3. more hijinks:
things to do before I die
the comment factory
sweet letter nothings
mad, mad, mad speakeasy
beloved consorts:
Frankie, Lydia, Erik, Julia,
Sarah, Joan, Stephanie, Miya,
Phil, Ryan, Beto, Jasmine,
Dan, Kristin, Lauren, Simon,
Rumi, Craig, Kelly, Stacey
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Tuesday, April 30, 2002
A few of you may not be aware of my somewhat extensive history as an independent filmmaker. Oh sure, most twentysomethings are concerned with their pithy little college lives or their influence on society or their moose farms or whether their plaid capri pants are still in style, but I, I have a somewhat extensive history as an independent filmmaker. I am not afraid to take risks with all the various genres, of course: I have gone from psychological suspense to science fiction to oh-so-vital slices of life. I have tried my hand at social commentary, the bitter fruits of romance, the moving art of dramatic persuasion, musical documentary, and of course, the subtlety of parody. I also do weddings. Ha-cha-cha-cha. Monday, April 29, 2002 I don't feel good. I'm tired of not feeling good. I don't even remember what being healthy and satisfied and happy feels like. Somewhere along the scraggly line of life, I became the car that is stuck in permanent neutral. Maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe this is just what happens when you finally come to the conclusion that nothing is better than the wrong thing, that waiting for the right thing is the only right thing out there. Sometimes I just feel as though my life is solely about waiting. Waiting for food, waiting for sleep, waiting for health, waiting for favorite people, waiting for no people at all, waiting for college to be over so I can get on with my life. Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. But who am I kidding? Nobody likes dirty laundry, especially the dirty laundry of other people. We are a selfish species, us h-bound sapiens. I, I, I. It’s all about the me. Where am I going, what will I do today, what will I write about me, me, me, me, me. So if I’m really going to deny people, I’m going to have to deny the me . . . So how are you? Sunday, April 28, 2002 "7% of women sleep naked, as opposed to 30% of men." Allure's statistic does not surprise me. It's very difficult to sleep naked. There are simply too many variables. What happens if you want a glass of water in the middle of the night? What happens if there's a frost? What happens if you forget to close the blinds? What about all the shaving? The lotioning? What happens if somebody yells "fire," and there is no fire? What happens if somebody yells "fire," and there is a fire? Besides, being naked is an abomination. Silk pajamas are saintly, you male heathens you. Save the world. Wear some clothes. Friday, April 26, 2002 So I bought some Alouette Crème de Brie, and some Wellington Traditional Water Crackers, and I had them for dinner, and I felt like a snob all by my little old lonesome self. I amuse me. 45 is new, and it makes no sense. Such is life. Thursday, April 25, 2002 Out with the old and in with the new. Darren The Evil Roommate moved out yesterday, sound the glorious trumpets of freedom. I can finally breathe again, feel safe again. I'm free from being verbally harassed in my own living space by a fat and unemployed drunk, and I can finally look forward to my new place this summer. Women, don't let yourselves be pushed around by men. Don't keep silent. Defend yourself. You don't have to take crap from anybody, least of all from somebody who truly acts like the biggest crap in christendom. Where have all the gentlemen gone? I'm so tired of everything. I feel almost malignant. Rest, peace, music, laughter, pie, a strong future. That’s all I want. Is that too much to ask? Is that too little to ask? Sometimes I just don’t know about me. Sunday, April 21, 2002 Courtroom television amuses me. Law and Order is the only place where a witness will actually leap up from their chair and shout, "GUYS LIKE ME DON'T GET SECOND CHANCES!" And then the spooky dramatic music rises, and you think, "Ah-ha! Mr. McCoy has got you now, you depressing and shifty-eyed villain you!" And sometimes the prosecution wins, in which case the criminal does their best to look bitter, and sometimes the prosecution loses, in which case the remaining member of the victim's family does their best to look tearful. Good god the irreverence. In other news, I have Krispy Kreme, and I love Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Meat Wad make the moneys, see. Meat Wad got the honeys, see. Ha. Saturday, April 20, 2002 There is nothing to say. 44 is new. Pretend you care. Thursday, April 18, 2002 Who are the women sitting in the audience of The Man Show, and why are they there? Why do they all appear to be attending the show with a boyfriend? Why would any woman decide to accompany their oggle-eyed boyfriend to The Man Show? I'll tell you why. Because women are stupid, that's why. Only a woman would consider sleeping with a so-called "rock star" -- men who are quite literally seething with various mutated and still-evolving sexual diseases, most of which are visible in the form of radioactive green twelve-legged mites -- as "taking charge of her sexuality." Only a woman would consider leading a male around by the opposite seat of his pants -- something that is easier to do than oh, say, breathing; yes men, you are easy and you should know and learn from that -- as a valuable goal. In short, I do not blame men for any remaining objectification of women. I blame women themselves. Men are mostly all right. They do their own thing and they're easy, but they can also learn and oh, I don't know . . . improve. Women will actually put up with incredible amounts of crap forever because oh, they looooove him, or they're confliiiiicted. Get a life, women. Smarten up. Loosen up. Know your own worth. Hold out for your own worth. Don't be women. Be ladies. And I? I respect a man with responsibility, intelligence, poetry, nonsense, and plain ol' delight. I respect gentlemen. And I think a gentleman who can love one woman for eighty years is more of a hero and worthy star than any rocker or easy target. This concludes our high-handed broadcasting day. Wednesday, April 17, 2002
Ryan: I don't know, sometimes I wish I could go and join the circus Tuesday, April 16, 2002 "Oh! I don't think I would care to catch a sensible man. I shouldn't know what to talk to him about." Thank you, Oscar Wilde. Thank you, The Importance of Being Earnest. With your wit and your intelligence and your plethora of muffins, you have defined the truth of the matter. And the matter, ardent fans, is that sensible is stupid. A man who cannot appreciate nonsense is but an utter mook. And as we all know, the world does not need any more mooks. We are full up on mooks. Come back when you have less mooks and more earnests. Monday, April 15, 2002 Deep in their heart of hearts, everybody wants to be normal plus one. We want to be ourselves, but just a little better. We want to be original, but not too original. We want to buy a black hoodie at Old Navy and then wear it with lime green combat boots. (Yes, let's equate today's philosophy with fashion! That's the way! Strike a pose, you poser! Shake your groove, you thing!) Normal plus one is losing five pounds, getting to the gym once a week, straightening curly hair, stepping into a two-minute spotlight. Normal plus one explains the cult of celebrity, too: "They're just like you and me, only better! Now let's follow them around and talk like we know them well and feel blessed when we merely glimpse one in the middle of a crowd!" Yet however attractive and deep-seated normal plus one is, it is also rarely attainable. Because once you get to normal plus one, you want normal plus two. Welcome to popular American society, chum! Two thumbs up! Sunday, April 14, 2002 You know you're single when your grocery list reads:
MALLOMARS 5.19 Not that there's anything wrong with being single. I enjoy being single. Being single is better than being all smoochy and gloopy and hangonthearmavich. Being single means I can paint my nails dark purple and others actually notice. Being single means I don't have to cook anything but pasta and soup. Being single means I'm not required to phone anybody, and I can shlep around in marabou slippers, and I can flirt with the boy who works at the ice cream shop. I go by a simple singleton rule: anyone who doesn't know what to do with themselves shouldn't be pretending to do things with others. Many a skinny-weepy idiot ought to follow that rule. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go dance around naked. That's right, stark raving naked. Except for my clothes. Chew on that, you shocked pervs you. Thursday, April 11, 2002 So yesterday a spider found its spooky-legged way into the corner of my bathroom and as both of my roommates were gone and either not helpful or not friendly or not civil human beings anyway I had to pluck up what little skimp of courage I could and wadded up a tissue and gave said spider a hurried and half-guilty smush while I uttered a loud "eeee" noise and that was the end of that. Until today! Today, when even as I type, another spider has taken up the very same place! Do you know what this means? They're multiplying, I tell you! The spiders are multiplying, and they are doing it in effigy! Not even spiders are original! Spiders probably shop at the GAP! That's it! I am now going to listen to opera and wear my leather pants in the daytime and not drink and be eccentric, damn it! Break the monotony, world! Break the insectual monotony! Yaaaaarrgh! Wednesday, April 10, 2002 frankie (12:27:41 AM): locks and twists, twists and locks, heads with dreads are like feets with socks, happy and glad, glad and happy, what a wonderful life, to be oh, so nappy!
Insomnia is the devil. Wait, scratch that. Insomnia is only the devil's advocate. Circadian rhythms are the devil, particularly when they are out of whack. Some Giant Loser has now completely destroyed my body's realization of sleep, sunlight, work, what have you. I blame Daylight Savings Time, because a day with more sunlight is also the devil's advocate. I blame health, because I don't have any. And I blame Geraldo, because, well, who doesn't?
Those medieval persons had it right. They were the ultimate fans of pepper. They put pepper on everything. Pepper bread, pepper porridge, pepper pheasant, pepper dolphin. While I would not eat a dolphin -- a creature that clearly falls under the Christa Does Not Eat Cute Animals clause -- I respect the age-old medieval clamor for pepper. Pepper makes Lean Cuisine taste exotic. Pepper keeps pasta from being lonely. And as I always say, if pepper was good enough for the spoiled meat of the dark ages, pepper is good enough for me.
Yessirree, that's what I always say. I also say, "Prithee, knave, and fence us hence sommat easy, boring, and peppery upon which to banquet, for we are heavy with exhaustion, doldrums, and drudgery."
You are now reading the words of a Mint Julep first-timer. Granted, my version of the green-colored drink was non-alcoholic and came from an amusement park cafe, but it was a Mint Julep nonetheless. I found it to be a very thought-provoking drink, this Mint Julep. It really puts one in the mind of Southern verandas and moss-covered bayou trees. (It also puts one in the mind of roller coasters and why amusement parks believe they can disguise the length of a line by winding it around a bazillion segmented paths.) Drinking a Mint Julep causes one to feel slightly lazy, slightly indulgent, slightly guilty.
Curse you, amusement park vending carts! Curse you and your sirenlike food products! And your little stuffed dogs too! And so it begins. It is a new frontier, this domain thing. And at the same time, it is the oldest story in the book. Girl wants space, girl gets domain, girl waxes in domain about this and that and the other. And while I do want space and a domain, I also want to keep my waxing coherent, intelligent, valid. After all, I'm not a girl. I'm a lady. At least I try to be a lady. I'm trying. "I'm trying" is my latest mantra. Let us look forward to the day when mantra becomes reality.
Someday I'm going to be a Strong Luck Lady, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I think we all want that. (We meaning everybody and their mother. As if you didn't know.) Maybe what I'm feeling now is at the root of all modern twentysomething empathy: on some level, everyone imagines themselves wanting to be free-thinkers who function in an intelligent, stylish, and productive manner. I want to live life on my terms. I want to be healthy. I want to laugh more often. I want to be a happy person. I will be a happy person. My bones tell me so. I come from strong stock. More importantly than that, I plan to go the right way. Traffic signs, take your best shot.
Welcome to a new kind of sanity, darling.
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