiot, who despite what she has been told by the various doctors to whom she has dragged this poor kid, just doesn’t understand the basic principles of nutrition.
3. She’s dim, and the doctors she’s seen have been either weak-willed morons educated in offshore backwaters who have either failed to adequately educate this woman, or have failed to test this kid for some kind of awful disease or hormonal imbalance or something. Let’s not rule that out as a possibility.
I’m leaning towards numbers 1 or 2, and here’s why: If you watch the video, it shows at least a partial list of what she feeds this kid in a day. First is breakfast, which consists of “ 4 eggs” and some other stuff.
What? WHAT? FOUR eggs? This kid is SEVEN. I’m 30. I’m 5’10, and curvy, and even at my most hung-over; plummeting blood sugar; been-out-all-night-drinking-and-dancing so feed-me-before-I-gut-you morning time starvation the most I can choke down is three.
For a moment, let’s give this woman the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s not fattening this kid up for slaughter or something. If that’s the case, before the state further screws up this kid by yanking him from his mom, they should do the following (clearly, I feel all list-makey today):
1. Send a nutritionist to his house who will throw away all processed foods of any kind and re-teach Mom how to cook.
2. Hire a trainer to Mousercize this kid’s ass.
3. Repo the video games and disconnect the cable.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Extreme Elimination Challenge: Literary Edition
The question on the table:
Do I still have my copy of T.S. Elliot’s The Waste Land?
Let me get on the record as saying that I have, sort of, read The Waste Land. More accurately, I have run my eyes over all the words in the poem. I read it in college, towards the end of a semester. I will admit, freely, that I did not give it the attention that any piece of serious literature—especially poetry—deserves.
That said, I hated The Waste Land. I hated it with a hate that was sure and true. Not only did I hate it, I felt insulted by it. By the time I was finished with it, I had decided that Elliot was, in fact, having us on. My working theory on The Waste Land is that Elliot was a dick with an inflated sense of self who was gleaning a sick form of entertainment from watching the dopes that were stupid enough to slog through his epic struggle to ascribe to it a meaning that it did not have.
BUT
When I finished reading it, exhausted, unbathed, and seriously annoyed, I promised myself that I would read it again within 10 years. “Why,” you ask? Because I might be wrong. Because even though they might not be smarter, there are people out there who are better-educated and harder-working than I who value and appreciate it. Because Elliot also wrote “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” which is a genius little snapshot of the great tragedy of a small man and his small concerns. Because before I call one of the most important pieces of 20th century literature a horrific insult to letters and human intellect, I think I need to give it a second chance, if not to like it, then at least to appreciate it.
I used to hate tomatoes, after all, and now I view a salad of ripe summer tomatoes and balsamic vinegar and a lovely soft cheese as evidence that there might somewhere be a benevolent god. It’s important to revisit things periodically to see if they are as you left them. (Of course, if the little fucker is as awful as I remember it, then at least I can say I gave it a proper chance and thus that I really mean it when I call it the sticky leavings of a terrible literary masturbation.)
So, why now? Well, we’re right around the halfway point of the 10 year deadline, so it seems a reasonably good time. Right now, I have very little going on in the way of intellectual challenges, so I have the brain space and abundant time to devote to my little adventure. Plus, I don’t know, the universe has gone to considerable effort of late to make me re-examine things that I thought I understood. I figure, in for the penny, in for the pound.
I’ll keep you posted.
Do I still have my copy of T.S. Elliot’s The Waste Land?
Let me get on the record as saying that I have, sort of, read The Waste Land. More accurately, I have run my eyes over all the words in the poem. I read it in college, towards the end of a semester. I will admit, freely, that I did not give it the attention that any piece of serious literature—especially poetry—deserves.
That said, I hated The Waste Land. I hated it with a hate that was sure and true. Not only did I hate it, I felt insulted by it. By the time I was finished with it, I had decided that Elliot was, in fact, having us on. My working theory on The Waste Land is that Elliot was a dick with an inflated sense of self who was gleaning a sick form of entertainment from watching the dopes that were stupid enough to slog through his epic struggle to ascribe to it a meaning that it did not have.
BUT
When I finished reading it, exhausted, unbathed, and seriously annoyed, I promised myself that I would read it again within 10 years. “Why,” you ask? Because I might be wrong. Because even though they might not be smarter, there are people out there who are better-educated and harder-working than I who value and appreciate it. Because Elliot also wrote “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” which is a genius little snapshot of the great tragedy of a small man and his small concerns. Because before I call one of the most important pieces of 20th century literature a horrific insult to letters and human intellect, I think I need to give it a second chance, if not to like it, then at least to appreciate it.
I used to hate tomatoes, after all, and now I view a salad of ripe summer tomatoes and balsamic vinegar and a lovely soft cheese as evidence that there might somewhere be a benevolent god. It’s important to revisit things periodically to see if they are as you left them. (Of course, if the little fucker is as awful as I remember it, then at least I can say I gave it a proper chance and thus that I really mean it when I call it the sticky leavings of a terrible literary masturbation.)
So, why now? Well, we’re right around the halfway point of the 10 year deadline, so it seems a reasonably good time. Right now, I have very little going on in the way of intellectual challenges, so I have the brain space and abundant time to devote to my little adventure. Plus, I don’t know, the universe has gone to considerable effort of late to make me re-examine things that I thought I understood. I figure, in for the penny, in for the pound.
I’ll keep you posted.
On Approaching Spring and Surviving Winter
Winter is losing its grip on St. Louis’s throat. Yesterday when I walked outside in the morning it was practically balmy—at least 40 degrees. I almost wept with gratitude. Then I promptly slipped on a patch of ice and gave myself a minor injury, proving that clumsy knows no season.
Spring, of course, is not here yet. But it’s coming. It’s hard to explain the feeling, the promise of it in the world. Usually, spring makes its promise during the January thaw. This year, however, the January thaw was apparently pre-empted by more harsh and wintry ass-kicking. Now, even though I know that winter isn’t over, I am equally confident that spring is coming.
It’s something about the quality of the mud, and the way the dogs act, and something about the birds. That, coupled obviously with the warming temperatures and lengthening days, is doing something to renew my will to live.
Hopefully it will also do something to kill the chocolate tapeworm I must be harboring. I’ve been craving chocolate in what I’m sure is my body’s way of releasing needed endorphins into my cold-addled brain. Fine, as long as my butt stays roughly the same size.
Spring, of course, is not here yet. But it’s coming. It’s hard to explain the feeling, the promise of it in the world. Usually, spring makes its promise during the January thaw. This year, however, the January thaw was apparently pre-empted by more harsh and wintry ass-kicking. Now, even though I know that winter isn’t over, I am equally confident that spring is coming.
It’s something about the quality of the mud, and the way the dogs act, and something about the birds. That, coupled obviously with the warming temperatures and lengthening days, is doing something to renew my will to live.
Hopefully it will also do something to kill the chocolate tapeworm I must be harboring. I’ve been craving chocolate in what I’m sure is my body’s way of releasing needed endorphins into my cold-addled brain. Fine, as long as my butt stays roughly the same size.
Monday, February 19, 2007
On Monologues and New Year's Non-Resolutions
I came, I saw, and I . . . moaned. A lot and loudly.
This weekend was The Vagina Monologues. It was a great experience, if not entirely what I expected. In future, I hope to get some direction from any directors with whom I work. “Thanks,” while appreciated, is not exactly useful in developing a character.
Still, though, a good time. I stood in front of a roomful of about 100 people and moaned—loudly and repetitively. A year ago I wouldn’t have thought I could do such a thing.
I find that I’m in an interesting place right now. I turned 30 in October, a milestone that I greeted with much the same enthusiasm as my annual gynecological exam. Like my trip to the stirrups, I figured it as a necessary evil that would pass more painlessly if I mostly ignored it and tried to relax. While my actual birthday was about that good (attention boyfriends of the world: do not stand up your girlfriends on their 30th birthdays—no excuse is sufficient or will staunch the inevitable flow of tears), my 30th year has, thus far, been rather enlightening.
My friends who are a couple of years older than I told me that being 30 was a self-changing thing. That I would feel more secure in myself, more certain, and less-inclined to the struggles and self-doubt that characterizes people’s 20s.
I don’t know if it’s the passage of the mile marker that is 30, or if it’s the fact that the latter part of my 20s were filled with sundry disasters that, at the end of last year, culminated in a sort of interpersonal Armageddon—wherein the worst thing I could imagine happening to me (that did not involve death or physical harm to self or close friends/family) actually happened. Once “the worst” has happened, it becomes increasingly difficult to give any more than a fleeting fuck about “the rest.”
I said before on this blog that I don’t much go in for New Year’s Resolutions. I still don’t. I have, however, embraced a couple of mottos:
1. What are you trying to prove?
Whenever I look at taking on a new task/chore/job/challenge/whatever—I ask myself what it is I’m trying to prove, and to whom I am trying to prove it. If I realize I’m trying to prove something not in question (“I’m smart”) to a random “them” about which I really don’t give a damn, then I opt out. If I’m trying to prove something that I care about to myself, then into the breach.
2. If I don’t owe you money; I don’t owe you anything.
Civility, decency, respect—sure. Otherwise, unless your name is Chase Manhattan and you are holding my freakin’ mortgage, then I don’t owe you a damn thing. There are some exceptions made for very dear friends who have a right to expect some things from me, and who pay me back in kind, but in general I’ve spent far too much time worrying a great deal about what others want or need, or think they want or need. Fuck’em and feed’em fish heads.
3. What could happen?
Thank you, Julie Powell of the Julie/Julia project, for this one. Want to try out for a play . . . what could happen? Want to take time off school/quit school entirely? Refer to Motto #1 to and quit already . . . what could happen? Stand in front of a roomful of people and pant . . . what could happen? Yes, this does lead to things like my recent Peanut Butter Dessert Disaster—but it also leads to fun things like first kisses with new people.
This weekend was The Vagina Monologues. It was a great experience, if not entirely what I expected. In future, I hope to get some direction from any directors with whom I work. “Thanks,” while appreciated, is not exactly useful in developing a character.
Still, though, a good time. I stood in front of a roomful of about 100 people and moaned—loudly and repetitively. A year ago I wouldn’t have thought I could do such a thing.
I find that I’m in an interesting place right now. I turned 30 in October, a milestone that I greeted with much the same enthusiasm as my annual gynecological exam. Like my trip to the stirrups, I figured it as a necessary evil that would pass more painlessly if I mostly ignored it and tried to relax. While my actual birthday was about that good (attention boyfriends of the world: do not stand up your girlfriends on their 30th birthdays—no excuse is sufficient or will staunch the inevitable flow of tears), my 30th year has, thus far, been rather enlightening.
My friends who are a couple of years older than I told me that being 30 was a self-changing thing. That I would feel more secure in myself, more certain, and less-inclined to the struggles and self-doubt that characterizes people’s 20s.
I don’t know if it’s the passage of the mile marker that is 30, or if it’s the fact that the latter part of my 20s were filled with sundry disasters that, at the end of last year, culminated in a sort of interpersonal Armageddon—wherein the worst thing I could imagine happening to me (that did not involve death or physical harm to self or close friends/family) actually happened. Once “the worst” has happened, it becomes increasingly difficult to give any more than a fleeting fuck about “the rest.”
I said before on this blog that I don’t much go in for New Year’s Resolutions. I still don’t. I have, however, embraced a couple of mottos:
1. What are you trying to prove?
Whenever I look at taking on a new task/chore/job/challenge/whatever—I ask myself what it is I’m trying to prove, and to whom I am trying to prove it. If I realize I’m trying to prove something not in question (“I’m smart”) to a random “them” about which I really don’t give a damn, then I opt out. If I’m trying to prove something that I care about to myself, then into the breach.
2. If I don’t owe you money; I don’t owe you anything.
Civility, decency, respect—sure. Otherwise, unless your name is Chase Manhattan and you are holding my freakin’ mortgage, then I don’t owe you a damn thing. There are some exceptions made for very dear friends who have a right to expect some things from me, and who pay me back in kind, but in general I’ve spent far too much time worrying a great deal about what others want or need, or think they want or need. Fuck’em and feed’em fish heads.
3. What could happen?
Thank you, Julie Powell of the Julie/Julia project, for this one. Want to try out for a play . . . what could happen? Want to take time off school/quit school entirely? Refer to Motto #1 to and quit already . . . what could happen? Stand in front of a roomful of people and pant . . . what could happen? Yes, this does lead to things like my recent Peanut Butter Dessert Disaster—but it also leads to fun things like first kisses with new people.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Extreme Elimination Challenge: Dining Edition
There were a disturbing number of suckers on my friends plate. And one of the side dishes was looking at me with surprise.
Such is my lasting impression of my first experience with Korean food on Thursday night.
I have, over the years, become a reasonably well-rounded diner, after a fashion. For a mid-America dweller, I have a reasonable sense of dining adventure. Prior to Thursday, I had eaten what I think of as a tolerably decent sample of the cuisines of
Suckers and fish peepers. That's what.
I should, before I go on, confess that until last June I had not eaten meat in any identifiable form in almost 15 years. There is fish sauce in Thai food, I know that. And I'm sure that over the years I'd consumed various sauces and soups that undoubtedly contained stocks and meat leavings, but otherwise I was a lacto-ovo vegetarian for a long damn time. Ultimately, my foodie leanings and hedonistic nature led me to have a shrimp risotto, and since then I've eaten seafood here and there. Crawfish, shrimp, strange square Filet'o Fish sammich, and a truly exquisite scallop--I'm still rather new to this whole seafood thing, and although I have liked it thus far, it's a constant decision to eat it or not to eat it--touch and go all the time.
So. Thursday night. Dinner with a friend, and we decide to go for Korean. Him? He LOVES Korean food, and when that's what we decided to do he responded like a kid who has just been told that OF COURSE he could have the extra-large banana split with extra chocolate sauce and sprinkles.
I take this as a good sign, as any time someone whom I respect is that enthusiastic about a thing I assume that it bodes well for that thing. So, cool.
Now, to leap ahead a bit, what I had was quite good. It was some sort of spicy soup with seafood and tofu and green onions and egg. Quite tasty, with a clearness of flavors that belied the incredible richness that I can only assume was a result of all the soft tofu and what had to have been an outrageous fish-stock base.
That wasn't the problem. The problem, if you can call it that, was one of side dishes. Apparently, everything comes with a variety of sides. Kimchee. Lotus root. Something that I assumed was a fried tofu, but in retrospect might have been something quite different (a fact upon which I choose not to dwell). A dish of whole, cooked minnows.
Yes. You read that right. Okay, I don't know that they were minnows. I don't know what species of fish they were exactly, but really, does it matter? Think small feeder goldish, or large guppies without the fancy tails.
So. The waiter brings this all out, sets it down, walks off. My dining companion explains to me what everything is. He gestures to the dish o' fish, and says he thinks it's seaweed.
I peek at it.
It peeks back.
"Nope. Those are fish," I respond.
"Really?" he says, digging in his chopsticks.
I actually felt myself blanche.
The little fishes didn't like my outfit; they questioned the way I held chopsticks. They wanted to be eaten, quickly, because I bored them. "We are so happy to be your dinner," they said.
I tried not to giggle. Or make eye contact. I glanced over at my friend's plate. Or should I say, I glanced at the giant pile of tentacles in chile sauce sitting in a fajita skillet in front of him. The visible proliferation of suckers was . . . distracting. I looked at my own food. There was something floating in it, mostly submerged. I was very, very afraid to know what it was. I pushed it under with my spoon, Scarlett O'Hara style . "I'll think about you later when I can stand it better," I thought. I focused unwavering attention on my rice. I’m sure that my friend thought I had finally gone round the bend because to all appearances I was talking to the table throughout dinner.
As dinner progressed, my soup dwindled, and it was increasingly impossible to ignore whatever it was that was floating there. I applied my chopsticks and was relieved to see that it was merely a shrimp. At first I was somewhat flummoxed by its head; its eyes; its antennae; its whiskers; and its many, many legs. I found that it did turn out to be quite tasty once I removed its exoskeleton and hid it behind my teacup.
Because I had been a vegetarian for so long, and because of the reasons why I had been a vegetarian, I am very conscious of the idea that meat is made of animals. I don't do a very good job of separating what is on my fork or in my hand from what it used to be. I think that is a good thing, I think that it is part of what makes me who I am. In future, though, I think I would prefer to leave a tad more mystery to my meals. Either that, or I can return life as a vegetarian.
As for Korean food more generally, I would certainly eat it again. It was tasty, and it no longer has the advantage of surprise. Also, I am going to begin recommending it to my male friends as the perfect means by which to screen the humorless princesses from the women they date. Fuck’em if they can’t take a joke.
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