S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night!

Oh my God. This better not be my proudest moment. I'm watching C-Span just for what will probably be a 10 minute Stephen-monologue. The level of pride I'm feeling right now-in myself and what I've done with my life cannot be measured. Wait-I almost forgot, not only do I have C-Span on, but I have the live stream and I'm participing in chats about the White House Correspondent's Dinner.
Later, I will break my decade long SNL boycott to watch the Ambiguously Gay Duo host a TV Funhouse Retrospective.
This is deeply sad. Just deeply sad.
Isn't it FUN?
Any work I might've done tonight will have to be done some other time.

And to make matters worse, he went over like a Led Zeppelin. Either he wasn't funny (do I really know at this point if he is?) or the crowd was lame. Honestly, not speaking as a member of the Colbert Nation-I think it's hard to make fun of people that don't know you're making fun of them to said people's faces.

A case study:

"Want to see the picture I'm going to put on a t-shirt to wear to graduation?" I asked.
"Well, yeah" said everyone.
"Here it is, with the message "Johnny Cash has this message to give to the Dept of Folk Studies"
"Nice," said the unfortunately near enough to the screen to see the picture professor.
"You knew I feel that way didn't you?"
"Yes."

I related this to Mik.

"Subversive action is a good thing-but I think you should refrain from being directly ire raising.
"Are you saying my revamped idea to have a shirt that says 'Johnny Cash would like to send this message to Dead to Me and Never Existed to Me (author's note-names witheld to protect me from Google search, they would be on the shirt)" I laughed.
She took a drag on her cigarette, "Speaking as one who knows, let me tell you, that the small amount of joy you would take from that would not outweigh the repercussions."
"But the joy would be so iMEDiate!"
"There has to be a better way."
"I could shave my head. That would be subversive. But I was kind of saving that for the wedding."
"You really want to add to the fact that you'll be wearing a lime green tea dress by shaving your head?"
"If it draws attention away from the lime green tea dress, yes. I'm willing to do it. If it means losing ten pounds or gaining fifty, anything to distract people from the fact that I'm the odd attendant out-I mean, come on, I'll have to walk down the aisle alone because there's more female attendants than male!- And I'm in a wedding that at best will end with the bride having a meltdown somewhere between "Who gives this woman" and "I know pronounce..."
"We're not even having a conversation anymore. What, you'd gain 50 pounds? There's no discussion here."
"Sure, for you, you don't have to be in the wedding."
She put out her cigarette and signalled for the check. "You've stopped making sense."

Jon Stewart didn't go over at some press thing last year. He didn't go over like whoa.
And there's that time I bombed my portfolio.
Lik Hiroshima only with less death and more cheese.
We all have our bad personal appearances.
And in a perfect world Stephen and Jon and George Clooney and I would all go out for a beer and we'd toast how awesome and not 100% appreciated by everyone all the time we are, despite our adoring fans and overwhelming superior level of intelligence compared to most. Then something sexual, deviant and inappropriate would happen.
Oh wait! That's not a perfect world that's a slash fic world. I don't live in that world. Oh, and later on Denis Leary and Eddie Izzard would show up. We'd all drink Jameson's and be witty. It would be sexie like sexie has never previously been.

In case you were wondering-I've done fuck all with re-doing the portfolio. Dead to Me said that I would be sent an list of what I need to do. But that hasn't happened so I haven't done anything with that waste of time and trees.

Great. So that's what's going on. I'm going to watch SNL now.Even Coupland is avoiding me now. He's embarassed.

The roof is on fire

countdown to the 200th post begins
when I started writing in this thing I was doing it to keep up with two people with whom I didn't communicate enough. I was busy, they were busy, they've either stopped updating or erased their journals long ago. I don't really keep in touch with either of them at all anymore. Not an intentional decision, just life mostly. I keep plugging away with this blogthing. first off because I enjoy the outlet. But mostly because I am better at saying what I want to when I type, but when I talk I don't always say what I mean. My improv skills tend more toward the absurdist than the useful. And I know that I am keeping in touch with people without having to negotiate conflicting schedules. I'm happy to do that-I'm terrible with schedules. That's probably why I have a 20 page paper due on Thurs but I only have 3 pages written. I can't seem to manage my time very well. Tomorrow I intend to panic about the logistics of writing a 20 page paper in an afternoon.
Why, oh why, didn't I major in writing?
Because it's a worthless degree that inspires laughter.
Oh-wait-I'm a fuckin folklorist.
At least a writer's talent is pretty self explanatory.
I am officially participating in graduation.
Yea for me.
My name will be called, but I won't be in the program.
I won't get a diploma-just a leatherette binder with a note that says "See me." Or worse, "In progress."
On the long and tedious drive home I realized I'm jamming an entire semester (7 1/2 credits) into a month just so I can graduate 'on time' (in theory).
That's relaxing.
I think I'll finish the wine now. Just thinking about it makes me want to toast something. Like Dead to Me over an open fire created by the smoldering ashes of Never Existed to Me. Ahhhhh---comforting.
Tomorrow I am totally going to get up when Mik gets up for school and start working on my paper.
Right-she's usually up by 6:30. I can totally wake up by-2 maybe 3 hours after that.
This repeating episode must be so boring-me procrastinating on a paper right before the end of a semester. THis may well be the last time I do this.
Probably not.
I'd hate to have to face the terror of life without the buffer of school.
I heard today that this girl, let's call her Crazy Whore. Crazy Whore got pregnant went off her meds and dropped out of the program this semester. She came back a few weeks ago, asked for a reinstatement into the comfy world of GA-ship. She was given another chance.
A chance I was never given in the first place.
Rot in hell Dept of Folk and Anth. Rot in hell and writhe with the horror of the torment subjected upon evil souls.
I hope this is pretty much where the program goes. Stupid Crazy Whores from here on out. They'll be gone or at best a laughing stock in short order. As long as they cease to be soon I'll be happy.
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn.

We came in spastic like tameless horses, we left in plastic as numbered corpses

Wonder Showzen is hilarious and wrong in many ways.
Case you were wondering.
Now you have been informed.
I might even skip Aqua Teen Hunger Force to watch it again in a half hour.
Because today is April 23-an edgy kind of time for being alive.
I was scheduled to work a double today-but I didn't. I presume because the manager--all restaurant managers are named some derivative of Charles I have decided, he is at least the 2nd and maybe the 4th---can't read. That's cool-if he was literate I'd probably still be at work. How the hell do people work 12 hour days spent entirely on their feet? I get cranky after about 3 hours-who am I kidding? The drive to work brings on the cranky vibe. Not because the job is stressful, it requires little thought at all and any frustration disappears as soon as the mall is no longer visible from the rearview mirror. It's just that laziness and the manner of the sloth is much more my tendency. Waiting tables appeals to me because of the great deal of time I do NOT have to dedicate to working. Three good shifts a week (or 4 mediocre ones) and I'm set. A forty hour work week is not necessary-leaves me with more time to watch cult TV programs and work on my plan on growing my status as a cult figure without a television program. That's not really on my list of to-do's. The lazy eye and the crap hair keeps me from being very fond of being photographed much less the star of my own program.
My final paper, but not project, for one of my classes is finished but far too short. It was much longer but Mik edited out most of my best lines and most insightful comments. She mercilessly cut my brilliant viewpoints on the subject of folklore, saying that I needed to "consider your audience."
"But those are great metaphors! Don't you think that it's great the way I said that all I got from the program was 2 years older and another 20,000 in debt? Didn't you like how I compared salvaging folklore as a discipline to raising the Titanic?"
"I'm not saying it wasn't interesting. But, still..."
Having her around is good,as I would've turned that paper in and probably made angry someone who I actually respect. While I have opinion anymore about this degree-if I get a job then good on me. If (by which I mean when) the degree turns out to be worth fuck all, well, at least I have all that debt and the three or four good stories to think back on with fond memory.
It is almost over.
There is supposedly an end in sight.
Some people see an end, but I see only the patch of road where I am currently standing.

Making your way in the world today

I know television.
Particularly sitcoms and sci fi.
I know who played what character and how series ended.
I know what series ended wonderfully or with class(Newhart-Frasier-Seinfeld in retrospect)
I know what series ended before I was satisfied with the amount of televised entertainment I had been given (Quantum Leap, The X Files)
I know what series had the worst ending in the history of television (Roseanne)
I know these things-becauseI've don't the research.
And I also know that some shows are meant to go out with a bang-even if, maybe at the time they did-some shows end with the knowledge that the characters will still be there. That we, the audience, can continue to imagine that they're still where we are used to seeing them
Throughout this master's degree program I have only written one paper that I think was genuinely good. One paper that really was different enough to stand on it's own as scholarship as well as entertaining reading. That paper reflected my love of television. It is about Cheers. I wrote it while high as a kite on NyQuil and battling a flu bug that kept me out of school and work for a week. There is a part of me that suspects I didn't write it, but that it was written for me. Most likely by the nightime sniffling sneezing coughing aching fever stuffy head so you can write unnaturally clever papers god. A deity with a sense of humor and a love of alcohol. I have never been able to fully accept that I wrote that paper. Not because it is so brilliant-it is outlandish and no one on page one believes my claim but everyone on page 9 does. I am not that convincing a writer.
Today was portfolio defense. I failed. Not miserably-just failed. I knew it as soon as I sat down and began to speak that I had failed. There are some things that just are the case, George Clooney knew when he won best supporting actor for Syriana he wouldn't win best director for Good Night and Good Luck. I knew that having passed comps I wouldn't pass my portfolio. In this way I am like George Clooney. That and how people think I'm gay but only because I don't date or seem interested in dating. Also we're both classically attractive and reminiscent of a bygone era. Sure, he evokes Cary Grant and I--don't. But there's time...I could still gain that class. I think of this degree as my stint on The Facts of Life.
It won't be long until I enter into my ER period-sure, I'll have to be an abusive SO on Roseanne for awhile, but once I'm on ER it's smooth sailing.
I am somewhat freaked out at how apt this metaphor is.
Like I said, I know TV. And I love it-I gave up ER when George Clooney left. Sadly, ER just kept Energizer Bunnying along. It's unwatchable now-has been for a long damn time.
I failed my portfolio-mostly because I admitted what am unable to deny that I am anything but a novice at anything.

"I am still learning."
Michelangelo

Am I supposed to be better than Michelangelo? Well, I'm not. I was raised by intelligent, educated people. Eggheads, is what Dad calls us. People that discussed with nonchalance and casualty NPR and episodes of Nova. It was never a matter of were we smart. Of course we were smart, that wasn't a discussion point. The point was that it wasn't proper to impress upon anyone our opinions or thoughts.
It all boils down to Garrison Keillor. Not that I call him gospel, but I believe he is right. The midWest mentality is sorry. Not because we're ashamed, we are the proudest people in the country but we don't want to put anyone out with the fact that the middle of the country is the best part. Pretty good is good enough. That's what I believe. You don't want to be the best because that means you're making someone else feel bad. It is of course a question-did my parents teach me this, or did it become part of my psyche through 26 Northern Ohio winters? Winters in NE OH are a constant remindre of how meagre you truly are.
In such as case as if you are presenting your education to the people that educated you--you should probably drop this belief system for the coastal "let me tell you how fantastic I am" statement module. To tell the people that trained you that you feel you are pretty adequate but not an expert is a bad idea.
Now I realize this.
No one could point this out to me ahead of time?
What the fucky fuck?
OH well-such.is.life.
When I had failed, having digested it and ranted somewhat:
"She actually had the nerve to say to me that I should leave out that I waited tables and served coffee the last few years to pay for school because it doesn't reflect on my education. Well-shit-and here I thought that having worked my way through a fucking graduate program might mean a damn, stupid me."
Much too working class. Too close to the folk, not nearly enough like a folklorist. Ahhh-The land of the free.
When we got back to the house I said to C, "You mind if I have a beer before I head out?"
"You want a beer, or would you rather a whisky?"
"I always prefer a whisky, but I never like to take advantage of an available supply."
That set the tone for the evening. We finished off some Maker's Mark-toasting my failure and the success of my compadres. But mostly, we drank to my defeat. It is SO easy to drink to failure-who knew?
C took the truck and got T. We drank more and had a "musical pissing contest" as Mik called it-because we are just that fun--
"Well, I have 15000 songs on my iTunes."
"You don't have anything on me-I have 1 million songs on my iTunes-there isn't an iPod big enough for my record collection"
"I have every song ever recorded on my iPod---and a collection of bootlegs that I am the only person to have possession of such things."
Finally B got back from his presentation. He got into the whisky then we went for Mexican food-Gen X comfort food. We put away some margaritas.
Somehow the subject of my sexuality came up.
"ARE you gay?"
"What"
"This could be your coming out party."
"But I'm NOT gay!
"Out is the new in."
"What?"
"I'm just saying we could toast to you failing your portfolio but finally coming to terms with your sexuality."
"If I were gay that would be great-but you're talking to a person that owns every Barbra Streisand album ever put on vinyl and who has a deep seated admiration for Cher's musical stylings."
"So the only thing keeping you from being gay is a penis?"
"Basically-I am a female fag. Eddie Izzard's a male lesbian and I'm whatever's the opposite of that."
The four of us-those three they've been close and through the whole disaster together.
I just kind of watched. They're my friends, but I wasn't there and IN IT like they were.
"Would you ever recommend this program to anyone?"
"I would want to know what they want from it first."
"I have."
"I'd tell them-if yr first choice, and yr second choice and yr fall back school and Devry Technical Institute have all turned you down-then maybe Western is for you...If Tri-C Community College was too cut throat maybe you should try Western. If I hate you then you should definately go Hilltopper."
"Ha! Devry."
During my defense my arch rival (not to be confused with Dead to Me-he's Never Existed to Me) the professor with no redeeming qualities said not a word and refused to look at me, despite my determination to direct my comments straight at him. People on the nod are more attentive. He commented on everyone else. I think I might've eaten his baby at some point. That's alright-his baby might've been like him.
After we'd had 13th Gen's answer to corn bread and greens the four of us were saying later. C offered a hug. Then T joined in and B as well. To an outsider it must've looked like I was going off to fight in Iraq, not driving home to East Nashville to stop at the local for a beer.
I told Mik about this.
"It's not that we haven't been close-of course we've been through all this shit we have something in common. But I've never been that close to them-I've been separated."
"And that's why it's so important you are close now," she said.
When I got home from the bar I turned on the television. The last episode of Cheers was on-an episode that has been chopped up into three parts. When I turned on the episode the guys were sitting around, drinking beers and talking about what is important in life. Toward the end Norm says that love is the most important thing. He leaves Sam alone in the bar. Sam watches him leave, looks around, straightens a picture of Geronimo and says, "I am the luckiest son of a bitch in the world."
A man comes to the door.
"Sorry, we're closed," Sam says.
The series ends.

I took a typing class in high school so I'd have something to fall back on

At least she had the presence of mind to shut the door. The shower was on too, but the walls are only slightly thicker than shoeboxes in this place and as we all know because I've said it before, I am a light sleeper. At first all I could hear was the shower, then the crying started then the wailing, gnashing of teeth, tormented souls in hell cries.
That's what I woke up to this morning. Then she was fine. Until the afternoon when the torment set in again. She all but begged me to call semi-strangers in an attempt to solve her problem. I don't have any of these people's numbers or I would-just to eliminate the possibility of waking up to the same thing tomorrow. Not because I think it is even kind of alright. Because I don't,not that I have a problem with the action, but because I have a problem with excuses. And it is only an excuse.
We drink a lot. Well, I drink a lot an she can't hold her liquor so she goes to bed early. Then I sit in the dark, mealting in the heat, putzing around on the computer. Basically what I do when she's awake, but I feel less guilty about it when no one else is around.
Today I was doing my internship, typing away transcribing an interview. The person for whom I am working came over and patted me on the back, "Is it getting any less miserable?" he asked. "You sound like you're making amazing progress."
"Oh, I probably am, I'm really good at this. But that doesn't change the fact that I possess a skill that I no only do not appreciate I despise." He didn't really understand. But then, who would? Most people probably don't have extra talents.
Lucky me.
I gave the sister an insight into my mind today-let her read one of my witty, but nevertheless cheap and lame real person fan fictions. (That's the tricky and somewhat ethically questionable area of fan fiction written about real people. It's usually very very filthy.) Something I write because it amuses me, low culture, garbage and things that would make John Waters blush are a hobby of mine. And I am fascinated by the culture. It's a fun excercise in writing too-write two people so that they remain realistic, but are completely different entities. IT's not quality writing and no one sane should ever claim it as such-but I enjoy it and thought it would give her a chuckle into my sick mind. She looked more disturbed than anything. It wasn't porn or even close-there was discussion of sex, descriptions of sex, even a brief and meant for comedic effect man on man kiss-but the story had about as much actual sex in it as my life. She still looked downright upset, as if I'd shown her my favorite Furry art. I thought it was pretty tame-but what do I know? I can laugh at sex, but have little humor for drug addiction (and they don't make me humorous, either) perhaps she's the opposite.
What do I know?
My parents seem to have bought a warehouse in Barbertucky, Ohio. It's something like 6000 sq ft. That is, I think, rather a lot. They're going to open a business on the first floor because, legally, they have to, and on the secnd floor they're putting lofts. They'll live there and maybe rent the other space out to family or friends that have recently decided life isn't worth living so they might as well live in Barberton. I kid. I kid. It's a lovely and affordable location. It should keep them amused for years to come, and provide me with an endles stream of stories.

There I was, not an hour later--but I was drinking Scotch, not whisky. And I WAS looking at lesbian porn-but I was with my sister.

I met David Sedaris today.
Usually I try to start my posts with something a little more poetic, so as to draw the reader into my world. But I really don't feel much like going to the trouble right now-because, you see, I met David Sedaris today.
And it was awesome.
During my lunch break-so to speak, really I just decided to not work for awhile, from the CMHofF I went to the bank and then over to TPAC.
I'd only been in there once, to buy tickets for "Movin' Out." I remembered the box office was downstairs so I followed the white lights toward the "Will Call" and "Buy Tickets" signs.
"This is the longest of shots-do you ever sell last minute tickets?"
"Are you a student? We have last minute rush for students for the symphony, opera and ballet." This is interesting-I can claim status as a student for at least another few months. I'll spend my off days at the opera-hmmm, yes, very nice.
"What about for David Sedaris? Do you have last minute rush for that?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. Well, it's sold out."
"I know," I said. "It has been for awhile."
"But I can check, sometimes there's accessible seating that we open up on the day of the show." She typed some things, I knew I had the tickets-no logical reason I'd be able to get tickets to a SOLD OUT show on the day of the event but I knew I had. "We've got two tickets together."
Ticket luck.
That's all there is to it.
I called Mik "You wanna go see David Sedaris?"
"Fuck yeah," she said.
I felt bad-I would've loved to have been able to get a ticket for my fellow David Sedaris fan (by whom I mean you Amy-just in cased yr wondering who could she mean?) but there weren't that many tickets and I CAN'T leave the sister out. Since she's, well, family and unintiated into the Sedaris goodness until tonight. (That doesn't even seem okay or even possible-Dad's been into David Sedaris for AGES he introduced me, probably during the NPR indoctrination ceremony Mik also managed to miss and I quote Strangers with Candy almost as often as I eat candy-but she swears it's the truth. Did we really grow up in the same house? A-MA-zing.)
These were the last of the tickets, not even supposed to be available but there you go. Like getting into Neil Young accidentally I got tickets to a long sold out show. This is a secret-or maybe it's my sub-super power. Getting stuff I shouldn't.
We got cleaned up and got into town early enough for a beverage. The queue was vicious and we were not so much directed as swept to our seats.
We had to pay to park because there was a Preds/Red Wings game at the GEC. I amused myself before the reading by playing "hockey or NPR?" a game of factions. Some people were easy to guess, I was clearly not hockey. Some, mostly those in khakis and polos were harder to guess. But I think the NPR crowd are more prone to jeans and t-shirts, possibly a jacket. Weather permitting. Weather barely permitted clothes today. Of course, neither one of us can be the one to break down and turn on the air so it's 9,000 degrees in the apartment. That doesn't help the situation at all. I think it might be a battle of wills.
Today I tried the daring idea of straightening my hair. I usually curl it-my hair is so evil and curling it only makes it more Satanic. Straight hair is an improvement. That was an event.
We got to the show. He read, we laughed very hard. I was so damned amused by the story of the cabbie that loved to "fucky fuck" and felt that men needed "the pussy"-he even claimed to get the pussy everyday- but managed to realize that some men liked "the dick"--I was laughing like a fool at that. And then when he talked about being at his sister's apartment looking at Animal Porn-oh.my.God. It was just hi-LAR-ious. That was the funniest thing, but it was all funny. And new, so I wasn't nodding knowingly throughout saying "yes, this is the story about X, I hope he doesn't leave out the part about Y." That wouldn't have been as fun. But I wouldn't have complained. Since Mik didn't know anything about his writing or his family she experienced it different than I did. I was emic to the group, I had heard a couple of animal stories in my time and knew many of the participants from other stories. It came up in the Q&A about how much he feels comfortable talking about his family...and I feel like it shouldn't be uncomfortable because they're family. Of course, that's the problem, isn't it? That's the issue with people that write about themselves. I assume this is why mum doesn't want me writing about her. Could you imagine if I ever gained even the slightest amount of popularity people would be asking how Mum is doing?
Luckily, by the time I get around to publishing anything memoirs will be so far out of fashion, I'll never have to worry about that. I'm much to lazy to jump onto any writing trends.
The show over and I was kicking myself for having not brought any of my books that I already owned. I own a goodly enough number of books-2 or three anyway. But they were safe on the bookshelf instead of with me at the reading. Stupid-cuz I'm made of money. I bought the book that helped overpriviledged children. They need all the help they can get.
I got into queue, stood there for about ten minutes. A lady came by, "you're in the wrong line, come over here," she said, directing me and a couple of others forward in line.
My turn to say something clever to David Sedaris.
"Thank you for supporting the pitiful children."
"Well, I had a pitiful childhood, but no one supported me. So, I'm doing all I can."
"Do you live here?"
"In Nashville? Yeh, on the East Side."
"What do you do?"
"I'm 3 weeks away from getting my master's degree in folklore."
He laughed, "The commencement speech I gave away--we have a family friend that got into Harvard. My dad was so proud, his Godson going to Harvard-Ivy League something to brag about-he majored in folklore. $46,000 a year and he majored in folklore. That was such a great way to stick it to everyone."
"Well, the money's in folklore. But my sister went to Yale, graduated last May. She has a degree in theatre. We share a one bedroom apartment in East Nashville. Trust me, that says it all."
He was quite charming. He had a folklore anecdote! I love that. I am a gushing fangirl--a gushing nerdy folky fangirl. He signed my book "To m-------, thank you for helping miserable children-David Sedaris."
He probably signs all copies of this book that way-but I don't care-because I only have one copy of the book. The one signed to me.
This afternoon, after getting the tickets I called my parents.
"I just wanted to tell you-I got tickets to see David Sedaris tonight," I said.
"Ohh, how much did that run you?" Dad asked.
"$25 apiece," I admitted.
"Costly. Did you buy yr sister one?"
"No, I thought I'd just go home and rub in that I got a ticket to the show and she can't go. Yes-I bought her a ticket."
"You are so very generous," Dad said.
"I know I am, but it doesn't seem right to not buy a ticket for her."
"It should be hilarious."
"I think, even if he falls over unconscious halfway through at least I'll be able to say 'I was at the show where he keeled over halfway thru.'"

Man turns his back on his family-he just ain't no good

Well, Easter was lovely.
I had ham, and the sister had salmon. We both had turnip greens and potatoes.
She bought me a Mars bar and some gourmet jellybeans. I didn't buy her any presents. But I didn't kick her in the shins either. And I shared my candy. Cuz I'm darling. We went to the dog park and watched Eddie Izzard Definate Article and laughed and laughed. Because he's terribly funny that Eddie. Still crazy touched from that gift. I'll not be able to watch D2K or DA without feeling all special.
I also introduced her sisterlyness to the Trip Back and we agreed that it is the funniest video of all time--we should be ashamed of ourselves for laughing at that poor woman's addiction. I just don't think I can be a Rat Fink and Drop a Dime on my friends. Even if it does keep them off Dope Street.
We watched it on my computer in stunning 3x5 inch resolution. And it was worth it.
(Jerri Blank voice) Good times.
Now over to the weather desk-it's getting warm in Nashville and my car is being a pissant about the A/C. I have less than a dozen trips to Bowling Green, KY to make in life. I can't imagine I'll be too excited about making lighthearted extra trips after I'm done with the bitch of a program I am so near completion. Then I get to be a folklorist. Or, as the kids call it-a waitress at a chain restaurant in the mall.
Oh-I just located Mr. Dog (or as I call him, Ceasar-a little yippie kind of maybe we'll feed him and he'll shut the fuck up kind of dog) he was forsaking me with his Auntie but he's back now. He probably wants a biscuit or something.
He got out today-Coupland did. He just pushed the door open and wandered out. What a bad bad dog he is. But then-he didn't really go anywhere. Just tried to get in the car and leave--so he was sentenced to the bedroom where he whined and made pitiful sounds.
Brat.
I have to go to the CMHofF tomorrow and do a job I hate for no pay. I mean a job I truly hate-but I have to do it and I don't get paid for it. In fact, I have to pay for it. Life's a bitch and then you die.
So-I know that my theories on comps and passing and that were right. That makes me sad-it really does. And I really am almost done. Oh-sure-I have a shitpile of work to do still-but I can do it. I am so close that if this were a relay I'd be the last to run. It's really quite surprising, that I will finish.
At some point. Somehow. It should be exciting. I suspect since I live in the middle of the country and I'm quite landlocked here I won't get my clambake/crab boil I've been dreaming about as my graduation party since I was nowhere near getting my B.A. That's a bummer.
Life's gonna suck when you grow up-it sucks pretty bad right now.
Having a roommate is weird as hell. She is actually able to go to bed when Stephen is on! That doesn't seem right. But then I'm a card carrying member of the Faith Based Faith of Stephen with a PH.

Big black curtain comin' cross the field

"It's not that I had a short fuse, it's that I had a very long fuse that went off at socially inappropriate times."
-Stephen Colbert (not the character-the guy)

Quoting that again, because of all of the quotes I like to toss around that is probably one of the few that I can say are actually painfully real to me as I live my life. It's something I wish I had said, instead of having to just quote it.
It's been a long week. Difficult and highly joyous, all of these emotions that conflict. I manage to be both outrageously happy and miserable at simultaneous times. My sleep is very disrupted by having another person here. I don't want to complain and ask that she is quiet because she IS quiet. I wake up at the slightest sound. I'm a bit of an insomniac. Oh-I sleep--a lot--but I wake up during that sleep. A car drives by with a loud muffler-I wake up. My neighbor slams his car door-I wake up. Cope moves-I wake up. The slightest provocation brings me to consciousness. This is something I assume I will eventually adjust to. I am capable of adjusting to many things-but the adjustment is rarely easy.
This morning the sister got up and made coffee. I'd woke up at 3 for no logical reason but gone back to sleep at around 5:30. It was 7. My eyes hurt. My eyes felt like they had been scrubbed with brillo pads. I was tired. She started to tell me all the ways she hated her job and her life and how, if given the chance, she'd drive "her" (By which I mean, MY) car off the road and straight into a tree. She tells me she has no reason to live and makes fun of the people that she works with. She pities them-their kids and car notes and that the job is their only way of paying for those things. She talks about them with disdain. She tells me she'd rather die than live like that. This hurts me. On several levels. To me her issues seem so childish-not that they don't matter to her-but to think that life offers anything but survival and that there is anything to being alive that simply being grateful for the living-I think it is childish. To quote Denis Leary-"Life sucks-get a fuckin' helmet." How can someone really EXPECT greatness? Not want-because I WANT greatness, or at least respect-which to me means more than adoration. But I don't understand-because of my life and how rather lifetime movie it has been-why anyone would expect anything but the worst and then be THRILLED if the best happens.

She said she might as well kill herself.

I told her to go ahead.

She looked like she had been hit, got up, went into her room. I didn't know what she would do but I let her do it. I was that callous. I am that bad a person-I told her to kill herself.

I didn't mean it. I would never say that to anyone much less someone I care about and mean it. But I was so angry to hear her talk like that and she does it a lot. That's what she thinks-if she's not doing what she trained to do she might as well not live. I just don't see how someone can live that way. She 'isn't well.' I know. I've been 'not well' myself. I went on medication. It nearly destroyed me but I stayed alive. And the alternative-death or continued depression I would rather be alive and fat and dull than dead because there are no descriptive terms for dead, are there? But I can say that because I am 'well.' So to speak.
Tried to go to work but I was a wreck. I felt so out of place, and wrong. I got into work.
"How's it going?" the manager asked.
"Not good. I'm afraid, I've got a family emergency. My roommate is talking suicide. But I didn't want to call off-I can't lose my job."
"Go home, you should've just called. Go home, never worry about losing your job for something like that."
I just fought off crying. I needed the money so much-but I could barely talk. I was so sure that I had pushed her over the edge. "GO 'head and kill yourself then." I didn't want to be home, but I was afraid if I wasn't she would. But then, I thought-no she wouldn't-but how can you KNOW? She is dramatic and thrives on melodrama and extremes. As I do not-to that level at any rate-I was not sure what her reaction would be and it seemed to me my responsibility to take care of the situation.
I didn't feel like I could deal with such a situation.
I went home, changed clothes. My water bill caught my eye-it was late-oh shit it was due on Thurs or Fri. Fuck. I paid it-the electronic voice reminded me even after giving me my confirmation number that my water was scheduled for shut off today. My landlady told me the water company had been threatening to turn off the water for over a week. I had mispaid in March-my bill was past due--but 80 cents. My water could get turned off because of a mispayment. An 80 cent mispayment and a payment not even 48 hours late could cost me $50 or more and a negative mark on my credit score. My day is going fantastic. This is the best day ever. And I am reminded that it was this day-the Saturday before Easter-one year ago that I experienced the excitement of an encounter with the Nashville police (they were protecting, not arresting, fear not-I am a law abiding citizen)--well, today is just my day. That's all.
So I got angry. I have these issues to think about and her life isn't worth living because she has to work a job? Oh you poor poor little baby-let me pamper you in your trauma since I have nothing about which to feel sorrow or fear. I wanted her the fuck out of my house. Not with my car either-she can take her clothes and I'd drive her to the Greyhound station. Go to the Coast where the Ivy League Educated Elite you so suddenly love (but hated this time last week) all reside. Here's a pack of cigarettes, don't smoke them all in Bloomington. I didn't do that. I would not do that. I'd think it-but that's different. I think a lot of things. I even write them. Doesn't mean I mean them. I'd be willing to bet that some people just don't have the writing outlet that I do and instead of just thinking and writing things they say and do things they would rather not more often than I do. And I do it a lot.
Thank God for my self obsessed creative non-fiction habit. Without it I'd have to take up recreational apology writing or jogging or something.
Me and Cope were at the dog park. I talked on the phone. He dug in the dirt. She says she can't get better in one day or five months and she doesn't know how long it will take. I know. I know.
We're sitting in the living room. My eyes are burning, I'm hungry and can barely speak. I wish I was asleep. I am ashamed. I didn't work. I couldn't leave it at the door. How do you leave something like this at the door? She says she burns to be able to do what she was trained to do that she needs it she was brainwashed to need it.
I understand, in theory. But I remind her-no one applauds me when I do my job. That most people go to work and their thanks is a cost of living increase.
She says she understands.
I try to convince myself she does. It makes it easier.
My landlady comes over to tell me she won't be paying for half the cable anymore. Her timing is wonderful. What did I expect?
Sis goes to work. She leaves the house with the traces of a songall I'm thinkin' bout is you baby...
I go to the liquor store and buy her a bottle of sparkling wine.
Try to buy Easter dinner but can't justify the purchase of a whole ham. I leave my cart in frozen foods and come home without holiday dinner or candy.
I am going to try to sleep now.

To see thee more clearly

Gosh, but I sure do love the high holy days. I got to watch SO many different takes on Jesus. Anderson Cooper is going to dedicate a special half hour to the mystery of Jesus coming up. To which I say-HUzzah! Anderson! Well played! It is about time someone took on the hard hitting stories about Our Lord and Saviour!
Couple this with the viewing of The Gospel of Judas and my intention to rent Jesus Christ Superstar tomorrow and what you have is a very confused religious observance. Also I plan to eat ham. Because you know-Jesus made the greatest sacrifice and was crucified so that we could eat ham and wash it down with chocolate eggs and jelly beans. Well-maybe Anderson Cooper can clear it up.
First commercial break and I am sad to announce that Andy isn't doing interpretation on the mystery. Not sure what I was hoping for-but I think the whole thing would be greatly improved with some of the Andrew Lloyd Webber hippie dancing.
School, Thurs night:
"Yr mention of the 'cosmic vibe' has be wanting to go home and listen to Godspell."
"I feel that I owe you an apology, I would never want to inspire someone to subject herself to Godspell."
I walked out whistling "Day by Day"

Champion of the World

12:15pm. Wednesday. April 12, 2006. I was making pot pie, one veggie and one chicken. All My Children was on telly. The computer was on, as it always is, despite my promise to myself that I would refrain from checking my email until I had returned from my shift at the rib barn of Gomorrah. This had seemed like a doable thing last night. Course, last night I'd gone to 2 for 1 Yazoo beers at one of the locals and ended up drinking too much eating too little and having to talk with one of the men that find me attractive. A nice guy-but it is so typical, he's slightly overweight, a nerd, probably lists Jeneane Garofalo as his perfect woman. They're all the same, men that want to get in my trousers. I'm over it. SO-ANYWAY-I was a little wacky when I made that promise to myself. Obviously I couldn't do it. I can't go for an hour without checking my email if I'm at home.
The deadline for grades for comps was noon. That's why I was making pot pie. Similar to cleaning house instead of studying for finals. I hit refresh. There it was-"You have 1 new message." I clicked the link. There was the title "comps." I clicked it, shaking, terrified of what I would see. An attachment, nothing else. I couldn't breathe, I was so terrified. The terror I was feeling was unlike anything else-I've been afraid, I've been horrified, but I've never felt like that and I presume I never will again. I'd rather not at any rate. I clicked the attachment, to open it. I couldn't read it-I was crying, because I knew what I was going to read "We regret to inform you..." I called Mum. The phone rang, and rang and the attachment loaded and opened and I read it. I passed. I passed comps. Mum answered the phone.
"Hello."
"Ma...." I gaaped. I truly had gotten the news just as she answered the phone. Simultaneous. No time digest-I had been thinking I had failed and would need comfort.
"Ma, I..."
"What? Oh my God, what!"
"I passed, Ma! I passed comps!"
"Oh my God, What?"
I tried to breathe, but because it wasn't the news I'd been expecting it was difficult. "I passed my comprehensive exam. I just got the letter."
It only took her about 15 minutes to regain her compusure. I think she thought someone was dead, not that something good had happened. I should've digested the news first. Before calling. But I wasn't supposed to pass-that's all-someone had to fail, someone nearly always does and it stands to reason I would be the one to fail. Because I'm a loser--that and the fact that I quoted Strangers With Candy in my essay. Somehow, I thought that would ruin my chances. Maybe it was too vague a quote-tho Mik got it right off when I referenced it and she'd only seen the show once. Course, it was the previous day...but it was from the opening credits...so there's that. But I'd come up with 3,000 reasons why I would fail and none as to why I would succeed.
I celebrated by putting on a polo shirt and selling tourists ribs and alcohol-like ya do.
Tomorrow, I get to go to school and hopefully see similar relief in the faces of my peers.

Eye of a hurricane listen to yourself churn

Twice today the concept of eschatology* came up, once on telly and again whilst perusing of the interweb.
Then, at school, I was told that grades had to be in for the comps by noon on Wednesday.
Coincidence?
I think not.




*the study of the end of the world

Thirty pieces of silver

Mik and Cope are asleep on the loveseat. They look so harmless in the TV light. I'm watching a National Geographic special on the Gospel of Judas. Mik lasted about half an hour. She had a busy day-watching movies and playing with the dog. While I was out busting my balls to earn a few dollars to keep the lights on.
I'm kidding.
She was here less than 24 hours and had a job. How long she'll keep it is debatable by everyone that cares-because most people are not made for serving and it's not an insult to say that I wonder. Most people are not willing to put up with the huge stinking piles of shit that go with serving. I wonder how in the hell I do it. The job sucks-then you count yr money. If yr lucky, it sucks a lot less then. I take a strange pleasure in the pissy attitudes, the anger and the frustration, the screaming, the physically noticable raising of blood pressure. Maybe I'm a freak...or Maybe...maybe it's the benjamins...hell, if I worked full time, I'd be financially sorta not in dire straits. But I don't plan to do that until I officially am asked to leave the folklore field. Or I get a degree...ha ha ha! That's hiLARious!
We haven't had any major issues. Other than she wants to smoke in my house. Gentle reader-you've BEEN in my apartment-it is not smoker friendly. It is small, and carpeted and has crappy air flow. All good reasons to not encourage smoking. Nothing really ENCOURAGES smoking-cept maybe an evening at the Bluegrass. But she said if she's paying half the bills she should be able to smoke-but we made a compromise. She pays less than half the bills (not on the interweb thingy) and she smokes on the porch. So we're happy. The smoking makes me sad-because I WANT to smoke. SO much. I really LIKE it. And I'm SO GOOD at it. But I shouldn't. Tho I do socially, and when I'm drunk. But not regularly. Not daily. Not even weekly I don't think. Once in awhile is all. And not inside-because I wouldn't want my beautiful quality furniture and decor compromised.
SO-other than I am not used to having another person around me I think we get along well. I am very unused to company. I'm a solitary (wo)man. Me, Neil Diamond and Johnny Cash. We're all very solitary. And cool in our ways. I do have to work at being glad that I have someone around instead of wondering why there's someone else here. I've never had a roommate. Even when I lived at home I lived alone. I think I covered this back before AFS. Me myself and I that's what I know and I am unused to sharing my pleasant little world with someone all the time. I don't dislike it-but I feel on guard quite a bit. Because there are things that I am used to doing (for example-watching the Nanny multiple times a day-well, not watching, but letting Fran Drescher grace my TV screen) but since someone else lives here I have to share the TV and that means less bad sitcoms. Not much less-but less---and WAY more reality MTV/VH1 programs. This is not all bad. Weird. Because I feel dirty watching those shows but hey-such is life.
Let me interject into the narrative and say that the two beasts on the loveseat are some of the most relaxed creatures currently residing on the planet. All sprawled out and comfy...I must send them to bed-so I get my dog back. Coupland loves mostly the living room and hates mostly, the bedroom. Because Baxter haunts the bedroom. Cope went into the bedroom last night and got on the bed then hopped off and came back in here. Baxter was protecting his room. That's my guess. I miss Baxter. I love Coupland-but I wish Baxter was still here. Probably, that's just how it'll be for awhile.
What sort of adventures have I been having?
None much. Working. Working. Suffering from brain death from the comps. I can't believe I took the exam-felt ok about it and then by the time I was home I felt like I might as well have never bothered studying or anything. Hell, I coulda gone into the exam and written the lyrics to "Last Train to Clarksville" and done better. But I came thru in one piece. Essentially. I just hope I'm not the only person that has to re-take the test. I don't want to be the only one with a diploma that doesn't have a sheepskin but instead has a note that says "see me." I STILL haven't done any work for school. I'm scheduled to present at the conference mem. weekend at 8:30am. That's earlier than any human wants to be up and discussing country music. At least I'll be playing to a small room. Small crowds tend to offer pity.
That's what I have to say.
Other than, when I went into work yesterday I saw that I wasn't on for Sunday. I was upset-because I NEED my Sunday. That's close to a buck right there, and I can't be lettin' that go. So, I'm all frettin' "Why can't I work Easter? I need that shift." Then I realize, the restaurant isn't open. So, like that prep cook said, "Don't nobody get their Sunday next week, we get a day off. Of all things." Hmmm...well...then, and I gotta work Wednesday night. Sucky. But Easter is good-cuz you have the Rescurection and chocolate eggs. Festive.
OK-that's good tho, cuz I get to see the young Mr. Scruggs on Thurs night without having to get up for work the next day. That's groovy. And on Sunday I get to revert to my self pitying ways---because Lent is over! Yippee!!!!

Gethsemane

I only want to say
If there is a way
Take this cup away from me
For I don't want to taste its poison
Feel it burn me,
I have changed I'm not as sure
As when we started
Then I was inspired
Now I'm sad and tired
Listen surely I've exceeded
Expectations
Tried for three years
Seems like thirty
Could you ask as much
From any other man?

"The thing is they're going to ask me what I think about something I hate like material culture. I hate material culture-it brings...it drags..the problem is it takes something that's dead and tries to revive it that's all material culture is, you know?"
"No kenz, I have no idea. You're not making any sense, you are so immersed in this thing that you're unable to communicate without lapsing into language that only makes sense to you."
"That's true. I know. I'm immersed in something I have no interest in at this point. I don't want to be a folklorist. I want to use folklore, but folklorists work long hours for very little pay. I would like to do the oppositte if possible....Do you ever listen to This American Life?"
"Of course."
"Well, to me, that's what I'm supposed to be doing. Not that specifically-but the sort of thing that David Sedaris or Sarah Vowell do."
"Or Chuck Klosterman, right?"
"Right. If someone were to ask me what I want to do I'd say I want to write along the lines of Chuck Klosterman or David Sedaris. It's not about telling other people's stories to me."
"Creative non-fiction, that's what you want to write. It's true, but it's also artistic."
"I'd forgotten that, that is such a great explanation of what I want to do. Creative non-fiction, it's the intersection of fact and story. That's it-it's memoir and research."
"So hit them over the head with that-put it in yr resume, mention it in yr descriptions of what you're including in yr portfolio."

I'd gone up to school today. I am tired-but can't sleep. Can't study or sleep. Almost fell asleep at the wheel. Can't do anything but be awake and fight doubt and worry. All I can do is have fight "How do you expect me to do this?" "What do you expect from me?" I ask. And sometimes, I get an answer, and sometimes, I'm not sure the answer is from me. I got there, asked a question, passed T in the hall (unfortunately since I skipped his class later), then went down to the cabin.

I am not in any way saying that I've gotten a raw deal. I have, I think-but not because of anything but that I haven't used the experience to my own best interest. That and how I was treated like a non-entity by DTM-but that's old news. Still interesting old news, like the sinking of the Titanic or something but old nonetheless. Bitters only enhance the taste of whisky anyway. So there I was, in the cabin with probably the only two people goin through the program with whom I have had any significant contact (and only because they were so open people, and I appreciated that-and reacted accordingly, you'd have to have just disembarked the greyhound to think it's because I pursued a friendship-I prefer gravitational forces myself). We were chatting-I was browsing a website put up for April Fool's about that claimed that Webster was the best TV show ever and claimed that Bob Saget told a version of The Aristocrats at the end of every episode of Full House. Periodically I pretended to study for comps by flipping through a notebook with the mysterious label "Comps Study Guide" compiled by someone in the bygone era of the early 90's. I can only assume the person that put together this notebook has returned to her/his home planet by now and that's why the notes are no longer needed. That or death from over analyzation.
I read these sample questions that were posed to the students of that mysterious era of the Clinton administration and realized that I could answer 80% of them. The other 20% I couldn't even fake, but 80% I could answer with ease and comfort. Or bullshit-as I like to call it. That means that unless something has changed drastically in the discipline since that time (hi John Dorst-nice facade! Did you do that yourself?) I will am facing only a 1/5 possibility of being faced with a question to which I have no answer. Since my life is proof that Satan is real I am prepared, but not preparing (why bother?), for just such an occasion.

"You are just full of self doubt right now, you need to stop that."
"Yr right, It's all very Gethsemane."
"I know."
(She does? Where did she get her training in religion? I got mine on the street, in the back alleys, online, and in the dustiest section of public libraries. It was all very disturbing and covert my foray into my own private idaho.)

so full of self doubt and so powerless to change the outcome. I've thought about going out and doing SOMETHING after the test-but I remember-if I fail, I will have that SOMETHING to remind me of my failure as opposed to reminding me of my completion of a task.
Too bad-cuz the SOMETHING ideas are pretty kewl.
Or I'm delusional.

Pleased to meet you-hope you guess my name

As of right now I am so deeply tired, in so much physical pain and so deeply distraught about the exam on Wed that it is taking all that I have to not cry. It is a horrible feeling-but I don't want to give into that emotion. It's unnecessary and childish, or at the very least inappropriate. I have no comfortable reaction to my emotions right now. They are, it seems to me, natural, but they are in no way acceptable. I can't be this upset. I know I'm not going to pass-not my comps or my portfolio and perhaps not my classes this semester. I know that-but I am so-just-upset. I'm just upset.
No.
I'm scared.
Terrified.
And not strong enough for this.
No matter what I might've said before-I'm not strong enough to deal with this.
Oh my God-how am I going to do this?
I can't do it. I just can't.
I know I should walk away-try to rest my body and my mind but I'm afraid that what if what I read tonight is my last best chance to get the information I don't know into my head? What if there's one article that will answer the question I need to know?
There's too much to do and not enough time.
I need so much more time-time to do this degree right and not be so fucking behind on everything now-time to not have to work so hard and not waste so much time being tired and angry and just do the work and keep up with everything I should've done. I want to do it right-I've done it all wrong.
I need a mulligan.
Please, could we start again?
Please?

Every event influences every other

Yahoo had a blog topic on the homepage-What were you doing 10 years ago today?
To be honest, I don't remember specifically. I was 19 years old and in the difficult process of prying myself loose from an abusive relationship. It is quite possible I was busy dealing with the legal system a decade ago-charged with the crime of not wanting to be abused anymore. Although the abuser called it assault. I think that's irony-but I'm not sure. It's a terrible crime that is, not wanting to be hurt or controlled anymore. Or maybe I was "dating" a man 15 years my senior with the high powered job of asst manager of the fast food restaurant where I was a cashier, but not trusted to run the fryer. I don't have too many specific dates for these events-I know they happened sometime during the Spring and Summer of 1996. Back when I couldn't imagine living to be able to buy a legal beer, much less a car or making regular rent payments. I didn't have a future in 1996. I was crazy (not in the fun way) and a danger to myself and others. I was unpleasant to be around as well. The person I was 10 years ago was a person upon which no wise gambler would place a bet-a college drop out with a mental illness and a criminal record (courtesy entirely of the previously mentioned asshole). I was well on my way to a hobo camp. If I was lucky.

So, here it is 10 years later. I can't say the jobs have improved much-the money has, but the esteem isn't much higher from fried fish to grilled ribs. It just looks better, and is easier on the hair and skin. My sense of self worth is MUCH higher. I keep so much better company words don't fully describe the difference. I've figured out my views on dating. My brushes with the law are much more mundane-to the nearly non-existant. I am a catch-but not willing to be caught. I'm educated, not just higher but advanced. My only encounters with hobo camps will be ethnographic research. My crazy is the fun kind and I have owned multiple cars (not the one I currently drive-but someday, probably--at least I pay the insurance). I've taken care of not only myself but sweet departed sneaky Baxter and faggy little Coupland successfully. Of my family-I might be the most sane and level headed.
That's unnerving.
Odd to hear what I was then-eh?
Odd to see where I am now.

Life's like that isn't it.