That's like happiness, isn't it?

It's like a job, except without the work.
Allow me to tell you about my day:
I get up at 7 to take Mr. Baby for a walk.
After one pot of coffee, 2 pieces of peanut butter toast and 1.5 episodes of the Golden Girls, I go to work.
But first I stop at Kroger for club soda and lollies.
9am-arrive at work. Spend 10-20 minutes opening (checking in stuff from the book drop, putting out papers, etc)
9:20-2-read, hand out guest passes for the computers
2-3-lunch and General Hospital, putz about on the interwebs
3-5:30-help the children (who are, I am sure you know, the future) master the fine art of playing video games

I get paid to do almost the exact same things I would do if I was unemployed. The only difference is that I have to get dressed and cross the river to do them.

It's all quite pleasant, so I can only have one thought:
When's it all going to go arse over tits?

All about the Personality Crisis

Mary Sue/Gary Stu: An 'original' character in fanfiction that is more perfect, lovable, beautiful, smart or fantastic than any normal person could ever be. May also describe the beautifully flawed, the brilliant, damaged, bitter, stand-offish character that no one should like but for some reason everyone is drawn in a groovy kind of mosquito to bug zapper kind of way.

A good writer will not insert a Mary Sue into a story-as it is an onanistic and fully self-aggrandizing sort of thing. There's a handy dandy little test to see if your OC (original character) is a Mary Sue. Curiousity being a hobby of mine, I went aboutfilling out the test as if I was a character in a story.

Brace yourself.

I am a Mary Sue. I'm the Sueiest Sue that ever Sued. On a scale of 1-100 I'm 84% Sue.

Lengthy exploration of this discovery (warning-this may sound deeply self-absorbed, but it's for science and it's a fucking blog, of course it's self absorbed)

Character

-has an unusual spelling of a somewhat common name
- has a name that describes personality or trait (I am in fact the child of a wise person)
-has a name that is unusual for era in which she grew up
-foreign name
-People (including stoic and chaste characters-'Real Men Love Jesus' guy anyone?) are attracted to the character
- has exceptional eyes that reflect hidden depths or sorrow
-dresses in a manner I find particularly cool (OK-that's obvious)
-is smarter than the average bear
- has been estranged from some or all of family
-was forcibly banished from country or tribe (well, job actually-but it was the suburbs so the mall was like a tribe)
-has angst issues
-has suffered emotional, physical and sexual abuse/rape
- considers skill a curse (transcription isn't exactly being the only person that can defeat Voldemort but the test didn't specify...and other stuff too)
-suffers extreme guilt for something that happened in the past despite overwhelming proof that it was not his/her fault
-has worked willingly for an evil regime (*$)
-is well traveled
-collects intellectual/esoteric things
-is irreverent without repercussions
-just knows things
-has a handicap that is not a serious hindrance (dang bad knee!)
-animals and children love him/her
-has 1 or more addictions that he/she revels in to the point normal people would be incapacitated or in rehab
-has a significant personality flaw (misanthropic, reclusive, bitter) that causes said character trouble but never lasting harm
-avoids learning from mistakes
-character is extremely knowledgeable in one or more areas (particularly areas that are not everyday knowledge)
-has photographic/phonographic memory
-has the power of seduction (in this case, seducing random guys in the drinks line at bars to buy me drinks when I'm not even flirting, esp when I'm not flirting)
-everyone significant to the plot has heard of the character
-everyone likes, respects, fears character (but there's not nearly enough fear)
-doesn't change ways but instead waits for the world to adjust for her/him

Now my entire image of myself has come crashing down. I've just realized that the reason my life is so dull for such extended periods of time and then suddenly full of events and bright flashes of color and excitement and events is because I'm being scripted. I bet that if I went through my blog I'd realize these events appen at regular intervals, right on some kind of schedule. I'm a poorly crafted character study.

It feels like this only with fewer mobsters and no cigars.
Read the link and tell me that I'm insane and talentless or whatever the other option is and make my day. Thanks for being all rock'n'roll in that way.

The only way to deal with this is to go play with my dog (who also has a very interesting name and unique characteristics and has overcome great difficulties in his life---Coupland's a Gary Stu!) Then, listen to some independent label music that defies genre boundaries, drink Shiner Bock whilst reading Sherlock Holmes mysteries and round the evening off with one of the multitude of painkillers one can find in every cupboard in my apartment.

On my way over heretonight I heard a song that perfectly personfied my emotions...

Everybody have fun tonight
Everybody Wang Chung tonight.
-Best.Frasier.Quote.Ever.

Now, I'm not exactly in the middle of a prolonged Wang Chung or anything here, but I am enjoying cautious positive emotions that could be construed as happiness. But, I find that being happy is a very treachorous emotion and I try to save it for moments that I know will disappear quickly, as oppose to lengthy periods of time. I would call my state of mind-slightly less negative than usual. That's an apt description.

The head of the division of libraries I've been working at called me, "A good little worker." This is after she walked up on me idly reading a book by Richard Roeper on urban legends. (At least she didn't catch me reading fan fiction, tho she might not have cared.) She's obviously fallen for my unavoidable charms. Or was won over by the fact that I was willing to tackle the YA section-an area that looked like no one had tried to organize it since the earliest months of the 21st century. She says she wants me working full time ASAP.

I refuse to accept that this is for real. That would be hope, wouldn't it? That's just not me.

But for a moment I let my guard down, and I believed it. When no one was looking, I let myself dream about the possibility of earning a living wage and being able to pay my car insurance and buy groceries. It was a pretty dream, but like that one where I'm onstage at Starwood performing a duet of "Stop Dragging My Heart Around" with Tom Petty, I know it's just a fantasy.

Sometimes a fantasy is all you need.

Random Rules-Complete and Total Rip-Off from the Onion-10 songs

1.If Tomorrow Never Comes-Todd Snider
Todd Snider's that singer-songwriter that will be on every show promoting his new album periodically making his way to a major label but even if he starts selling out the GEC and the Gund he'll still belong to me and Mik and Dad and Mum. Dad bought Songs for the Daily Planet because he heard something intangible. I listened to That Was Me and told Daddy that I think the song is about me. He said of course it is. That moment-I love to tell it-explains my feelings about Todd and his music-saying everything and being completely general.

2.Second Option-Thad Cockrell and Caitlin Cary
"I've been alone on a Sunday, I've been alone on a Monday, I've been alone too many days baby"
To be honest, I downloaded this album because it got really good reviews and not because I knew anything about the artists. It was a good choice. Total Americana stuff.

3.This is the Night-Clay Aiken
Oh just stop looking at me like that. I like Clay Aiken, okay? His album sucked rotten eggs but dude can sing. The only reason the album blew was that it was over-produced. If he'd been allowed to just sing it would've been well worth my money. And when he showed up on the season finale of AI last spring-well, I got almost as excited as that Claymitator.

4.Dead to Rights-The Twilight Singers
Oh good, I get my indie cred back. I was worried for a minute. Albums are often uneven and tedious (hence the love of the random feature) but this is all around an excellent album. Addiction, anger, betrayal and disinterest. It's all there on this collection, and this song actually.

5.
The Arrest-Jesus Christ Superstar
Actually from a redux thing starring the Indigo Girls. As is de rigeur I will claim hatred of Andrew Lloyd Webber except for JCS (some people say Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, others fancy Phantom and I'm sure every musical has it's followers). I will admit with no shame-I love this musical and this song. The scene from the movie is so tense and terrible and melodramatic. I love it.

6.In the Deep-Bird York
I've never seen Crash. Don't want to. It wasn't the best picture of '05-that was Brokeback Mountain. But this song-I actually first heard it on an episode of House (Autopsy-the same ep that teased us with Elvis Costello singing Beautiful, an as of yet unrealeased version that would cause me to pay full price for the soundtrack just for that one song despite the fact that I've gone to the trouble of collecting all the songs off iTunes or Rhapsody or from my own personal collection.) This song has actual power, it stands without the movie, it just reflects.

7.Girls Talk-Elvis Costello and the Attractions
Who doesn't want to just hear girls talk? Get Happy was one of those perfect Elvis Costello moments during the 3 1/2 years when he could hit no wrong notes. He still does it occassionally, but mostly he just does what he wants.

8. Wondering, Wondering-Emmylou Harris
I guess the angels sing like Emmylou. (That's from an unreleased Todd Snider song-my bootleg and low quality copy of which I've long since misplaced-but I know it was Todd and I know it's true.) If I ever have a daughter she will be named Emmylou. If I ever were lucky enough to meet Ms. Harris I've been given clearance by my family to act like a fool. Because she reaches something that I can't quite express-just by doing what is natural.

9. Make the World Go Away-Eddy Arnold
Crooning is sort of more awesome than a lot of modern musical expression. In an equally sort of odd and why would anyone want to listen to this kind of way. I'd love this if someone removed the drab background singers. They're lame.

10.Half Breed-Cher
I.Love.Cher.
She's awesome and even when she was doing info-mercials she was cooler than me or you or anyone in the tri-state area. The trifecta of story-songs is American songwriting at it's most ridiculous-but when Cher interprets it we find ourselves dealing with high drama. Try to be as cool as Cher and you'll end up in the ER coping with internal bleeding from the strain. It's just not going to happen.

11. (Completely because it's amusing---a hidden track) Drive Slow-Kanye West
Coupland likes to sing Gold Digger. But he doesn't edit it for television. He's so un-PC that dog.

Everyone should do this-because it would amuse me and that is really what it's about. Keeping me happy.

5 goes to 7 : Avarice and Avoidance

In which our heroine becomes even less charming than usual and wastes a ridiculous amount of time on situations that are twelves steps beyond trivial.

First things first-can someone tell me when middle age starts? I think it happens sometime in the mid/late-40s and that I'm at least a decade and a half from middle age. I barely got through my quarter-life crisis do I have to start planning for the mid-life one? Will I get a convertible? Can I have something to reflect on other than an inordinate amount of time spent watching soaps? Am I the only person reminded of that scene in Postcards from the Edge when Shirley Maclaine refers to herself as middle aged and Meryl Streeps says, "How many 120 year old women do you know?"
At least the last thing is probably just me.
No, it's all just me.

Today I decided to go to Tower Records because I very much needed Entertainment Weekly for the tastiness. It's been awhile since I needed to buy EW. A magazine that I see is more useful for delicious pictures than worthwhile insight. The X-Files has been off the air for a long time. (Sad) That left me with absolutely no one that was needed me to construct a shrine in the honor of her/him. (The last shrine was un-officially to the X-Files and completely and totally for Gillian Anderson--she was so damn...rowr. By which I mean--a talented actress.)
That was me digressing. It's a thing I do.
Anyhoo. I needed EW so I called two grocery stores after having visited 2 Krogers and an Eckerd. Cranky. But an excuse to go to Tower is a good thing. Stupid Tower had lots of stuff that I wanted but not what I was out for-and I was a woman on a mission.
Have you ever been to Tower on West End? The parking lot is from hell. In the process of pulling out this scene occurred:
I released my foot off the brake, looked over my left shoulder-saw a truck waiting to take my spot. I stopped because that makes me nervous looked to the right-a woman that had shopped at the Mom Jeans shop at the mall and her equally stylish daughter were stopped right next to the back of my truck. I looked at them. They looked at me. I waved them to go on and keep walking. They refrained from following that logical action. They.Just.Stood.There.
"Do you plan to move?" I asked. "Someone's waiting for this space."
"You almost hit us," said the mother.
So you decide to continue standing in the direct line of fire? I've always wanted to nominate someone for the Darwin Awards. And, far be it from me, but wouldn't I have had to be in motion to hit you? And further, what kind of idiot stands behind an obviously soon to be moving pick-up truck?
"Sorry. Now, you're holding people up. You move and I can pull out."
Mom Jeans cast a look my direction that I'm fairly sure no one would translate as "Gosh, that nice lady in the Mazda opened my eyes to the fact that I shouldn't play in traffic."
That little event pissed me off far more than it should've.
Since Tower had been a failure I went to Borders, so many things I wanted. So many preciouses. But I was a good little lunatic and only bought the magazine. I felt like a bigger freak than I did standing outside of the Colbert Report studios waiting for Stephen Colbert. These feelings are probably because I'm a little crazed at the moment.
Do you know the most common cause of a recurring panic episodes over the course of a short period of time? Fear of having a panic attack. Fear of the past repeating is actually worse than the trauma of whatever caused the first event. That is my current state of mind. I'm so pre-occupied with worry that what happened Monday night will happen tonight-tomorrow when I'm at work-when I'm driving-anytime and with no warning
that I'm basically setting myself up for another attack.
Isn't the human mind a fascinating and terrifying place to spend a weekend? I'm selling time-shares if anyone wants to spend Labor Day with me. There is, surprising as it may be, still a free space. We're going to watch Vertigo, drink heavily, and if I'm really good, order Chinese take-away. If I've been bad, the only food for the weekend will be baked beans on toast and I do mean only-no dreamsicles or chocolate, no cereal or corn chips--just baked beans on toast. Without cheese or butter. Otherwise, how will I learn?

Following all the fun of buying EW and nearly killing a stupid person and her stupid in training daughter at Tower I came home and was bored. So I took bad fiend to the Dog Park. I wanted a cigarette. All was going well until bigger dog decided to show Coupland who was boss and Coupland decided to point out that he may be small but he is (so not) mighty. This was fine, until I had visions of Baxter attacking Henry (something I never actually saw, because I was at an X-Files convention at the time-hmmm) dancing in my head. Dog fights scare the shit out of me. I dragged the dog home. We watched 2 episodes of House and I ate an entire pizza.
I've found the secret to that paint thinner rum from last (was it Saturday? Thursday? who cares) limeade and diet sprite. Add the right amount of either and it ceases to taste like hell-but I still get a considerable amount of alcohol.
If only I had some candy. I really love candy. For that reason alone it shouldn't be surprising that ther's never any in the cupboard.

it's not a cry that you hear at night-it's not someone who's seen the light-it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Yesterday I received in the mail one of my favorite pieces of corresponedance-the medical bill that has gone to collections. Oh joy-I haven't had one of those in months. The slightest bit of research proved to me that this bill should've been paid by my beloved car insurance. But wasn't. And no previous bills were sent to my address. I would know, because you see, Gentle Reader, I have bill phobia. If a bill shows up at my house I pay it as soon as I notice it's a bill. I don't throw away questionable envelops or ignore things with hope they'll go away. To sound like a late nineties guest on Jerry Springer-"I pay my bills!"
So it is terror similar to encountering a snake on a muthafuckin' plane that strikes me when I get these bills. And they happen what to me seems a lot. More than once in life is a lot.
I told my parents about this and said that I was concerned that I would panic. My chest hurt and I felt claustrophobic-not horrible, but unpleasant. But I dealt with the situation, watched some Jeeves and Wooster and was feeling pretty happy. Jeeves and Wooster can cure any crummy situation.
Sometime during the Daily Show my heart started beating much too fast. It hurt. My chest hurt, I couldn't breathe. I was dying. No question about it-there was no other explanation. I was going to die and there was nothing I could do. I tried to take a drink of water, breathe, anything. I managed to stand up and fell down face first onto the floor. There was no amount of fear that would equate to what I was feeling-I grabbed onto my video rack and tried to pull myself up. The dog started to whine and I somehow managed to put together the thought that he needed to go out, and I succeeded. We got outside, he peed and I nearly crawled back into the apartment. How that managed to happen I don't know. I stumbled into the bathroom-God, I was in so much pain. Make it stop. My chest was going to explode and there's no one going to know, only reason anyone will notice I'm not around is because my bills will all be deliquent. I'm going to die and no one will notice for days. Everything blurred and melted. I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. I turned my back to the spray and crumpled down under the water. On the way down I collided with the faucet, bruising my back. I was in so much pain-I just sat there begging for the pain to end. The hot water ran out. The pounding in my chest was lessening. I was either actually dying or recovering. I wasn't sure of anything but a desperate need to vomit. But I couldn't. I couldn't move or think. I just pulled a towel off the rack and curled up on the floor of the bathtub and tried to breathe.
Then, as quick and irrationally as it came it was over. And I got up and got dressed and watched Colbert.
A classic panic attack. Something I've experienced most of my life-but not so outside of the trauma. I was over it-I knew what I had to do. More bills that need paid with more money I don't have. More damage to my fragile and distorted sense of what's important.
"This is why I didn't go to the doctor, Ma. This is why I almost died. Not because I'm afraid of doctors but because I'm afraid of doctors' bills."
People fear small spaces or spiders or falling. I fear bills, debt-I fear losing control. Loss of control means not having power over my own mind. My mind, my intellect, is the only part of me in which I am willing to place any faith. If I lose that I don't have anything. That's what I'm afraid of-it'll start with a few unpaid bills, then I'll skip work, gain weight because I've stopped cooking and before long I'm the shell of a person that couldn't remember the alphabet, that sat for hours trying to understand Children's programming on PBS.
One slip and I'm tumbling back, spiralling until anything I trust about myself is gone and I'm the thing I loathe most-the person I was.

Walking the dog

Taking his majesty out for a walk this morning I stopped to talk to my neighbor (no, not THAT one.) She was outside re-hanging chimes. Today is the one year anniversary of her husband's death. That's a big thing-I wondered how to react, so I just let her talk. She didn't seem particularly depressed, in fact I would say the word to describe the conversation was nostalgic. It was touching, actually, to hear that tone. There is a question of how people deal with grief that I don't think we usually get to really understand-as our own grief is far too personal to be analyzed and I am fairly sure it's rude to ask people how they cope. I'm not saying this conversation gave me any insight, but I was touched by it. And I found out that home prices aren't nearly as high around here as I thought they were.

All I have to do is dream

Things I'll do if I ever get a decent job (in no particular order)
-Buy a 60gig iPod video
-Dance around the apartment to the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar acting out all the roles simultaneously
-Buy 120+gig of external memory for the laptop
-Order cable internet
-Cancel the phone and the dial up
-Run through the neighborhood like Tommy in that scene from, Tommy (duh) shouting about how "I'm free" despite the obvious truth that I will have become an office drone
-Order a TiVo so that I can put Degrassi:the Next Generation, General Hospital, House and the Colbert Report on Season Ticket
-Send an email to one of my profs from the darkness that is the Department of Folk Studies at Western Kentucky University informing her/him that I'm gainfully employed without bending over and taking the ass-fuck that is working in the field of folklore (with an added note that MAW is to not be informed of my relative success-because I never fucking want to be one of 'her' students.)
-Treat A and G to dinner at the locale of their choice
-Laugh hysterically at the possibility that I might be able to live a semi-normal life until such time as I get bored or face some kind of shitty, job costing situation.

Look me up in your Yellow Pages-I will be your Rock of Ages

Since the highlight of my day was blatant job trolling, I'm just going to ramble on a couple of things. (Yes, grammar nazis, I sat under a bridge yelling at passers-by that they could eiter pay me the toll or give me a job. Aren't you glad you snarked.)

OK-first thing first-the TCR comm I hang out in featured one person (followed by me, followed by another, followed by a person that didn't even go to a taping because she's 14 and thus couldn't get in-and personally I find that creepy but as to why that is and my star fucking isn't I can only assume it has something to do with age) detailing their contact with the man. The first person to tell this same story said something like "Now I wish I'd never written anything about meeting him, if people are going to do it every night."
Oh, shut up! You do not. You only worry that you won't be able to have the same experience next time. Don't act noble or like your delicate sense of a famous person's right to privacy has been damaged. If you thought he deserved privacy you wouldn't have waited on the street in the first place.
As a dedicated fixture at stage doors, after hours and other post-show extravaganzas I know the emotion. But I've never pretended it was anything but completely self interested. Back many years ago Todd used to hang out after the shows, drinking and laughing with the four or five people that stuck around. (Course, this was before all that rehab) Now, he runs away from the audience like a whipped dog. The poor guy wants nothing to do with most of his fans-just seeing the look in his eyes when someone he doesn't know/trust comes up to him with something to sign or a camera is sort of really sad. But, on the flipside-the people he recognizes are always welcome and the expression he wears then is much different.
It's not about someone getting home to his wife/kids-that should be part of it and every good fan knows the protocol: 'hi, love yr work (not LUV U!!!!--That's bad), say something witty, get a picture/autograph, turn the opposite direction even if you're not going that way. It's the bad!fans that don't follow that system that fuck everything up for everyone.
My point, and like Ellen DeGeneres, I do have one-is that stage-dooring is to be expected. People perform because they need that immediate, positive, personal affirmation. Mik will swear different ("I don't like talking to the audience, that's why I don't talk to performers.)-but I've seen the look on her face after a show-applause tastes good. And I've seen her dodge out a side door or let me take the compliments for her. (I am the queen of asides! Why do people think that Sis and I look so much alike as to be interchangeable? She's skinny and has darker curlier hair and look way more style.) If a person is so inclined there are plenty of ways to avoid fans.
Alright-I'm off this topic for today. It fascinates me and if I was anything but the most lazy and distractable person--oooh! shiny!--- in the Land of the Free I would pursue this interest somewhere other than on this blog.

Do I have anything else fandom related about which to complain? Oh, probably. But I wouldn't want to waste a really good rant on a half-assed attack.

So-with that in mind I will just update my boring, boring Judge Judy watching life.
The job hunt continues in a vaguely upstroke kind of movement. I have tried to make contact with the powers that be and get my name into the brain of people that might want to hire me for a full time position. It required wearing a clean shirt-and yet somehow still managing to look vaguely Columbo-esque. Due to my belief that irons are only for applying t-shirt appliques.
And I bought some discount rum today that tastes like paint-thinner. Is that what rum usually tastes like? I don't drink much of the stuff. How many limes/packets of sugar should I add before I don't notice that I'm drinking a toxic substance? Does rum go bad?
Are capers an acceptable snack? I've been eating them with the same vigor people give potato chips-speaking of which, last night I had a snack pack of Ketchup chips for dinner. And 5 beers. Good times.
Maybe my life is very, very sad, and I'm just not able to accept it at the moment.

Hey, you kids! Get off my lawn!!!!

Oh, my God. I am. So. Old.
As I suspect we all know, I love me some General Hospital. I've been watching since-well, I was in Grade 1 in about 1983 and so too old to be put down for a nap during GH (which was Mummy's way), so I guess I've been watching for about 23 years. But I remember whe Luke and Laura got married-I was almost 5 after all-so let's assume that's the first time I was allowed to watch General Hospital...That was 25 years ago this November.
I.Am.So.Old.
This is reinforced by this statement from a General Hospital group I frequent:

Unfortunately, I was one in '92, so I didn't get a chance to see all those amazing stories. Boo.

Whimper. I could almost have a child that person's age. A couple of years younger and that person could be my kid. And it only gets worse when I admit that I thought-"Why is someone that young allowed to watch soaps? They are not for children!"

I'm not even going to go into what I think when kids come into the library with their crooked hats and their baggy jeans and their Gameboys and their improper English.

If you all will excuse me, I'm going to go listen to Nirvana and sob quietly in a corner.

Yeah I heard about you Polaroids

OK-now this is SO childish that I can't believe it. But I'm going to say it anyway just so I can get it off my chest.
I'm a big reader of the most drama-filled corner of the webiverse LiveJournal. I'm not proud-I've been there a long time. Nothing good ever happens there-but a lot of fun occurs.
Anyway-here's me being a little whiny girl.
People have been successfully meeting SC had regular intervals for a couple of weeks now and posting about it. In general these people get LONG and GIDDY comment threads detailing how awesome they are and how lucky, etc. I write a similar story-and I get 3 people to comment. WTF? It's not like the lack of jealousy from people takes away from the fact that I met one of the few people that impress me, but for some petty reason I would really like to be envied. Just for a few minutes. Everyone else that has had nearly the exact same experience as I had gets squeed at and treated like a goddess and I get ignored? In a way I kind of think I had a bigger deal experience. Because it happened to me? Because I drank on a reduced tab? Why? What the hell? I can't believe I am this juvenile, but I am. I want to be envied goddammit! How exactly am I more or less awesome than the rest of these people?
I'm not. Of course, I'm not. I remain awesome if only for my intensity and how I didn't forget the English language at a crucial moment. But, I am such a loser I would've liked to have made someone feel envy toward me.
For something I pulled off, I'd like people to act impressed.
God, I sicken me.

You tacky thing, you put them on

Nicer people would feel bad about this.
Friday night I was in the shower, trying to hose off the feeling of the airport, hoping to reach a level of wind-down that would let me sleep. I was exhausted and suffering from left over crankiness from not being allowed a bottle of water on the fucking plane. And I missed my puppet. If it wasn't for the residual happy of the trip I'd have been in a piss poor mood.
I could've sworn someone was knocking on the door.
Ignore such things and they'll go away. No one could possibly be crazy enough to knock for longer than a couple of seconds. Two-three knocks and no answer means no one's home or at least no one that wants to talk to you. I wish I was exagerating, but it was several minutes later when I walked into the living room. Looking smashing I might add in a far too large t-shirt and pajama pants, my wet hair dripping into my eyes. Y'know, the basic outfit one would wear when entertaining guests.
*Knock, knock, knockknockKNOCK*
The fuck. That is someone at the door, and my fucking porch light is burnt out. Fuck.
"Who is it?" I yelled at the door.
My bald, overweight, "Real Men Love Jesus" t-shirt wearing, boring as an afternoon at the grass growing factory neighbor, that's who.
"What's wrong?" still conversing with a door.
"Nothing, I just wanted to talk for a minute."
Oh for fuck's sake. FUCK! I do NOT need this.
"What about?" I stepped onto the porch.
"It's just, well, how have you been?"
Jesus Christ on a bike. "Fine, you?"
"Good, yeah, good...So, I was wondering, would you-well, you're a really nice and interesting girl (*girl?---GIRL!?!*)and I was wondering would you ever want to go out-- with me--somewhere?"
This is where my charm really shines through reader.
"No. I don't date."
"What do you mean, you don't date what--"
I cut him off. "No qualifiers, I don't date. I'm happier the possible other parties are happier, fewer people have nervous breakdowns. It works out for everyone involved in the long run."
"Who isn't happy? You, or the other person?"
Why didn't I just tell him I was gay? So much easier and since he's ultra-God fearing I'm sure he's read Leviticus. It would've disguste him right off the porch and from bothering me ever again. Note to self, in the future-I'm gay. No further explanation needed.
"The other person is usually having a great time. I just don't like people. They bore me."
This guy is clearly a glutton, or he couldn't come up with a good out. "That can't be true."
"No, it is. I don't like people, don't want to be forced to carry on mundane conversations (*hint!*) don't want to pretend I'm interested in something I'm not."
"So, does that mean you'd be opposed to going out to dinner sometime?" clearly this guy is too dumb to live. Oh Mr. Drive-by-Shooters of the Eastside, I have an easy target for you! If he heard a gunshot he'd probably run towards to oncoming bullet out of curiosity.
"Yes, it would. That would be a date, and I'm not interested in that." I had, by this time moved closer to the door. Leave Real Man that Loves Jesus-leave now before I unleash my real feelings-because so far I've been NICE.
"But you have friends, you do things."
"Yes, on my own terms. I don't want to be bothered with someone else's idea of what I should be or should be doing." I am the charmer, no wonder he couldn't take "For the love of all that is sensible, good and true, NO!' for an answer.
He sort of maybe got the hint at this point, I thought. The rocks along the edge of my sad little garden got the point-surely he did too.
"Maybe we could go out in a group sometime," he said.
Do you have ANY functioning brain cells in that block head of yours? NO-goddammit!-NO!
"I tend to prefer to accidently meet up with people rather than go on planned excursions. I don't want to be too tied to anyone else's itinerary." See, how nice I am? I am so sweet my teeth hurt.
He finally gave up. "Yeah, well, it took me awhile to get the nerve to come over here..." Poor you. "I came over last night during the storm, I wanted to make sure you were okay." Right-because I'm a helpless female that's afraid of rain. While you were worried about my safety during typical Southern summer weather I was walking through New York City in the middle of the night alone and lost and no harm came anywhere near me. But yeah, I can see where I might be afraid of a widdle bit of God moving his furniture. What a thoughtful gentleman you are. Save me! Big strong man!
Ass.
He left, I remembered to lock the screen door this time. Can't knock on a door you can't reach. Then I sat down on the couch-flipped the channel over to USA and laughed. Wow, could you be a worse judge of character than that guy?

The Last Day of Summer Camp

Thursday was my last full day in NYC so I got up early to get some seeing of the sights in before I dedicated myself to line waiting for most of the afternoon. For the budget traveler I offer the suggestion of staying at the Big Apple Hostel on 45th right off Times Square between 7th and 8th. Clean, convenient to attractions and subways and cheap (in New York dollars). Every morning I would walk outside and see Stephen in a giant poster form, protecting Times Square from unnecessary facts. Something that doesn't belong in that part of the city.
SO-I went to the Museum of Television and Radio-but it wasn't open until 12-that didn't fit my plans so that's off til next trip. Failing that I wandered the Park/Madison Ave area, looked at the Ed Sullivan Theatre and noted that the HelloDeli is a seriously unimposing structure. I was going to eat there-but no tables and after nearly three days of nearly non-stop walking my feet were killing me. With that being my main concern I went over the the general vicinity of the studio at about 1. There's plenty of places to eat-read the Onion and waste some time in that area and that's what I did. If yr going to a taping and hungry check out Mama's Empanada's I had the dessert Fig, Cheese and Something and it was de-licious. Had Thai food for lunch and stopped long enough to write a couple of postcards at the Studio Cafe. My gastronomical insights probably aren't what yr here for-this not being a Zagat's guide.
Got to the studio around 3. Was third in line, after a couple from Chicago. The male half of the pairing would volunteer to become Stephen's Hispanic friend and would be photographed accordingly much later on in the day. My place would fall to 7th after the couple decided that a third party should go to the show so they dedicated the entire line time asking everyone that walked by if they had an extra ticket. It was only after I realized I had been moved from front row center to second row stage right that I thought anything of this decision. Ahhh-well, whaddya gonna do? Everyone was happy-everyone got in-except the girl that had been waiting for a possible stand-by ticket since 1. Over the course of three hours we mostly tried to stay amused-took turns going to the nearby grocery store or the random building that didn't have a "Restrooms are for customers only" sign.
On Tuesday I'd tried for stand-by at the Daily Show (and heard later that there were empty seats after we'd been sent away-but perhaps that's just evil hearsay) and met a Montreal-er in NYC for the summer. She'd been trying to go to every taping in the city and failed and since I had an extra ticket to Thursday and we shared a fondness for Amy Sedaris and all the goodness that is Jon and Stephen I'd offered her the ticket. She showed up a little after 5 bearing the gift of cupcakes from Magnolia (because Amy must be too BUSY being a Big Star to make cupcakes at the moment). I enjoy the gift of sweets in whatever form.
Around that same time Stephen had been seen riding off to points unknown in his SUV. We in line were most curious as to why he would be leaving at that late hour. Beerrun? Quick roll thru the hood to clear the mind? We found out later he'd gone to TDS but the awesomeness of that didn't become completely clear until I got to see last night's episode just now. (And I see Dale Jr gave me a shout out "Too lazy to work too scared to steal" indeed.)
At 6 we were ushered into the waiting room.
The security gates made moving slow-particularly when bastard people such as myself insisted on carrying backpacks with everything she/he owns around at all times. Stupid, damn people. Hate them.
Not that I expected something big-but never having been to a tapng I didn't realize so much could be crammed into a small studio. I had way more fun than I should've perusing the contents of the shelves in person. (Not that I got to re-organize or even get anywhere near but I got to choose what I was looking at instead of seeing what the cameras decided to show.)
The music was real loud-giving the taping a rock show vibe. Lots of people have said and I agree that the choice of tunes is excellent. Plenty of rocking-lots of chances of Stephen dancing to take place.
After we got our instructions from Stage Manager Guy and Warm-Up Guy kept asking where people were from and I took that chance to represent East Nashville Stephen bounded out jumping around like a crazy person. He ran along the audience slapping palms with anyone within reach (I was only in the second row-so I got in on that fun) then he asked for any questions. Maybe I looked really eager, or was the first hand up-then again, it might be that he was standing directly in front of me and looking toward my section of the audience but he called on me.
I'd written a haiku-for this I blame Stephen Fry who wrote a book about exploring the poet within and so I was and I did.
"I wrote you a haiku."
"What? Is this the last day of summer camp?"
"Yeh, well, I was going to tap dance for you-but..."
"So 5-7-5, right?"
"I believe it's 5-7-5 anyway."
"Let's do this thing-go."
"Lincoln couldn't dance
Tip a hat Wag a finger
Bears? No, gravitas."
Haiku is never good-but I was happy to have got thru without falling over dead with embarassment for actually having read it out loud.
He ticked off the syllable with his fingers as I read. The audience was very polite-I am such a nerd.
"So, I was right?"
"Yeh, that's great. Love it."
And there were no more questions. The show started.
Act 1 was obscured for me by the camera. Act 2 was delayed because it started to rain-inside and out.
"Welcome to basic cable," was Stephen's explanation, "it's raining on the sound board and unless you want to catch fire we're going to have to wait until we get everything covered up." He took more questions, then after everything was secure went over to the greeen screen area and danced a bit with his prop steering wheel as a partner.
The interview with Eli Pariser went really smooth and I enjoyed it a lot. His entourage, the "largest in Report history" (there were no tickets to be had, so creativity was employed) and my cohort and I shared a doorway during the post-show downpour. He's a very likable fellow, even offering to send a cab our way so we didn't have to walk in the rain.
The show ended with a quick thank you, we've been a great audience and an ushering of everyone to the door. Even though we were near the front we were last out (we weren't milling at that point, but line for the restroom), maybe that's why we got caught in that downpour that hit NYC last evening-but I suspect just about everyone got soaked. We were just the only people brash enough to act like we belonged inside the studio doorway-kind of a foyer thing without the charm it was dry so it was my favorite place in the city at that precise moment.
Once the rain stopped we asked a guard if Stephen had left-he said no, not yet, might be awhile tho. We had no heavy plans, just some drinkin' at some nearby establishment to round out what seemed like a perfect day. Deciding booze could wait we figured we'd do a little laid back stage-dooring. Stand-by girl (I'm leaving names out since I got no release forms) came back right about then, she hadn't been able to see the show but she was stopping by with the same objective as had we. About 15-20 minutes later the door opened and out walked the man himself.
The guard we'd spoken with said something, Stephen looked up and nodded our direction. I walked to him and said something witty, like "Hi."
"Hi," he shook my hand. Maybe he asked my name, I'm pretty sure I told it to him.
"It's good to meet you." Everyone else introduced herself in a similar manner.
"Did you enjoy the show?" he asked.
"It was great, I laughed like a fool-I'm sure there's at least one point where my family can feel embarassment because I was too loud."
"Well, good, then," was his response.
Montreal got an autograph for a friend of hers back home and Stand-by mentioned she'd got a picture ealier.
Good Lord, he is a good looking man. I don't usually get phased by such things-but I fancy him. And what a complete sweetheart too, he was so friendly and open and funny in the way people are in conversation as opposed to performance. I'm glad I keep up with fandom so that I knew he'd be willing to stop and talk for a minute. And I'm glad more people don't so that there was only three of us there waiting.
"Would you mind a quick picture?"
"No, let's do this thing." I held my camera out in and snapped the shot. I was convinced the picture would be all wrong, our heads cut off or I'd be the only person in the shot but it came out really well. Highly ridiculous looking-I'd say it's because I don't photograph so good, but I think it's because I'm just funny looking. Actually, we're both looking pretty ridiculous in the shot-he's making a weird face I'm trying to position the camera so that the picture would come out okay. We both are carrying satchels so we look like refugees from a college English seminar dedicated to the works of Kurt Vonnegut. Drug use by both parties isn't out of the question. It's classic on the street photography.
High on that rush the three gushing fans headed to a bar far trendier than I would normally frequent. There we drank the cheapest mojitos in the land ($5! WTF, you can't get a $5 mojito at my local back home in Akron, OH) and the bartender gave me a free margarita for some reason. That was when I realized I was quite hungry. But there was socializing to do. Which we did. I am not a social person-I hate people, but I love gatherings. This was a gathering so I had a blast, but my bags were at the hostel and I had to get them by midnight so I had to leave the revelry shortly after 11 and shortly after Dan Dinello (I think-things grow hazy here-but he clearly wasn't Paul, but was definately related) showed up and (again, reason is out the door at this point) I introduced myself to him by flashing some of the whitest gang signs in the history of the universe. He did the same. I was clearly drunk-just moments earlier I was heard to exclaim that my holiday wouldn't be complete unless there were some motherfuckin' snakes on my motherfuckin' plane. I think the conversation had been about increased security measures at the airport, but it quickly devolved into Snakes on a Plane quoting-in my defense the other person involved in the conversation started it.(I hate how I can't remember all the names of everyone I met-some people gave me business cards so I remember those names, but otherwise I can just remember details like what TV show they write for or which union they're in--but then, y'all probably don't care about those details anyway) Now, dear reader, given my state, what better time could there be to walk through Hell's Kitchen? I couldn't think of one.
Got back to the hostel, retrieved the rest of my worldy possessions and went next door to Connolly's bar (New York home of my favorite band and right good guys all around Black 47) for one last drink before catching the last train out of the city to Newark. The doorman at Connolly's let me watch The Colbert Report with close-captioning so I got to see the episode the first time it aired.
When the show was over, "America" by Simon and Garfunkle came on the sound system and I took the random choice of one of my favorite songs as a sign that the night should be ended on a high note.
I stumbled to Penn Station and got to the airport at 2:30. Then I spent 4 hours in the check in and security lines with informaion about what we could and couldn't take on the plane changing from minute to minute. If I hadn't had such a great time on Thursday Friday morning would've really pissed me off. But I got some sleep on the plane and I'm home now.

My eyes were all aglow

New York City
Aug 8-11, 2006

Day 1
Took the bus to the airport, the cheapest way to get around, the trip throughsecurity took me about 14 seconds and I was bored and watching CNN in no time.
The flight was bumpy-I listened to my antiquated music device that still uses hard media as opposed to being in complete digital format. The train to the city took 25 minutes and I was in Mid-Town on 33rd St/Penn Station by 2:40. After a 12 short and 2 long block hike I got to the hostel. Checked in, threw my bags on the one available bunk in the closet sized room changed my shirt, brushed my teeth and off I went.
When I got to the Daily Show studios it was a little after three. No one was there so I went to have a beer at a nearby bar. Got back to the stand-by line to find four people in front of me. Damn. But I waited, just in case, this was my plan for the evening after I got in (or didn't) I wasn't sure what I'd do. Around 4 a red haired early twenties type got in line behind me. We started to chat-she'd tried to get tickets to a number of shows with no luck and was only in line now because Conan had fallen through (not to self, don't bother trying to go see Conan-too much work). I offered her my extra ticket to The Colbert Report-it seemed like the thing to do for some reason. A much nicer act that I am usually known to perform. We were told that there were no extra tickets-well that certainly does suck, doesn't it? Off the failed stand-byers went, I made plans to meet up with my fellow fan of fake news and Amy Sedaris on Thursday, on my way back to Times Square (where I was staying) I decided try to get into a Broadway show. I was thinking AvenueQ, but the lottery thing seemed far too easy to lose at, so I went towards the theatre where Spamalot is playing, but that's still a damn hot ticket and I wasn't paying full price even if seats were available. I really wanted to see The History Boys-even though I knew nothing about it other than it was widely acclaimed. Didn't know if it was a musical or a play, a comedy, a drama or what. But I did know that I could get in for $22 (full price, over $100) and that was good enough for me.
Two hours to kill before the show, I got a slice of cheese pizza and two beers. A guy from CA insisted on buying me the second or I wouldn't have had another-but free is free. I thanked him for the drink and exited with 15 minutes left before the start of the show.
The play was reallly great, it's been made into a film that is supposed to open with nearly the same cast this winter so I won't say much about it. I will say standing up for 3 hours after walking several miles in shoes not made for walking causes pain. The next day as I recounted this experience Mum pointed out that that play is the Broadway debut (he's an understudy) of a friend of my sister's and that he'd performed the night before. Well, cool, huh?
After the show went back to the hostel and met my roommates. A girl from Chicago and her two cousins from Korea were visiting the city. The Chicagoan pronounced Greenwich Village as Green-Witch and had never heard of Jon Stewart-the others spoke limited English- but they were very nice people and good roommates all around.

Day 2
I was up and out of the hostel by 8am. The hostel was still asleep when I left for my exploration of the Village. Deciding that walking is for suckers I bought a day pass for the subway. My goals for the day-find cupcakes, visit haunts of Beat Writers and interesting types of that ilk, record shop then go to Chinatown and eat dumplings, stop by the Strand and buy books before getting on NJ Transit to see B 47.
What I did-walked the Village. Down Bleeker Street, through the alleys past bars and coffee shops and record stores that weren't open. I stopped in a coffee shop and had a cup and read the paper. There was something about just BEING in the Village-so near to the spirit of Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs and Cassidy all those crazy caffeine fueled madmen so close and so distant. I walked up and down the streets threading my way through ghosts. They're everywhere in the Village and I imagine, on the Lower East Side (I didn't get there-but I'll be back in NYC soon-I fit in like a hand in a glove, it's an odd sensation, that.) I spent the morning just walking, and hoping to finding Amy's cupcakes-not because I place more worth on the cupcakes of one or another but because dammit, I think she's one of the most awesome among women. And I usually find women tiresome, petty trite things most are, worried about impressing men and over prettying other women. The exception is so wonderful to come upon-refreshing really. But, of course, Ms. Sedaris is busy being a famous person, so I guess her rabbit's trust fund isn't a big concern at the moment. And that had been on my top four things to do in New York City. C'est la vie.
The Village took me to Washington Square Park, a lovely spot in the middle of the city with widely painted buses and singing and dancing. I just walked through-I couldn't bring myself to savor the city. It felt to me like I was given a sampler pack that would self-destruct. A DivX movie of New York and if I didn't act fast I would miss the important parts-I would fail to see the climatic scenes.
I took a train to the Brooklyn Bridge.
Back many years ago, I guess I was in Jr. High or High School there was a show called Brooklyn Bridge. I remember it starred Marion Ross and Art Garfunkel sang the theme song. It didn't last long, but in my mind, because of popular culture, there is something mystical about the Bridge. I walked across it, sore body crying out for the codeine on my dresser back home in Nashville-I walked the approx. 1.5 miles across the bridge and another mile or so through Brooklyn, that's not that far...but I was in real pain. I kept on, couldn't seem the girl could I?
Took the train back to Manhattan, wandered about, stopped for a drink in a below street level establishment.
"You have Yuengling?" I asked.
"No," said the bartender.
"Then a Sam Adams."
Yuengling is the greatest American beer. It's available in only select states. When Mik was at Pitt we used to drink it like it was candy-sometimes stocking up on a case before leaving the Burgh. It's the best-it's SO damn regional. I'll drink it over anything else, any time I can get it. It's available in some parts of New York City. I only got one the whole time I was there-right before I left.
There I was in a bar in what I thought might be the Meatpacking District drinking at 2 in the afternoon. A guy offered to buy me a shot. I accepted, cuz I love booze. We sat and talked he seemed nice enough, but when he walked me out of the bar an hour later and insisted on kissing me in the middle of wherever we were with humanity pressing against us and the sounds of car horns and commmerce in my ears I drew the line and walked a direction I had no plans to go. Anything to escape advances-men and their stupid theory that a woman that accepts a drink is an easy target. Maybe some are, but me? Not so much, I will prove before the week is over whatever heart for that sort of thing I might've had at some point is long gone.
Of course, I got lost. With no map.But then, I'd been lost for some time, hell, I was briefly very near Coney Island and that was not in my plans. But, I had no bloody idea where the hell I was. So I called Mum, cuz she had a really excellent map of the city that she'd forgot to send me until it was too late.
She directed me to a subway that would lead me to a part of town I'd become relatively comfortable moving through. Ahh,the dear old forty deuce. It would've been sad, if it weren't so damn funny. How did people travel before cell phones? It doesn't even seem possible. I bet a lot of tourists disappeared never to be heard from again.
My location deteremined I made it to the Strand and bought my only semi-official piecea of memorabilia, a book by Stephen Fry about writing poetry and a Strand pin. I doubt it will improve my poetry skills but I do think he's terribly awesome and ownership of his stuff seems like a good idea. Stephens in general are groovy.
It was time to go to New Jersey. I took NJ transit to Hoboken and then got on the light rail to Bayonne.
A man, about in his thirties brought his little boy on the train.
"Can people bring guns on the train"
"No, honey, they can't."
"Can people smoke on the train?"
"No."
"Why do people ride the train?"
That little boy was too cute, when he got off the train his daddy said, "Say goodbye the nice lady." He was talking about me, how funny. Nice is so rarely a word used to describe me.
The Bayonne train station and the actual bay aren't anywhere near each other. I walked and walked and kept thinking how detrimental to my continued existence it would be to make that trip back to the station without the benefit of daylight.
Boy-O I love that band. Even in my most tired (which I was) they play some of the best rock'n'roll out there and it's great to see them any chance I can.
After the show an Italian couple (complete with thick accents-they were so sweet: "You came all this way all on your own? That is a long trip, you won't get home until midnight. Let us take you to the train station."
"I appreciate that, let me go over and say hi to Larry then we can go." They were good with that.
I stood in a group of fans getting CDs or stuff signed.
"Watch out here, I'm going to sit down my beer."
"Oh sure," I said, "flaunt that you have alcohol, and here I am sober."
L laughed and glancd at me then went and signed a CD. In the time it took for him to sign his name he realized he knew me.
"DARLIN'!" he grabbed me and pulled me into a hug. "What're you doin here? Why didn't you tell me, come backstage?
"Eh, I don't like to bother people," I said.
"Please," he said. The other people standing around looked confused. "What're you doing here?" he asked when the crowd had thinnned.
"Vacation, thought I'd come over and see you. Now it's three hours of train back to the city."
"Where're you staying?" he asked.
"Right off Times Square."
"You can ride with us, we'll get you to mid-Town anyway," he said.
I put my hand on his arm, "You're sure?"
"Of course" he smiled.
I told the Italian couple and they said that sounded like a good idea and it was good meeting me and I should be careful in New York.
I was talking to someone that knew me by reputation (the horror!) one of the band walked by "I have a plan!" he said, for some reason. " I have a plan!"
"Pray, is it cunning?" I asked, referencing Black Adder.
He looked completely surprised at my statement. He is British, he had to get it, so perhaps he was just surprisd to hear the quote coming from me.
The van pulled up and the band loaded in.
"You're taking me back to Manhattan," I said, pushing onto the seat.
"Oh-kay."
That's a welcome if ever I heard one.

The band seemed disinterested. There was space, so no one was inconvenienced anyway.
A van load of men discussing war movies and missing the exits that would've made the trip easy. I felt right out of place and totally accepted as part of the back to New York package. Why, I am not all that sure. I guess because I'm acceptable-as groupies go I"m pretty harmless.
"By now you've slept with all of them, so you're not a groupie anymore, are you?"
"Yeh, Ma, I've slept with the whole band. I am such a whore."
"Correct me if I'm wrong but haven't you been asleep on a bus or in a room with every member of that band at some tme or another?"
"Well, yeah. I guess I have."
"So you've slept with the whole band."
"Yes, Mum, I am a tired, tired whore," said me.
Finally, having survived the Lincoln Tunnel and various tolls and discussions of the dangers of mixing bacon with peanut butter we were back in mid-town.
"We're right by the Garden."
"I can get out here," someone said.
"And I can hop the next train to Times Square," I said.
The van pulled over and I opened the door and hopped out. "Thanks for transporting me" I said.
"No problem."
I hopped out of the van and onto the city sidewalk.
"Bye!" L yelled my name. "See you soon!" he yelled. I felt all loved and shit. I don't get that kind of familiarity in any of the places I consider home.
Before going back to the hostel I got 2 beers at a nearby convenience store and went back and watched TV. I got to see a couple minutes of TCR before the TV was claimed by another party.
I misplaced my purse.
Oh my fuck.
No really.
Oh my motherfucking fuck.
I've lost my purse.
What the hell? I am so screwed.
I started to run from room to room-kitchen to common area to outside to restroom to hallway.
"Did you lose a black purse?" asked my roommate (the one from Chicago).
"I did, did you see it?"
"I turned it into the desk."
Excited, I went to the front desk. "I was looking for you, you're lucky, no one's ever had their bag returned with the money in it before."
Wow, okay then. That's some luck. Isn't it?
Some kind of damn luck.
I watched TV for awhile longer and finished my beer.
I was happy.
Tomorrow-I'd see Stephen

I found a photograph

Perhaps I'm easily amused.
Tomorrow is full recap of New York Town with all the details you've never wanted to read (but will anyway, because I'm oddly fascinating-like a car crash or a TV show about a botched surgery.) I'm too tired at the moment.
But I recently came upon a website that scans a picture and compares your facial features to famous people to decide which well known person you most resemble.
Since I am back in Nashville, where I have no life (although I had a lovely evening tonight and look forward to another chance to play hillbilly golf) I decided to plug in THE PICTURE.
The results were as such-
I have a 72% match of features with Meg Ryan (I'm girl-next-door cute? who knew)
The male in the picture has a 76% match of features with Stephen Colbert.
Now that, is just fuckin' funny. I don't care how you look at it-that's hi-LAR-ious.
And if you have no idea what I'm talking about because you have no idea who Stephen Colbert is or what I'm talking about-why are you reading my blog? Didn't all the references grow tiresome sometime around the first week of November of last year?

Even the losers

Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine that I'm who I think I am. It seems very likely that I'm just a reflection of my interests.
I went back a year and read the entries.
I don't know if I'm happy to say that I have changed only in that I'm older. Maybe wiser. I doubt that. If I'm more bitter it's because I'm so terribly unhealthy. But, in general, I've been this way for at least 12 months. Probably closer to 12 years-or 29-- one of those. And this time last year-I was going on a road trip that involved seeing B47. How very timely. For reals.
Gotta call today from Vandy Temp Agency.
"We're recruiting for a cashier position in the student union and a customer service position..."
"You do realize that I have a Master's Degree, right?" said my suddenly vocal Id.
Pause. More pause. "No. I didn't know that. But some people just want a job. Even those with Master's Degrees."
Well, I have a job-it barely pays the bills but here's the funny thing-it isn't a cashier position at the food court in the student union. It may not be much but I don't want to slit my wrists when I do it, either.
And I gotta call about a p/t position in a law firm-but the hours were exactly what I work now. So that's out obviously.
Then there's the transcription thing. I applied for this job on a whim and someone named 'David' (a too common name I think) responded with an example of the work. It's a newspaper clipping-I printed it up and my 'Holmesian Mind' deduced that it might be a scam. A creative individual using Craigslist as a way to recruit people to do a task he (this being the, I presume, non-entity David,) doesn't want to do. Rather brialliant I think.
"How long would it take you to do, the example work?" asked Dad.
"I dunno, an hour. Hour and a half maybe."
"So do it."
"And do someone else's work for them?" I asked.
"Or apply for a job," he said.
"I think it's a scam."
"So do I. But it's no skin off yr neck is it, to type the thing up? You can do it. So, if it's legit you might get a job and if it's not-it's no worse than any other job interview."
"Trust no one," I said.
"It's not trust, it's a game. If you play the game right-you get a job--if it's a scam you tell them to eat shit and die. You're just playing to see what the outcome might be." My dad is an interesting fellow-he has about as much faith in humanity as me- I think. If it weren't for Mum and his kids he's probably be as angry and unpleasant as am I.
Such.Is.Life.