The B-Side

Review Crew: Next to Normal

2011-06-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

When my husband and I saw “Next to Normal” on Broadway in 2009, we both left the theater feeling emotionally exhausted. The end of the first act alone had me in tears. The masterfully layered tension that built through both acts lingered within me as we emerged into the sudden darkness of New York City on a summer evening. I felt stirred and heartbroken. And I also felt proud.

The pride came from knowing that I had just witnessed a groundbreaking piece of American theater, and I had seen a master at work in Alice Ripley as the show’s psychologically tormented lead. I held onto every pained expression. Every single moment of discomfort. When Ripley’s Diana tries to comfort her spurned teenage daughter Natalie, only able to say “I love you as much as I can,” I wince. Every time I hear it, I just freeze. The way Ripley’s voice breaks, the way she can’t fix the way she feels, the way she doesn’t understand she shouldn’t have to try to love her daughter. It’s heartbreaking. Alice Ripley moved me. Jennifer Damiano moved me. “Next to Normal” instantly became one of my favorite musicals because of Ripley’s performance. She pours every ounce of her energy into this role.

With that being said, with all of my appreciation for Ms. Ripley--an immensely talented woman with local roots--out and on the table, I don’t think the show is hers anymore.

Last night at the Palace Theater, Ms. Ripley’s voice was an aching strain. Performing in such a vocally and emotionally demanding role for so long seems to have finally taken its toll on the show’s star. I didn’t want her to have to sing last night. And it didn’t seem like she wanted to either, pulling back during ensemble numbers. The beautiful and dense rock-inspired score by Tom Kitt is electrified and vibrant. It asks as much of its performers as this musical asks of its audience. Last night Ripley seemed like she had nothing more to give.

This is not to say that the musical was any less powerful in my eyes. But for newcomers experiencing this difficult and complex musical for the first time, I felt that allowing Ripley to go on was a major disservice. Yes, I was at the season announcement last spring. Yes, I almost squealed when Gina Vernaci revealed that Alice Ripley would tour with the show. But last night, when I heard some rude women lambasting Ripley’s voice and using that as fodder to dismiss the entire musical, I felt angry and disappointed. I felt ownership of the musical. I wanted to tell them to shut up, but they did have a point, didn’t they?

Perhaps Ripley was having an off night. Perhaps my desire for her to move on is unjustified. I absolutely don’t want to discourage anyone from seeing this beautiful musical, because it really does mean that much to me. I want to share it. But I also don’t want to have to make excuses for it.

Aside from Ripley, this production is gorgeous. The set remains the same, with the piercing Gestalt lighting, the cold, tired hovering eyes, the dramatic and stark colored lighting. When the walls of the family’s home finally turn out to reveal these unfeeling eyes, it’s a powerful moment. I’d love to write a whole piece on the lighting and set.

Sitting on the left side of the house, the energy of the rock orchestra was palpable, if a little muted at points. This music is thrilling, seamlessly integrated with the dialogue, and constantly pushing its performers to give everything they have.

As Natalie, Emma Hunton shines. She brings a believable and youthful energy to the show, while making Natalie an even bolder, stronger character. Her voice is immaculate. Her love interest Henry, played by Preston Sadleir, came off a little fey in his first scene, but eventually relaxed into a comfortable shrugging teenage stoner.

In this production, son Gabe seems oddly sexualized, thrusting his hips against set pieces, leering at Diana and the others, and adding an unnecessary element to the production. If Gabe is supposed to be an imagined perfect son, why does he seem so malicious? It’s an odd choice. Especially after seeing Aaron Tveit play the quintessential golden boy in the Broadway production, this touring Gabe seems more like a rapacious Puck.

Asa Somers has it hard as Dan, the quiet, unassuming husband who walks on eggshells to keep his family from falling apart. The challenge of this role is to bring not only pity, but sympathy. Somers succeeds to this end. His falsetto broke a few times in the second act, but none of these hiccups rendered his performance ineffective.

This is an important musical. I can’t say that enough. Yes, it demands so much of its audience. It’s difficult, it’s uncomfortable at times, and it forces viewers to consider mental illness without any sugar-coating. It’s not an after-school special. But at the end of the musical, those lucky enough to see it and be open to its message will leave feeling touched, challenged, and ultimately rewarded for having seen something real and truly human. It’s a remarkable feeling to leave a theater tired and full of pain and hope and appreciation. “Next To Normal” can give you all of these things if you’ll open your mind and let it.

Disclosure: As a member of PlayhouseSquare's Review Crew, I was given two complimentary tickets to the opening night production.

IX International Beer Fest

2011-05-15T21:22:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, I was skeptical of the IX Center's proposed International Beer Fest from the start. I just wasn't sure if they had enough support from good breweries and distributors to pull it off. Could it be as exciting or unique as any of Cleveland Beer Week's events? Would I feel the thrill I felt when my husband and I raced to Winking Lizard in Lakewood to sample Troeg Brewery's Scratch and Splinter series, a set of beers we'll likely never get to taste again? I had my doubts.

Still, after the initial announcement, the festival began to generate some good buzz and endorsement from local powerhouses like Great Lakes Brewing Company. I became a little hopeful, but I didn't want to shell out the money for a ticket, knowing that this was a very ambitious festival in its first year that could very well turn out to be a disappointment. So I signed up as a volunteer, as did my husband.

First, volunteers get very little for their assistance. Originally, all we were promised was a t-shirt, tasting glass, and a subscription to Draft magazine (the third was only given to volunteers who worked two sessions). We were not supposed to drink during our shifts, which pretty much means that we weren't allowed to drink at all unless we bought tickets to the shift we weren't volunteering for. Compare this to something like the Cleveland International Film Festival where volunteers enjoy two film vouchers for every shift they work, and this seems like a raw deal.

Originally, I didn't care that I wasn't getting much. I was honestly just excited to volunteer for a beer-centric event. I love beer, and I love talking to people. Pouring at the International Beer Fest would fulfill both.

Volunteers received minimal training. Before Friday's only session, I donned my ugly (yes, I said it--they need to bring in a brand consultant or something) oversized t-shirt and went to the Ohio station where I was assigned. I was so glad that I got to work this section, since I have good relationships with quite a few of the local brewers and I knew that they'd all be there to represent their product with pride. I had a good time working at Wooden Shoe Brewery from Minster, Ohio. But before the session the only instruction we were given was to pour to the logo on the glass, and no higher. If someone seemed "visibly intoxicated", we were to refuse them a pour. But our trainer did not explain how to handle this situation or who to call over if someone became beligerent. We were not given bottle openers. This was fine for me, because my brewer had a draft system set up. We were also not given rinse pitchers or dump buckets. I could not find my supervisor in time to get one, so I ended up taking supplies from the Stella Artois booth, which was way overstocked.

Because I was the only volunteer at my stand, I was not allowed to leave, since the brewers were legally not allowed to pour beer for patrons. Fortunately, exceptions were made near the end of the evening so I was able to walk around for a minute.

Throughout the evening, I saw a lot of friends. Local bloggers, brewers, and beer fans. The brewers in my row were kind enough to share samples with me while I poured. In the end, I left feeling pretty positive, but concerned that the next day's volunteers would run into the same problems I did.

On Saturday afternoon's shift, all of the volunteers got screamed at and then headed to their sections. I got assigned to Asia with my husband. Lucky us. None of our beers were set up. Instead, all of the volunteers had to crowd around a walk in cooler trailer and dig for number-coded cases of beer. It was an absolute mess, not to mention depressing. I tried to flag down an IX Center employee on a golf cart, but he seemed unwilling to send someone over to clean it up. One volunteer dropped an entire case of beer and it shattered all over the floor. Another placed a case of Nøgne ø beer at the Young's stand so my husband and I moved it to the right place (by the way, the Young's beers never arrived). I ended up standing back and waiting for the beers to show up at my table. All of the other volunteers in my section were new. They literally received NO training, other than being told not to pour over the line on the glass. We had no bottle openers and were serving bottled beer. Luckily, all the folks in my section were hardcore beer lovers (and really cool people) so we all had bottle opener key chains. I gave everyone a crash course and we all began looking up information on the beers we were pouring.

We were supposed to have two Indian lagers and two Indian pilsners at our table, but all of the Flying Horse beer was killed the night before. Of course, that was the beer everyone wanted. The distributor showed up eventually and we told him we were out. He tried to get more in by the end of the session, but that didn't work out.

When we were setting up, we told our volunteer coordinator that we would like rinse pitchers, he said nobody would want them because "the serious beer drinkers came last night" and that today's guests "wouldn't care." Yeah right. My response was, "what if they do want to rinse their glasses?" He just walked away. Nice. So somebody who finishes a frothy chocolate stout will just come up to our table with a foam soaked glass and get a nice crisp Indian pilsner poured into it and not care that it's a muddled, nasty mess. People paid enough to get in. They deserve respect.

Speaking of respect, IX Center hired some scrawny, hot girls to walk around in super-short white shorts and high heels. They handed out maps. Everyone thought it was a joke. Nothing gives more credibility to your International beer event than a bunch of tarted up white girls sauntering around smiling vapidly.

Actually, a lot of the event screamed sexism. The fact that a small size t-shirt wasn't even an option seemed to totally dismiss the idea that a young, fit woman would want to be a volunteer. One male volunteer told me he was surprised that a young lady like me enjoyed beer so much. Then my husband and I went up to a table were two guys were selling oak casks and the salesmen completely ignored me and insisted on only interacting with my husband, who they charmingly (not) called "buddy." A couple of brewery reps made fools of themselves by encouraging drunken women to hang all over each other at their stand on Friday night. Gross.

My main complaint after all of this is that the main floor was nothing special. When our stand ran out of beer on Saturday's first shift (yeah, that actually happened, and I feel sorry for people who came second shift if they couldn't get more), my husband and I walked around and saw everything there was to see. Other than Pizza Port (which I was SO happy to sample), there were no other beers that I couldn't get somewhere else. All of the "Beer Fest Exclusives" were in VIP, and even most of those have been or will be available locally. The Real Ale bar was pretty neat, and I definitely enjoyed both beers I sampled there, but other than that, I was just not impressed.

So I guess instead of continuing this rant, I'll make a list of things that IX Center should do to improve next year. And yes, I will be sending these their way so I have something more to look forward to if IX International Beer Fest returns (which I really hope happens, honestly. It would be great for the city).

Train volunteers. Not just on rules, but on the beer. Even if the distributor just leaves a notecard for each beer, it will be an improvement. I was amazed at how little some pourers knew. My husband asked what beer they were serving at a cooking demonstration, and the volunteer responded with some attitude, "it's beer." Although it was nice to feel like a rock star volunteer by comparison for knowing about the beer we were serving. People actually did respond very positively when we answered their questions, and expressed their frustration with some other clueless volunteers. So yes, training matters.
Make volunteer coordinators/security guards more accessible. We have a ton of people drinking a ton of beer. Things happen. Volunteers and patrons need to know who to go to for help.
Have everyone who leaves pass a breathalizer test. Seriously, I was scared to leave on Friday night after witnessing all of the stumbling and rowdy behavior. If people aren't sober, they should be allowed to wait in a lounge and sober up with water and pretzels or something. It's a small price to pay for safety.
Quit with the "eye candy." It's embarrassing. I was offended as a woman working the festival. And seriously, why wouldn't you offer a small t-shirt? One of the only things I got out of volunteering is something I'll never wear again.
Allow patrons to buy tickets ala carte. Maybe the government won't allow this. I don't know. But if people want to come in and buy a pack of ten tickets at the door, you should let them. This might prevent the huge mass exodus at the end of each session, allowing security to make sure everyone's fit to leave instead of getting overwhelmed and corralling people.
One ounce pours are more than enough. I know this concession was probably made because people were mad about having their pours limited to 30 (which is absurd to me), but next year, stick with one ounce.
Have some entertainment. I felt like I was at a business convention the whole time. Even if it's a crappy cover band, at least it would feel like more of an event.
Have the distributors handle their product, not the volunteers. Have the beer placed before each session. Set people up for success.
Give each table two bottle openers and enough pitchers and dump buckets to keep up with the flow. Why not give volunteers a bottle opener as a gift along with the shirt?
Have the breweries and distributors provide materials on each beer so volunteers don't have to rely on smart phones or guess work if they're not familiar with the product. Printing a guide with a short description of each beer on it would be ideal. Patrons should at the very least know the style and ABV of every beer they drink.

So there it is. The perspective of a Beer Fest volunteer who didn't make it into the VIP area and didn't really sample anything she hadn't had before (except for Pizza Port's selections, which were pretty awesome).

My bottom line is, treat drinkers, brewers, and pourers with respect. I wasn't feeling the love, and neither was my husband. Maybe next year.

West Side Story at PlayhouseSquare

2011-05-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

Review Crew Reviews: West Side Story from PlayhouseSquare on Vimeo.

When it comes to film, the word “remake” always makes me cringe. By definition, a classic is considered a classic when it has garnered and maintained acclaim and adoration over time. It remains relevant. It grows with its audience. It gains weight with each visit.

“West Side Story” is a classic, untouchable work of art. For this reason, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to view it again as part of PlayhouseSquare’s Review Crew. I’ve seen the musical at least a half-dozen times (a full dozen if you count the film) and I have fond memories of listening to the original cast recording on cassette in my mother’s Ford Tempo. I grew up with this music. I very inappropriately (and unwittingly) performed “Gee, Officer Krupke”, at family gatherings when I was five years old. The music was a part of me, even as a kid.

And now in the revival, Arthur Laurents, the very man who gave me the words I memorized and regurgitated as a child, revisits and revamps his original work. Adding further emotional weight to my viewing of his work, we lost Mister Laurents just two days after I viewed the final revision of his own masterpiece.

The major change in this production is the addition of Spanish dialogue, translated by Lin-Manuel Miranda, writer of the dynamic contemporary musical “In the Heights.” Is this a welcome change? I was never totally sold. Changes to both the book and libretto seem forced, especially when communicated by actors who haven’t yet effectively mastered the Puerto Rican accent.

If anything, the addition of Spanish dialogue creates an even more extreme rift between the Puerto Rican Sharks and second generation American Jets. It’s a rift that feels uncomfortable, even for someone like me who speaks a limited amount of Spanish. Some of my peers felt downright alienated, especially when the lyrics they’ve come to love were performed in a foreign language. For better or worse, the battle between “us” and “them” becomes much more pronounced when we aren’t speaking the same language. While the original musical challenges the audience question who is in the right in this tragic turf war (if anyone), this incarnation seems to force its audience to choose a side—the side they can understand.

To a seasoned audience, an audience that’s familiar with the original work, this change may be inconsequential. But this translation isn’t an aesthetic stylization you might see in a new production of “Romeo & Juliet” or “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. This is a war with words. In passing, the Sharks murmur asides to each other in Spanish and it adds an element of realism to the production. But when Maria sings “I Feel Pretty” in Spanish, thre’s something missing. And how important is this kind of realism in a production where tough thugs pirouette with switchblades?

Also missing is the sex, the fire, the adolescent angst that we need to feel between Maria and Tony. At the school dance I grow anxious during the chaperone’s “abstinence” diatribe. Just let the crazy kids mambo, already! When they do, it’s hot. Is there romance? Yes. But the romance between Maria and Tony feels more like a planned anniversary date than a frantic, heart-wrenching formative encounter. Even the fiery Anita is incapable of adding tension and judgment to this romance, making it seem inconsequential.

There are elements of West Side Story that remain timeless, and these elements are gorgeously executed. The full orchestra at PlayhouseSquare brings the dynamic, lush, and at times dissonant score to life. While “Something’s Coming” feels rushed, the rest of the music is perfection. The choreography is stunning, even after all this time.

The revival of “West Side Story” gives us a new cultural perspective. But do we need it? Is the original message of the musical lost in translation? Probably not. But it might just be unnecessarily complicated.

Disclosure: As a member of PlayhouseSquare's Review Crew, I received two complimentary tickets to this production.

Robert Burns Night

2011-01-28T09:41:00.001-08:00

I knew nothing of Robert Burns night when I stumbled into Cornerstone Brewing Company after a sloppy petting session during my junior year of college. My boyfriend and I giddily slipped through the back entrance of the brewery and spotted one of my favorite professors hunched over the bar with a backpack, a book, and a tiny plate of meat. "It's Robert Burns night and there's free haggis", he told us, suggesting that we should get some before it ran out. But we were too late. The room was nearly empty, with evidence of some prior fracas peppered about: too many plates waiting to be bussed, tables arranged in impractically claustrophobic fashion, overtired waiters looking uncomfortable in kilts. Defeated, we nestled up to the bar, determined to make something out of this lost evening. We each ordered a pint of Cornerstone's freshly tapped scotch ale, the Rowan. A caramel-colored malty ale with touches of toffee and a smooth finish. A reason to return next year. Which we did. Again and again.

There was one year where, powered by 16-year scotch and happy hour priced pints of the 7.7% Rowan, I kissed and cuddled up to my entire party of eight close buddies. Yes, it was my senior year of college. Yes, I was wistful. I'd made it through January to the great Scot poet's birthday once again. It might be the last time I'd see some of these people. I was amorous. I was a little insane. I stomped my booted foot on the wooden floor as the Black Bear of Caledonia Pipe Band piped in a giant haggis in grand fashion, twirling heavy drumsticks, blowing "Amazing Grace" into the high-ceilinged brick building with precision and passion. I read along in my best Scottish accent as the host of the festivities performed Burns' "Address to a Haggis" with such confidence and vigor, that you'd think he wrote it himself. I'm not Scottish in the least. I wear a Scotland pin on the breast of my coat because it was a lovely gift from a friend who studied abroad, and because I like the way it looks. Becoming so invested in the birthday festivities of Scotland's great poet was just a way to feel connected to culture, to literature, to the beautiful like-minded group of people I called my friends.

One year when I was out of college and still living with my parents we opted to get a cheap room at the Red Roof Inn in Berea so we wouldn't need to drive anywhere. It had an elevator with fake wood paneling and yellowed drop lighting. I was thrilled to be there. I have a way of romanticizing hotel stays. Scratchy comforters, wrapped soaps, and crappy abstract art haven't been ruined for me, even after business travel and years of experience. I still love sleeping in a prepared room. So this Robert Burns night could have been something special. And, alright, it was--they all are. But I remember coming back to the hotel after an evening of music and laughter and free meat and friend pickles and just feeling the oppressive weight of 14-year Oban scotch throwing me onto the bed and into a dizzying half-sleep. I don't even remember getting a kiss goodnight.

I think last night was my fifth Robert Burns night at Cornerstone. I don't remember missing one. I just know that it's the thing we do every year. Maybe all of the events I've recounted happened on the same Robert Burns night. Every year there's a haggis. Last year it was oily. This year it had a particularly herby taste to it and the texture of Mom's meatloaf. One year we got cheap scotch for our boisterous table. One year it was just me and my husband sipping Rowan in a near-empty room. The bagpipers come back every year like they're the only bookable Scottish band in Ohio. They tune and warm up in the brewery with the heavy metal door shut tight, and still the wailing nasally sounds of the pipes drift through the restaurant, eliciting confused looks from the regular dinner crowd, and hearty pint hoists from me and my fellow Burns buddies. We're happy because the beer just got tapped and it's delicious and 7.7%, and we're happy because we have something to come back to.

Blue Man Group, PlayhouseSquare

2010-10-08T13:36:00.000-07:00

In a revelatory moment during Blue Man Group's opening number on Tuesday at PlayhouseSquare's Palace Theatre, I realized that the whirling sound I heard was not emanating from a brush circling a snare or a synthesized sound effect loop, but a long, curved PVC pipe whipping steadily in a circular path carved in the air by a stoic man in blueface.

Even after a disappointing thirty minute curtain delay, that's all it took for me to suspend my impatience and immerse myself in this aural wonderland being created before my eyes with mallets and PVC pipe.

Before this production, I had only seen Blue Man Group in television clips and heavily referenced on one of my favorite television shows, "Arrested Development". In my mind, theirs was a show that businessmen in New York and Vegas took their visiting clients to in order to appear cool and trendy. I clearly underestimated them.

Watching the Blue Man Group is part science fair, part screwball comedy, and part rave, but one element remains consistent throughout: the childlike wonder and humor of these three versatile performers are limitess. As musicians, they've mastered the art of innovation, creating impressive homemade instruments that form unique sounds. Blue Man instruments look like they belong in the world of Dr. Seuss, especially in day-glo paint. As comedians, they're deadpan experts.

The Blue Men are strongest when they're satirizing. With an oversized interactive iPad (the GiPad, as they call it), they both lampoon technology and embrace it. For as much as they parodied the overuse of modern technology during this new stage show, they masterfully used it to their advantage, sending a camera crew into the audience to capture live crowd reactions and projecting digital stick figures onto huge hanging screens. Even the curtain warmer consisted of two LED screens commanding audience participation with a healthy amount of snark. I think that most people in the audience could have just sat and watched those text scrolls for a good hour before the show actually started.

In Tuesday's show, which ran without an intermission, BMG cleverly summarized classic literature on their huge "GiPads", performed a clever Duck Soup mirror scene tribute using video screens, hoisted an audience member onstage for a Twinkie dinner, and made neon paint erupt into each others' faces from atop huge drum heads.

One particular gag consisted of a Blue Man firing paintballs into another's mouth, and marshmallows into the third Blue Man's mouth. From this, a clever commentary on the commercialization of art emerged, as one Blue man created a spirograph-style splatter painting by spitting on his canvas while spinning it and generously bestowed it upon an audience member in the front row. The other Blue Man spat his dozen or more marshmallows out into a creepily phallic form and hung a price tag of $5,000 dollars in front of it. At the end of the bit he appeared to hand the sculpture to somebody in the front row as if to say, "nevermind the price tag. Our art is for everybody."

This seems to be the point of Blue Man Group. Focused on innovation, education, and booty-shaking fun, these alien oddballs don't aim to alienate everybody, but rather to engage all with their antics. I had a blast. My only issue with the BMG was that their audience participation segments completely took me out of the strange world they were building in front of me on stage. I didn't want to remember that I was amongst a crowd of normal people. I just wanted to immerse myself in Blue World and watch the boys who do it best. And this might just be a personal hang-up, but when somebody tells me to stand up and shake my booty (or my "Dinner With Andre" as they referred to it at one point), I tend to resist. But observing all of the weeknight theater goers dancing in their assigned rows at the Palace Theatre only made me wonder how different it would be to see BMG perform at Astor Place Theater, as they originally did.

Still, it was cool of them to bring their geek-friendly percussive performance art to Cleveland. It's a good time for young and old. Just remember: when Blue Man Group tells you to shake your booty, it's best to just go with it and abide.

For dates and tickets, visit:

http://www.playhousesquare.org/bluemangroup

Denver Day 4: Tulo!

2010-10-02T12:05:00.000-07:00

Breckenridge Brewery served us an insane brunch. Their western-Mexican culinary flair manifested itself in spicy queso egg bakes, creamy chorizo gravy over biscuits, seasoned homefries with bell peppers and onions, bacon, and delicious green grapes coated in yogurt and drizzled with the same agave nectar that's used in their famous Agave Wheat.

With my breakfast, I threw back a surprisingly hoppy and subtly spiced saison that I probably won't ever taste again. Their brown ale was also quite good. In Cleveland, we are never far from Breckendridge's oatmeal stout, Avalanche amber, and vanilla porter. It was cool to sample some different non-flagship beers from the 'ridge.

Another thing I respect about the Breckenridge brew pub is that they are a barbecue restaurant. Most of the brewpubs we visited (if not all of them) offered the same mix of ethnic sausage platters, pizzas, beer cheese soup, and burgers. Seeing a pub that specializes in something different different was refreshing.

After our Breck tour, we somehow ended up getting a private tour of Great Divide outside of regular business hours.

Great Divide's pub is tiny. Our group of 30 stifled all natural movement and filled the place with hot breath and noise. It wasn't until our group split in half for tours that I noticed the cool handmade wooden boxes filled with found objects hanging on the walls. I instantly fell in love with the Hoss, a rye lager branded with a label like a Woolrich jacket. My smoked baltic porter was also a treat.

The tour was brisk, but interesting. The guide, like the others, assumed that we were already familiar with the brewing process and instead concentrated on the history of the brewery and pub, which was once a milk bottling plant. He explained how Great Divide received a grant to build their brewpub in this vacant and somewhat depressed area, as they promised jobs, environmental stewardship, and tourism. For as much as these smaller breweries teased New Belgium for its in-your-face touchy-feely mission statements, they all kind of do the same, with just a little more subtlety and a healthy dose of self-awareness.

On our last day of organized brewery touring, James and I scored two tickets to the would-be sellout Rockies/Giants game at Coors Field. Sated by a coal-fired veggie pizza, we hiked up the steps to our seats, located above the purple row of seats that marks a mile above sea level.

On that night, the Rockies were still playoff contenders, though their hopes have pretty much been dashed since. Early in the game a foul ball sliced into the stands and the stadium heaved a collective gasp. I laughed and noted to James that this was a pretty dramatic, reactive crowd before realizing that it has been so long since I attended a sold-out baseball game. The last Indians game I attended had only 6,000 other attendants. In a crowd like that, you don't get that grand reaction. You hear individual conversations float lazily over rows of empty seats. From the right spots you can hear the guys in the press box announcing for radio.

It was in that moment of sonic unity that I became invested in this game. The stakes were tangible. I rose excitedly for every base hit. I slammed my fist against the armrest when the starting pitcher got lit up in his first few innings. I high-fived the big dude next to me who was kind enough to share his giant bag of peanuts, so long as we agree to tolerate his newlywed jokes.

We watched the rest of the game after the fifth from various walkways throughout Coors Field and happily stayed to holler and high-five when the game came down to a thrilling play at the plate with two outs in the bottom of the tenth. This kind of win in the cold thin September air always takes me back to the golden years at Jacobs field. October baseball felt close again at Coors Field. It broke my heart to think of returning home to the losing team I call mine, but for that one night I got to hang my hopes on somebody else's hometeam. I hope it wasn't my Clevelander aura that jinxed them when we packed up and left town after that big win, four games behind in the wildcard race.

Denver Day 3: Business Time

2010-10-01T18:45:00.000-07:00

Our three-brewery excursion exhausted us. We woke with dry mouths and nagging headaches which would only be quelled by a rigorous morning workout and several cups of tap water.

Working out at this elevation is humbling. Just shuffling on an elliptical with little resistance for a mile was taxing. I took shallow and unfulfilling breaths. Still, to commit to working out while slightly hung over and still jet lagged gave me a burst of positivity that I carried with me on the bus to Boulder.

James and I were nuts enough to crack open a beer on the way to more beer. We shared a crisp, malty blonde sharply packaged in an aluminum can by Ska Brewing Company. As we polished off our can and turned our eyes forward, we were overwhelmed by the beautiful severity of the Rocky Mountains beyond the bus' dashboard. We were driving into those mountains, or they were about to consume us. Either way, the view was impressive. We wondered about the scattered lodges and houses built onto the sides of the mountain range. Recalling Colorado's recent brush fires added drama to the scene.

A skankin' good brew

Boulder Brewing Company stands at the feet of the Rockies. The door at the loading dock rolls up to reveal the snow-crested mountains. When we first arrived at the scene we were greeted with an outdoor beer garden picnic, complete with centerpieces and decorative hop vine garlands. The grillmaster hooked his iPod up to a portable stereo and we all received a pint of our choice to as a party favor. I opted for the Buffalo Gold, a golden ale that I've never seen in Ohio, even though it's been a staple at Colorado's first microbrewery since 1989.

If I worked at this brewery I'd keep the door open year-round

Our tour guide, affectionately dubbed Chicken Dan for reasons less interesting than the nickname itself, was goofy, sarcastic, wily, and endlessly entertaining. He led the tour in Willy Wonka fashion, madly gesturing towards various brewhouse elements with a long metal keg rod. His humor and vibrancy set this tour apart from the others. You can only see so many towering fermentors and bottling lines before they all start to look the same.

Chicken Dan and his pole

One anecdote that I fondly recall from Dan's tour is that Boulder Brewing Company started in a goat shed. For this reason, Boulder decorates its mug club mugs and pub walls with goats.

Our picnic at Boulder consisted of grilled burgers, brats, and hot dogs with a delicious potato salad and chips. I gave the vegetarian barley burger a shot, and it was delicious. The best beer I tasted on our trip (or one of them) was Boulder's dark mild English ale, named Business Time. This flavorful well-balanced session beer was fresh off a gold medal win at last week's Great American Beer Festival. The brew was so named because its low alcohol content makes it a manageable lunch hour beer, but when the marketing folks got a hold of it they turned the name into a Flight of the Conchords reference. Because James removed my garter to this song at our wedding, a marketing guy printed us two limited edition posters for the beer on excellent stock for no cost.

Sampling toasted malt gave us a great idea for a new cereal

The tour of Avery Brewing was fast and unremarkable, though our guide was personable enough. I think he knew we were already familiar with the brewing process and just wanted to get us to the good stuff: the beer. Avery is oddly located in an industrial park, so even though the pub itself is comfortable, it's tucked away in a place that I would probably avoid on weekends if I were a local. But again, the beer is what's important, and Avery does a fine job creating delicious small-batch treats. Some standouts included the casked sour ale (tapped by a tough dude with a sledgehammer!) and a passionfruit wheat beer unlike anything I've ever tasted. We spent some time playing with two retrievers hanging around the brewery and took home free branded glasses.

Tap that sour!

After two straight days of consuming nothing but beer, my new husband and I required a different kind of refreshment and some time away from the throng. For cocktails, the concierge recommended the Brown Palace, Colorado's oldest hotel, conveniently located a block away.

We were not prepared for the elegance and classic opulence of this hotel. Marble, onyx, carved wood, disarming high-ceilinged beauty. Our footsteps patted against the floor and their echoes hung importantly in the air. We were walking towards the Churchill Room, a cigar bar that James noted was probably once meant to be enjoyed by men only. For whatever reason, I found this to be dreadfully romantic. I ordered a Manhattan, which arrived in halves: one in a martini glass and the other in a shot glass placed in the center of a small, shallow bundt-shaped pan of ice. This perplexed me and I felt like a rube until our waitress assured us that this serving method was a Brown Palace exclusive.

James and I traded puffs of a mild cigar and he shared the muddled cherries from his old fashioned. Yes, we capped a day of drinking with more drinking. But being in a dark oaky room with James and looking into his eyes through the cigar smoke that rolled fluidly from his lips made me realize why we are doing this thing together and I felt overwhelmingly in love in that room.

Our beer tour friends let us snuggle in the throne at Avery

Denver Day 2: Is that Ed Helms?

2010-09-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

These people can drink. They are tireless and unflinching in their consumption of beer. They put me to shame. They also do not weigh 115 pounds, so I try not to get discouraged when I can't keep up.

We had our first brewery tour today at New Belgium, but our bus mates were not about to wait until we got to the brewery in Fort Collins to imbibe. They drank Oskar Blues and Ska Brewery cans from a cooler on the seat across from us. We were patient.

New Belgium is the third largest craft brewery in America, behind Sam Adams and Sierra Nevada. This fact was surprising to me, considering that New Belgium's distribution is limited to just a few states. While Ohio may get surprised with the occasional errant sixer of Fat Tire, we do not get to partake in any of their beers 99.9% of the time.

One of the limited edition New Belgium bicycles.

I have to say, I fell in love with New Belgium Brewery. They are real environmental stewards in every way. Yes, they tend to brag about it, but they have every right to. Their brewery has been employee-owned for several years. They rely on natural light, solar panels, and wind power to produce their beer. Spent grain goes to farms (a fairly common process). They reuse water. They have communal bikes that employees can use to travel around Fort Collins. And after each employee's first year, he or she receives a free limited edition New Belgium bicycle. After five years, they receive an all-expenses paid trip to Belgium. It sounds like a truly awesome place to work. There's also a metal curly slide that takes employees from the catwalk above the bottling area to the main floor of the brewery. We got to go down it!

I did my best to catch James coming down the slide!

Our beers were fantastic. My favorite was the 1554 black lager. It was crisp, roasty-toasty, and refreshing. Brewing black lagers seems to be a big trend right now with craft brewers, and I'm totally okay with that. I also got a snifter of one of their "Lips of Faith" beers, which are basically experimental small-batches that they release for brewpub visitors. This one was called La Folie, a sour ale that tasted like granny smith apples. So good. The best beer of the day by far. It's a shame that I'll never get to drink it again.

For all the Fat Tire worshippers out there (I personally think it's solid but hugely overrated), we got the scoop on the name of the New Belgium flagship. When the founder visited Belgium for the first time, he took his mountain bike so he could travel like the locals and immerse himself in their beer culture. Because the mountain bike was a relatively new invention and most of the Belgians had lighter, more street-friendly bicycles, they all laughed at his crazy "fat-tired" bike.

Since we had some time after our tour of the very spunky, very hip New Belgium, we got to take a bit of a diversion and visit Odell Brewery in downtown Fort Collins. James and I broke off from the group early to explore the area and we came across a ton of cool cafes and shops, including one very tiny toy store with a crazy science teacher-type dude who tried to wow us with his inventions. James and I enjoyed our time away from the group. It got me really excited for our road trip west after our time in Colorado. Adam will be happy to know that we crossed over the Poudre River! Go, Poudre!

All inside jokes aside, the river and the trail were beautiful.

We found this bear on the main street in Fort Collins.

Odell Brewery was an absolute treat. It's a small brewery with the same heart and a similar philosophy as New Belgium (everybody lives "green" out here!) The beers are just as solid, and the fact that they're a small batch brewery gives them a lot of freedom to experiment. The tour was fantastic. We got to see some of the barrels that they age certain beers in, and were surprised to learn that some of the fresh unused barrels come from a company that was formerly located in Canton.

James sniffing some dry Amarillo hops at Odell Brewery

On the way in, we each got to pick a ten ounce pour of a beer of our choice. I opted for the Curry Wheat beer. Although I normally think wheat beers can get boring and are often uninspired, the introduction of one of my favorite spices was too much to bear. And yes, it was excellent. Very well-balanced, and the curry was present but not overwhelming.

If I would have known that we would each get our own six beer sampler upon completion of the tour, I would have said nay to the 10 ouncer. Alas, I had to drink more beer. I got the "pilot" sampler, a selection of the brewery's new experiments. James got a sampler of their flagship beers. One of my favorites was a wheat beer that had a strong hop presence. The wheats are really different out west. It's awesome. They also had this beer called the Ellipsis, which was a British-style imperial sour or something like that. It was absolutely nuts. Sour plum, apple, sugar...just candy in a glass. So complex and tasty.

Yes, we drank all of these beers. We are champions. Big, bloaty champions.

We did some souvenir shopping at Odell, leaving with a branded bottle opener that we can drill into our wall and a $25 250 mL bottle of the Woodcut aged lager. We'll have to crack that open with the family at Christmas!

After the pleasant surprise at Odell, we were jazzed to visit Left Hand. This is one of my favorite breweries. Their Sawtooth ESB is a favorite of mine, a definite standby that I order when I can't be forced to make a decision. And it never disappoints.

We were so shocked at how small Left Hand was. They have a huge footprint around the country and the world, but their production numbers are so low. Because their beers are available everywhere in our area, we definitely didn't expect to see what a comparatively tiny operation this was. The brewery tour was short but sweet, and we finally got to see the bottling process after the previous two breweries seemed to be on break in the bottling area. Yeah, it was cool. Lots of Laverne & Shirley jokes with diminishing returns.

Left Hand was kind enough to serve us a pasta dinner after a day of drinking. It kind of reminded me of Joe's Happy Fun Barbecue when they placed two big pans of spaghetti and pesto bow tie pasta on a buffet for us. We feel huge right now.

I got to taste a Jackmans Pale Ale and a Twin Sisters Double IPA on cask. So, so good. After the tour I ordered a Sawtooth ESB. Like any beer, it tasted so much better from the tap at the brewpub than it does out of the bottle. So awesome. I also enjoyed a pub exclusive called Starsky & Scotch. By that point, I could tell that the beer was good, but I just wasn't enjoying beers anymore. I kicked James' butt in checkers because he was so checked out.

I bought a pub glass with the left hand logo. On the side of it it reads, "sometimes you just don't feel like drinking what everybody else is drinking" or something like that. It was too perfect, and a steal at $4.

We haven't gotten too much free stuff by mentioning that we're on our honeymoon, but that might be because we're on a big tour with a bunch of people. We did get free stickers and chapstick at New Belgium, but mostly people are just being nice and kind to us when they hear that we're recently married. There's always tomorrow.

So right now my goal is to find the best hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint in Denver. There is SO much Mexican food out here. Is any of it better than Cozumel? I don't know, but I'm bent on finding out!

Denver Day 1: Rich Girl

2010-09-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

Our early arrival in Denver this morning ended up being pretty fortuitous. We stowed our bags behind the desk at the hotel and set out to explore the city. With no beer tour commitments until 7:00, we had plenty of time to get to know the mile high city.

We spent about an hour roaming the stacks at the Tattered Cover, a multi-floored bookstore that I understand is somewhat of an institution in Denver. After browsing all that time, we left empty-handed but we hope to return and pick up some souvenirs for the road. Hopefully that creepy kid sleeping on a chair upstairs with a coffee table book spread over his lap won't be there next time. We also rested our heads on some riverside rocks in Confluence Park, though we never did end up finding the dog park. (It's all good--we passed several fine canine specimens throughout the day).

Our best decision was to shell out $16 a piece to see Denver Aquarium. I go to a lot of aquariums. I won't say that this was the best, but it was a lot of fun and we got to see several species we don't really get to see out east, like Wolf Eel, Hawkfish, and several kinds of trout. The exhibits were all very well maintained and viewable from several angles, so I got to get in there with my new camera and show off.

James tried to make a connection with a river otter, and then we realized that it was being, uh, mounted. Disturbing? Romantic?

I got to see so many kinds of sharks. Denver Aquarium really spreads the sharks out, placing them in almost every region of the building. We saw epaulet sharks, pajama catsharks, swell sharks, leopard sharks, sawfish, zebra sharks, sandtigers, nurse sharks, and brown sharks. They all glided overhead and around us amongst green sea turtles, barracuda, and unicornfish. My favorite part of the trip was seeing living shark embryos in their egg cases. It was so cool seeing their gills move and watching their little tails twitch. There are some species of sharks that give live birth, but several species lay eggs in these cases that are often referred to as "mermaids purses". Stupid, I know. Oh, speaking of stupid, there was a "mermaid demonstration" at the aquarium, which basically meant that two sort of average looking girls with wigs got to sit in cheap-looking costumes at the edge of the stingray touch pool and block my shine. No matter. We still touched those rays something fierce! The cownose rays were especially friendly, slapping their fins against the side of the pool and sticking their noses up, begging to be touched. Very sweet animals!

I never get tired of aquariums. This visit was the perfect start to the trip. Well, actually the real perfect start to the trip was when we took our shuttle from the airport to the hotel: the driver heard "Rich Girl" come on the radio and just cranked that! We had a sing-a-long together while James and I noshed on our bag of Combos (the BEST road trip snack).

First observations on Denver:

Bikes! Everywhere! Fit people riding lightweight bicycles, obeying traffic laws, getting respect, looking sharp and healthy.

Marijuana! Everywhere! Yes, you can get medicinal marijuana here. We passed a truck advertising "unique cannabis options" and a few centers where you can get it.

Beer! We had our first beer ahead of schedule today at Wynkoop Brewery. It's the oldest Brewpub in Denver, and a very very cool building with free shuffleboard and billiards upstairs until 7:00 and a comedy club in the basement. The beers are excellent. I had a Schwarzbier that bordered on a porter--very toasty, very robust. James had a vegetable ale with chiles in it! It was insane! So good, and it paired well with his burrito. I enjoyed a vegan sloppy joe.

Tonight we dine with the other beer tourists at Denver Chop House where we get free dinner and two free beers. Cheers!

Pedal Pushers

2010-08-10T18:52:00.000-07:00

Though I've lived on the western side of Ohio City for about ten months now, it never occurred to me that biking to Tremont was something that would not only be simple, but fun. Perhaps it's because more than half of those months were dominated by crippling cold.

Tremont is one of my favorite communities in Cleveland. The old-world roots mixed with creative contemporary cuisine by some of the city's best chefs, plus the abundance of galleries and the green space of Lincoln Park make it the perfect formula for a diversified urban experience. Before I lived downtown, I would visit as frequently as I do now, stopping into Visible Voice to browse through the books, or to Civilization (featured in the book Celebrating The Third Place) for an iced coffee on a hot day. Then there's Grumpy's, the best breakfast in the city, in my opinion.

When my fiance and I discussed taking a bike ride a local bar, we unanimously decided on Prosperity Social Club, located in the heart of Tremont near Lincoln Park. Prosperity, as it's known to its regulars, is a bar that satisfies my need for both a dive bar atmosphere and for tasty snacks and high-end beer and cocktails. The walls are adorned with vintage beer advertisements, including two separate illuminated Schlitz globes that spin slackly above the bar. Whatever's playing on Turner Classic Movies is almost always flickering on a decrepit television in the corner. The jukebox is predictable yet satisfying. And in the back room, a stack of board games lies in wait next to the always occupied pool table.

I opted for a Left Hand Sawtooth Ale from the draft list and we played a few rounds of Connect 4, all the while being charmed by our sweet bartender and tales of her rescue dog Tulip. The second bartender, a guy who's poured me many a beer over the past few months, teased us mercilessly as we allowed the beers to get the better of our Connect 4 strategy. It's a harder game than I remembered. Perhaps I never had the discipline to really finish a game as a child. Or perhaps I lost too quickly back then. After we both downed a Founders Red Rye, a dizzy ride across the street took us to the Lincoln Park playground, The sweet smell of marijuana idled through the thick air of the evening, its origin unknown to us. We ignored the abandoned tennis shoes beneath the swingset and tore through the sky together, commandeering the playground and the night, kicking our legs forward with some trepidation and landing safely on the padded ground.

Just as we mounted our bikes and began our trek back home, a group of about five young people whizzed by us, and one of them hollered "come with us!" This was a Saturday night. They were on bikes, we were on bikes, it was Tremont. We turned around and chased them.

We ended up meeting them outside of South Side, an unmarked Tremont hot spot with fantastic food and an absolutely electrified night life. The girl, the holler girl, was this kind of flawlessly, naturally beautiful person. She exuded joy as we approached her. Her friends welcomed us with curiosity. It turns out that this was her going-away party. Going to Portland for some reasons I couldn't make out over the bar. New start, just to leave, cousin in Seattle. I caught fragments as I sipped my last beer of the evening, 21st amendment's dark-roasted Back in Black IPA. In a black can, it looks deceptively like a cheap beer and was the cause of much intrigue amongst our new friends.

As we made it to the patio, I felt this total tranquility that I always get amongst strangers, this feeling that I can be the best version of myself right now, untainted, fresh, appealing, free of cynicism. We talked about music, art, the city, our favorite bars. It was the kind of conversation I'd have with my best friends, but the excitement of exploration made it even more thrilling.

I gave my emil address to a sweet girl there. I don't expect her to email me, but it felt good to make a connection with someone new, however fleeting.

This is the way I must live from. I must continue to take these risks, to experiment, to engage, to reach over and sample a stranger's hummus. I need to turn around more instead of putting my head down and powering through. I am open at last.

The Novel-tee of Good Grammar

2010-08-04T06:48:00.000-07:00

As far as I know, Big Dogs clothing stores do not exist outside of America's outlet malls. This notion first occurred to me as a little girl on family vacations when my parents would take us to the outlets to find bargains. I don't know why my family had such a penchant for patronizing outlet malls on our vacations, but I distinctly remember stopping at one outside of Las Vegas, one in Florida, and another somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. My parents just really like bargains.

As a kid I loved dogs. But I never appreciated the rapier wit of Big Dogs' novelty clothing enough to ask my parents for a St. Bernard-branded piece of apparel. I've never owned a Big Dogs shirt, boxer shorts, pajama pants, sports bra, or Frisbee. For years, finally far from the pseudo closeout deals of our fine country's outlet malls, I actually forgot about the lumbering canine's existence. I can honestly say it's been years since I've seen an item of Big Dogs clothing outside of the musty racks of the Salvation Army. I've never known anyone who owns a Big Dogs novelty t-shirt, although I have definitely judged the strangers who do.

Imagine my surprise when yesterday I discovered that this company is still in business! For some reason, probably the result of a conversation about our nation's obesity problem (who actually remembers the origin of the seed that spawns most Google searches?), my fiance and I found ourselves at http://www.bigdogs.com

I can say that not much has changed since Big Dogs' groundbreaking misogynistic, machismo, and semi-relevant parodic t-shirt designs first came onto the scene in 1984. Although there are more fecal jokes than I remembered from my youth. Phrases like "If you're not the lead dog the scenery never changes!" and "Gasoline is like sex: self service is always faster, easier, and cheaper!" and the oh-so-piquant, "Bleep You You Bleeping Bleep!" (I imagine that there is an understood comma after the first "you") burst forth from these oversized tees that cost as much as $21.99. Seriously, what is this? American Apparel? You can buy hideous shirts like this on the boardwalk for $5.00.

That brings me to the point of all of this. Whilst browsing through hundreds of sexist, trashy, and mostly unfunny designs, I found this little number:

Yes, this is a ladies tee design, although it's also available for men, in a much more "masculine" typeface. I'm sure your mental image of what kind of woman would actually wear this shirt is just as good as mine. Keep in mind that this design is also available for women in 2X.

For those of you who have even the slightest mastery of the English language, the incorrectly placed apostrophe in the word "costs" should be glaringly obvious. It was to me, though admittedly, I am a freak when it comes to spotting these things.

Now usually when it comes to grammar and spelling, I know how to pick my battles. Editing so much writing on a daily basis has taught me that sometimes as long as the information is understood by its reader, then everything's okay. If I spot a distracting error on the website of a company I admire and respect, I might send the webmaster a quick email to report it.

This is a tough one. On one hand, I think that this error is printed, en masse, and sold as a product. That makes this a bad product. Someone should say something about that, right? When I was shopping for wedding invitations and noticed that one company misspelled a day of the week on an actual printed invitation in their portfolio, I reported that to them. It was an awful mistake for an invitation printer to make, and it could turn away tons of customers. But on the other hand I think, whoever wears this Big Dogs shirt is probably a total dolt who either doesn't recognize the extraneous apostrophe, or doesn't care, and could potentially sit on me and break all of my ribs.

And then there's this sick part of me that wants to email the creator of the wearable fart joke and experience what it is like to correspond with that person. So I do. My email to Big Dogs Clothing:

Good afternoon,

I am emailing to make you aware of a grammatical error on one of your shirt designs. I happened across your website and saw that the "Gas Costs So Much" design has an apostrophe in the word "costs." Obviously, there shouldn't be an apostrophe in the word costs, as it is not possessive.

I don't know if this error will prevent you from selling this shirt, but I wanted to bring this to your attention regardless.

Best,

Marissa DeSantis

I tried to remain professional. I tried not to go all David Cross ala his open letter to Larry the Cable Guy, even though I really, really wanted to run train on Big Dogs. My politeness must have paid off. Surprisingly, they actually honored my email with a response!

Dear Marissa,

Thank you for your email. Big Dog graphics are fun for wear and are not meant to be grammatically correct. Just as with the Redneck Grrrl, Girl is not spelled correct. You will find from time to time, that not all graphics will be spelled correctly. We do appreciate your feedback and the fact that you took time to send us this email.

Sincerely,

Big Dog Sportswear
Customer Service Department
800-642-DOGS (3647)

Alright, so this is ridiculous. The phrase "fun for wear" is just silly. And creating a product that isn't "meant to be grammatically correct" is only cool if you're making an inspirational poster that says "Nobodys Perfekt" with a kitten making a mess in a bowl of spaghetti.

The sentence "Just as with the Redneck Grrrl is not spelled correct," is not actually a sentence. Also, yes, there is a design that says "Redneck Grrrl".

Acknowledging that their products often contain spelling and grammatical errors just shows that they think their customers are careless and stupid (which, hey, is a pretty easy assumption to make). It shows that they know they don't have a product that is 100% quality 100% of the time. So here's my response to that:

Thanks for your response.

I understand stylized spellings of words like "Grrrl". I get it. It's a pun, and it's also a slang term born of the riot grrrl movement of the early 90s. Clever spellings of words are fun, and I'm sure you use them a lot to fit your "dog" theme.

I just think that an apostrophe in "cost's" is a clear error. It does not serve any joke or enhance the shirt design in any way, except that it's funny to people like me because it's a grammatical error on a professionally printed shirt.

I don't want to be snooty. Clearly, you do a good business since you've been printing novelty shirts since I was a kid. I'm grateful that you actually took the time to respond to me, and please don't feel like you have to respond to this, but I still don't understand why an incorrectly placed apostrophe is fun.

Oh well, I've obviously spent way too much time thinking about this. Again, no need to respond. I just wanted to further justify my complaint.

Best of luck to you in your business pursuits,

Marissa

Yeah, that showed 'em! Seriously though, "costs" isn't misspelled to be clever. If it were, it would say something like "clawsts". You know, a dog pun. Because those are hilarious. I doubt that I will receive further acknowledgment from Big Dogs. At this point they're probably aware that I have no intention of purchasing any products from their line.

If there's anything that this exchange has taught me, it's that some companies cash in on the stupidity of their consumers to turn a profit (see: Miller Lite Vortex bottle) and some companies are just stupid. I'm still not totally sure which one of these Big Dogs falls under. But I do know this: next time you see a huge dude walking around the hood wearing a t-shirt with a foul-smelling grammatical or spelling error, blame it on the Dog.

Ordinary life is pretty complex stuff

2010-07-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Harvey Pekar (1939 - 2010)

I don't normally mourn the loss of celebrities. Some deaths affect me more than others, but usually I feel so detached from people who have garnered a certain amount of fame, that I am only momentarily saddened. This sadness undoubtedly returns when I reintroduce myself to part of that person's body of work. I cannot listen to Elliott Smith's "Needle in the Hay" without feeling a deep ache. His cover of Big Star's "Thirteen" sends prickly chills up my arms, especially now that we've lost Alex Chilton as well. But I never knew Chilton. I never knew Smith. They were brilliant artists, but they existed in another world. To reach them, I have to put on a record. I have to be transported. When J.D. Salinger died, I was upset at the loss of one of my greatest creative influences. But where was he? Hadn't he always been missing? When Michael Jackson died, we all listened to his greatest hits, acknowledging that we had already lost the man who made those records years ago.

Harvey Pekar was not a celebrity. He shunned the term. Scoffed and snorted at it with that trademark jeer. The man wrote comics about nothing, which we found out was actually everything, the only thing. After alternative and underground comics rose to popularity, he built up a cult following. Eventually enough people thought his life and work were important enough to be committed to celluloid. I had the pleasure of acting in this spectacular film, American Splendor, as a featured extra. Harvey himself was never on set the days I was called in, though I did share a sweet moment under an umbrella with Paul Giamatti, a moment that I would have never experienced if not for Harvey Pekar himself.

After the movie got released and won some high acclaim, we saw pictures of Harvey on the red carpet. Pictures, which I think we can all agree, looked pretty odd. He might have earned some fame, but he was still that hard-working son of Jewish immigrants from Poland, tied to his rustbelt roots and uncompromisingly honest, caustic at times. Unwilling to give in to the glamor of Hollywood. Completely uninterested in its fakeness. More content to hang out at Mac's Backs and sign copies of his work for all the eager local kids who wanted to meet the elder voice of their city.

He lived in my city, my hometown, the heart of my existence, his whole life. I never once needed to be transported to gain entry into his world. We inhabited the same sphere. We beat the same sidewalks in Coventry and around Cleveland Heights. How cool that he never left Cleveland, even after Letterman, even after Sundance. And yet, knowing Harvey, how unsurprising.

Re-reading Pekar's American Splendor series, I am stricken with how relevant his portrait of my hometown continues to be. We are still a hard-working people. Since the first issues in the mid 70s, our city has undergone quite a facelift. But those old ethnic neighborhoods are still there. The empty docks in the flats, the abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the city--decaying remnants of old industry days. We have a lot of Harveys around here. People who carry the troubles of the city and the world. People who carry their families, who keep scratching by. People who love Cleveland but feel put upon when they meet someone who can't imagine why.

I'm not a working class, blue-collar woman. The parts of Harvey's work I most identify with are the seemingly insignificant minutiae of everyday life. Tales of the neurotic and the obsessive. Getting frustrated in a long check-out line at the grocery store. Trudging through the monotony of a nine to five workday. Freaking out over a rare LP in a beat-up box at a garage sale. Calling attention to these little details validates the existence of all of the world's non-celebrities. We, the unheard masses who trudge through life searching for things to smile about. Just simple stuff. Beer, books, records, a pretty girl or boy noticing us. Harvey noticed us, and he put us in his comics. He treated us with care and respect.

A few years ago I wrote a song called "American Splendor" about Harvey Pekar and his wife, Joyce Brabner. I really think it's one of the best songs I've ever written. I still feel personally affected by it when I perform it live. I always meant to send that song to Harvey but I kept thinking of reasons not to. Like, he wouldn't appreciate the attention. Or he'd be embarrassed. Or he'd think my interpretation of his work was off-base, or tell me to get a life. In other words, the reason I never sent Harvey Pekar the song I wrote about him was because I had a bit of a Harvey Pekar complex. But I hope he heard it somehow while he was still with us. And if he didn't, I'm playing it tonight in his memory, on the front porch of my house on a street in Cleveland. I miss you, Harvey. You never left Cleveland and you never will. The city loves you, and I love you. Thank you for everything.

12 on 23

2010-07-08T07:25:00.000-07:00

If an athlete professes that all he cares about is winning a championship, then over the course of seven years, he wins a championship. He puts his head down, works, pushes his body beyond its perceived limits, gets creative, and wins. This year's LeBron James didn't seem to want to rise to the challenge in the playoffs. He made excuses when he underperformed and blamed this lacking performance on a mysterious elbow injury. I'm still waiting for somebody to reveal what was really going on with that.
Throwing a few coins at the Boys & Girls club does not make ESPN's "The Decision" special some benevolent fund-raising opportunity. It's an ego circus.
Announcing that he's leaving his "hometown" (I put it in quotes since he's actually from Akron and it annoys me that people group these two cities as one) on National television in an hour-long special is probably the most selfish and heartless thing LeBron could possibly do. If you're going to leave, fine. But hold a normal press conference at the Q or St. Vincent St. Mary. Don't rub this in Cleveland's face on National television. We've suffered enough sports-related embarrassment, something that ESPN never lets us hear the end of.
Announcing that he's staying in his "hometown" on National television in an hour-long special is probably the most arrogant and classless thing LeBron could possibly do. How noble to announce to the world that he's going to slum it for another few years with his subjects in Cleveland. Not that he's the only one to blame. With all of these "please stay, LeBron" messages we're only enabling him.
If our city's entire economy and self-worth is based on the presence of a single overpaid (albeit, supremely talented) athlete, then we need to reevaluate some things. It was only by chance that he ended up playing for the Cavs in the first place, after all. And he will not play basketball forever. Let's celebrate what we have (restaurants, theaters, museums...) before we lose all of that too. I understand that having one of the world's top athletes is good for our economy, but I think if he does leave, it might be a perfect chance for us to re-assess our situation.
I won't blame the man if he leaves. If I had one goal, I know I would move anywhere if I had a better chance of achieving it there. When I wanted to write for Saturday Night Live, I was ready to move to New York, because that was the one thing I was sure I wanted. My dream changed as I got older, so I stayed in Cleveland. But if some dream job appeared in another city, you can be sure I would do everything in my power to get there. LeBron is young. He has a goal. He has the right to go where he thinks he has the best chance of achieving that goal.
If he leaves, I will blame LeBron for ending on this note, or rather, this cacophony. This whole situation is an overblown mess. It's a messy break-up. And if it isn't a break-up, it's going to change this city's relationship with LeBron. We can't go back from this. He's no longer a hometown boy making good. He's just like the rest of them. Where he's from is no longer important. He's a trophy to be had by any city, any team who can guarantee him a trophy.
Free agency is obnoxious. ESPN might as well make a free agency reality show or something at this point. We're giving athletes an inflated sense of self-worth by obsessing over their every move.
"The Decision" will not go down with The Fumble, The Drive, and The Shot. For me, the honeymoon ended with The Elbow. It was at that point that I stopped trusting LeBron's intentions and loyalties. The secrecy behind this inexplicable and sudden "injury" left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I don't have any crazy conspiracy theories, but I do think that there's something we weren't told regarding the elbow situation. Like maybe that it had nothing to do with the elbow at all (and no, I don't buy into the whole Delonte + LeBron's mom thing).
I will not watch "The Decision". I don't care to boost ESPN's ratings during that hour (seriously, an hour? Is Seacrest going to be there, too?), and I work out at a gym that plays SportsCenter constantly. I'm sure I'll hear about it in time. I'm sure the Plain Dealer will plaster a picture of him on the front page with some doomsday headline, or some butt-kissing headline. Either way, I'm not sitting through the pageantry and intrigue.
The Netherlands have never won a World Cup. Spain has never won a world cup. Both countries face off on Sunday afternoon in the final match. I will enjoy watching two teams of extremely talented athletes represent their respective countries. Seeing athletes that proud of where they're from is refreshing. They kiss the flags on their uniforms, they sing along to their national anthem. I know this isn't exactly the same thing, but when has LeBron James ever showed pride in Cleveland? He wears his Yankees hat, he doesn't talk about his favorite places in the city (maybe he doesn't have any), and now he might dump Cleveland on National television. To be clear, I'm not saying that footballers have more class or national pride than other athletes, or that free agency is not an issue in club football.
When Shaq joined the Cavs, he was seen everywhere around the city. Everywhere! He autographed shoes and left them at the West Side Market. He tweeted from clubs on West 6th, inviting his followers to party. He supported local restaurants very publicly. He donated and participated in local charity events. He gushed over how much he loves living in Richfield Township. He, unlike LeBron, did not leave a $10 tip on an $800 bill at XO Steakhouse. I'd argue that Shaq did more for this city's image in the one year he played with us than LeBron did in 7. LeBron made our team look good. Shaq made our city look good, and he made it better off the court, which to me, is more important.

Venn Diagralbums

2009-12-10T10:01:00.000-08:00

They'd make a great set of coasters, no?

Save Ohio's Libraries.

2009-06-22T13:12:00.001-07:00

A proposed 50% cut in state funding poses a huge threat to Ohio's wonderful public library system.

I won't editorialize right now, but I am afraid for our communities. Libraries provide so much more than books. In a time of economic struggle, the Ohio library system has given Internet access to those who cannot afford a computer or monthly bill. Our libraries offer job training and counseling courses for the unemployed, and for those who seek to better themselves. They provide more than just story hour for children--programs that truly get children excited about literature and the cultural offerings of our great Ohio communities.

I do not think that a funding cut is unreasonable, but 50% would be devastating. And it also sends a dangerous message to Ohioans: that literacy is not important. That free job training is not important. That having a safe and quiet haven that is 100% free and welcoming is not important.

So maybe I did editorialize. But that's enough. Please, if you are a resident of Ohio and this issue matters to you (please say that it does), e-mail your State Senator and/or Representative. This issue is extremely time-sensitive, as a decision may be made in just a week.

Here is a link that includes the e-mail addresses of Ohio Senators and Representatives:

http://www.cuyahogalibrary.org/stdBackPage.aspx?id=26162

And some more stuff to chew on, regarding Cuyahoga County's system alone:

Cuyahoga County Public Library has 28 branches that serve 47 communities in Cuyahoga County, Ohio.

It was ranked the number two public library in the United States among libraries serving populations of more than 500,000 by the Hennen's American Public Library Ratings 2008.

It is the nation's seventh busiest library system, according to the Public Library Data Service Statistical Report 2008.

In 2008, 17.8 million items were borrowed by its 555,446 cardholders, and 7.4 million visits were made to branches

The Cuyahoga County Public Library system also offers homework and study centers for students from grades K-10. Tutors are enrolled in the America Reads program. Although this program is grant-funded, it's just an example of how innovative and dedicated our Ohio public libraries are.

Video Contest!

2009-05-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

Hi, everybody!

Remember when I complained about Last Call Cleveland's "Hastily Made Tourism Video"?

Well, Kevin Hornsby (my awesome cousin) and I created our own tourism video for Positively Cleveland's Hastily Made Tourism Video Contest.

Please, please view our video and rate it (five stars would be nice)! The more views we get and the more five-star ratings we get, the better chance we have of winning.

Forward this video to your friends. Let's get viral! And thanks so much for your support.

Click the hyperlink at the top of the video to leave a comment and vote!

Last Call for Disrespect

2009-05-09T11:42:00.000-07:00

I have to give it up for Mike Polk and Last Call Cleveland. They're funny, high-energy dudes doing great things in the Cleveland comedy scene. And yet for all the funny they bring to our city, their "Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video" makes me cringe.

It's not that it isn't funny. The first time I saw the video at a live performance in Cleveland's Powerhouse, I couldn't stop laughing. It's the perfect brand of self-deprecating humor that so many Clevelanders share, it's an infectious song, and a lot of the moments in the video are so subversive, that it's just plain giggle-worthy.

But now Last Call Cleveland's video is carving a viral path through cyber-space, popping up on the homepages of people in other major U.S. cities who have never set foot in our town, and it seems to be reinforcing harmful pre-conceived notions and even creating new ones. While the video cracked me up at first, I never thought of what it might look like to somebody in Boston who's never been to Cleveland. Or to somebody from New York City. Or anywhere.

I happened upon some anti-Cleveland jawing on a Washington Wizards message board. In addition to the ridiculously delusional "LeBron is overrated" fare that we can't seem to escape, posters actually began to take below-the-belt cracks at our entire city. And several of them posted links to Polk's video, adding statements like, "Clevelanders have to obsess over LeBron--there's nothing else to do in Cleveland."

While this viral video may be doing great things for a group of local comedians, the bigger picture can't be ignored. It's okay for us to laugh at ourselves, but what about when other ignorant outsiders are laughing? What happens when a white guy does a Chris Rock routine? Is this that different? And when someone sees the video out of context, not knowing that Polk and his boys are actually from Cleveland, how are they supposed to get that it's tongue-in-cheek. And is it tongue-in-cheek?

Recently, Positively Cleveland announced a "Hastily Made Tourism Video" contest in an attempt to find an enthusiastic Clevelander who can dispell some of the anti-Cleveland vibes that Last Call's video has created. Hopefully it will do our city justice, and hopefully it will also have a sense of humor. Because comedy, like Last Call Cleveland's, for better or worse, is just another thing that makes our city great.

Here's the video if you haven't seen it. Distribute with care:

Foodie-do

2009-04-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

I love my new gig! Check me out:

Presti's Bakery

Eddie's Pizzeria Cerino

Volunteerism

2009-03-25T07:27:00.000-07:00

The past couple of days I've sold my non-profit soul to be a volunteer (Whiteshirt) at the Cleveland International Film Festival, which runs from Friday March 20th to Sunday March 29th. The only night I missed was opening night because I was playing a concert at the Book & Bean, and because first-year volunteers usually aren't asked to work on opening night.

My five-hour shifts at CIFF have been crazy, exciting, and incredibly rewarding. I've only had time to attend one of the 140 features and 170 short subjects representing 60 countries--well, actually I saw a shorts program, so I guess I've seen 7 so far. Still, just being downtown with so many enthusiastic, excited people who love art and film as much as I do is absolutely thrilling.

These people are totally devoted to film, some of them taking all nine days off of work to duck in and out of dark hallways and into buzzing theaters, bursting with hushed anticipation. Some of them live on popcorn and Raisinets, afraid that a journey to the food court might force them to miss a pre-feature short. Seeing hoards of people emerging from each theater all at once, some crying into their ballots, some cracking up and grinning, some looking either blank or utterly confused, has become one of my favorite things to observe at the festival. I just smile, ask people's opinions, direct them to the restrooms, and feel like a steward to the community.

Being one of around 400 volunteers, I've had the opportunity to meet, network, and interact with some really interesting people, including a few directors, producers, and composers. Some of the films at this year's festival are World Premieres.

I've also been able to catch up with a few friends I'd lost contact with. Last night Daniel and I stood outside of Jerusalema counting theater patrons, handing out award ballots, and doing our best Harvey Pekar and Toby Radloff impressions. My friend Steven who works for the Cleveland Film Society told me about a great opportunity he has to work in L.A. I already feel close to several other people I've just known for a few days.

The work is non-stop. You can always find something to do, whether it's refilling wasabi peas and Whole Foods cola in the hospitality suite or putting together collector sets of buttons (Festival Flair!) We fight over who has to work on the "cold half" of Tower City Cinemas, which is also where the volunteers are hulled up. We talk about film constantly.

Tonight I'm seeing my first feature. I'm meeting Bridget at the Hard Rock Cafe and then we're heading into the cinemadness to see "Blind Loves," a Slovakian film that's part documentary, part fiction, in which several blind people play themselves in a series of love stories.

This weekend I'm seeing a German movie where filmmakers film peoples' worst fears, a documentary about the practical and artistic uses of origami, a feature in which a small theater puts on a play based on "The Brothers Karamazov", a New Zealand screwball comedy, a documentary that an acquaintance of mine made about the end of Cleveland's 107.9 (The End), a Japanese romantic comedy about a manchild, and "The Brothers Bloom."

Where else does this stuff happen? I'm so proud of my city. I'll be sad to see the festival go, but I'm already certain that I'll volunteer next year, no matter how taxing it can be to work another 5 hours on my feet after an 8-hour work day...

For years I wanted to make movies and I attended the festival thinking that maybe someday my name would make it to the credits. It's good to know that even though my path is leading in a different, unknowable direction, I can still feel fulfilled, happy, and just as in love with film and life as I always was.

Cincinnati Journals

2009-02-14T11:56:00.000-08:00

In December I traveled to Cincinnati, Ohio for Over the Rhine's 2o year anniversary Christmas concert (and to see my big sister and her husband).

I took my first Greyhound ride and did some journaling along the way. I meant to post these journal entries earlier.

In a serendipitous nod to travel, Jolie Holland’s freewheeling “Goodbye, California” becomes my departure song from Cleveland to Cincinnati. A genial hippie kid with a hole in his right sock sits cattycorner to me, less chatty now that we’ve boarded the Greyhound. He has precious time to sleep on his way to LA. Earlier at the ticket window he chatted me up about my Bob Dylan bag. “He’s just the ultimate,” he repeated, then asked me if I was going to L.A. too, as if this was the thing to do. I get the feeling that we would have had the exact conversation, even without any prompting from my handbag. I’m glad he’s here. I’ve long romanticized my first trip on a Greyhound, my eyes filled with Kerouac’s “aww” inspiring fireworks and Simon & Garfunkel’s unwitting gabardine spy. We need guys on buses who look like Devendra Banhart, whose voices are warm and groggy and free, breath sweet and earthy. I want to kiss him in the bathroom at the back of the bus.

Completely angry about misplacing my 2nd pair of Sony studio monitor headphones (they’re huge—how does that happen?). The tiny, spongy plastic ones I grabbed in haste and shoved into my bag only yield sound through the right earpiece—the window side. It’s as though the road is delivering my music to me, and this morning it’s taken on a melancholy tone: Nico (Fairest of the Seasons), The Minus Five (Cemetery Row) and Weezer (Butterfly—what a weepy track!) Ha. As I wrote that, “Poison Oak” by Bright Eyes came on. I hope my weekend isn’t reflectively sad. I just finished Amanda Petrusich’s It Still Moves. I can’t think of a better book I could have finished as the bus noisily hissed and pulled out of the parking lot of Cleveland’s gorgeous time-frozen art deco Greyhound station. Petrusich’s obsessions, hopes, and teetering between new American hipster cynicism and earnest nostalgia and respect for the past are all shared by me.

Being a highway traveler after reading about a highway traveler feels thrillingly like a marriage of art and life (which I suppose all art or all life is, but this feels much more fated.)

The second leg of my bus ride was warm and crowded. I had to share my seat with an Amish woman who must have been wearing a cloak and a cape, and a large bonnet she removed and set on her lap. I was forced to squeeze myself hard against the metal wall of the bus, which, except for the pressure was cool and soothing in the face of a packed vehicle full of smells and hot breath. The woman next to me smelled of wet ashes and smoked meat. It was overwhelming when she first sat down and swept her cape toward the aisle.

The ambient humming of the highway eventually lulled me to sleep, which was interrupted by three phone calls.

At the station a German kid complete with yodeler cap and green knee socks, is smoking a stately and fashionable pipe. Here he comes.

I almost prefer the aged and beaten feel of the Cleveland station to this one. IT feels dated and shitty here, because it was never beautiful. A flat, square, squat building, its brown gradient tiles look like the ones you find on McDonalds floors. Every doorway is numbered with a tacky silver sign. This place was built for nothing more than function. I wish I had my…

Widget

2009-02-10T07:04:00.001-08:00

Loriann

2009-02-03T18:53:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I go to Great Clips to get my bangs and layers trimmed because I don't feel like shelling out too much cash for my stylist. I wrote this song tonight for the girl who cut my hair. You can hear a super-rough draft of it on my myspace page.

Hey Loriann will you please cut my hair
I’ve waited so long
I’ve waited so long
I tried to be someone I couldn’t be
I know it was wrong
I know it was wrong
If you could fool me into thinking that it’s okay
Just to take a nine to five and live for Saturday
I want that haircut please just make it right
I want to look that way

My head feels heavy but you talk so sweet
I’ll write you a song
I’ll write you a song
You wrote your number there on my receipt
But now that I’m gone
But now that I’m gone
You’ve got a son and a vampire man late at night
I’ve got my own man and he’s perfect and it’s right
But in my blood I want to cut it off
I want to run away

Loriann if this is all you’ve done
Just cutting it off
Just making it stop
For twenty minutes in a barber chair
Well I owe you one
Yeah I owe you one
I’ll float to work and do my job and then get paid
I’ll write these songs and write my poems for love instead
I’ll get my haircut in the evenings when you’re away
I want to leave you that way

Don't Tread On Me!

2009-01-28T05:36:00.000-08:00

Clearly, there's a new banner on my blog. I designed it using GIMP--you know, the open-source user-unfriendly version of Photoshop? Man, Photoshop is cool.

I don't have much to blog about today, except that I've decided to join a few of my friends in making a promise to read 50 books this year. I'm a little behind since it's almost February, so I decided to count the book I finished in January and the one I'm currently reading. Of course, I'm reading The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem right now, and that's a healthy 500 pages. Still, I plan to finish it by Friday and then start a collection of shorts on Saturday. That gives me three in January--almost the four I need to make one a week.

I imagine that in school, I easily read 50 books each year. Taking a lot of fiction courses makes that a pretty simple task. In my contemporary short story class, I think I read a total of thirteen books. Add that to all my other classes and my pleasure reading, and then there's no need for any more maths.

For now, off to work with me.

Depressing inspiration

2009-01-06T07:32:00.000-08:00

Today I was listening to an instrumental demo by my friend Jason Panella. I started writing words and images that his piece evoked and eventually that sprouted into an entire set of lyrics. I don't know if he'd like what I wrote, but I thought it was worth posting. I don't think he'd mind if I liked to his myspace so you could hear the music that inspired me:

Jason's MySpace Page

The song I used is titled "I Don't Mind demo".

Come hide beneath the couch tonight
Forget the scrape of a rust belt love
Headlights crown our eyelids
Vigilantes of the summer swell
It's just as well
We should never leave here.

Your hands are moving like cracked glass
I shake like pollen I shake like love
The television set's still lit
The timestamp unaware
That we're still breathing here
It's time to go.

Hey we are seasons
We melt and meld and coincide
For two weeks aching, hints of rain
And separate for moons and crashing tides oh, oh
This is over
A desperate quake the wind shifts and it's done
I don't mind.
We let our colors run.

You were in my rib cage playing
Some song we knew upon my bones
I swallow you again
With the others you colonize
It's no surprise
We should never leave here.

Tonight let's have a window dance
Let the cars that pass know us this way
The fingerlace of sprouting love
I've worn that glove
And now it's fallen.

Hey we are seasons
We melt and meld and coincide
For two weeks aching, hints of rain
And separate for moons and crashing tides, oh oh
This is over
A casual sigh your winter coat and its done
I don't mind.
We let our colors run.

Wha' happened?

2009-01-05T18:11:00.000-08:00

This doesn't happen often, but there's a new song available for a-listenin' on my myspace. I think I'm finally ready to get back into the local music scene....as a performer!

I sort of learned how to use Garageband today. It's going to change my life, methinks.

Go to: http://www.myspace.com/marissadesantis

My Morning Jerkoff?

2009-01-02T09:31:00.000-08:00

After a year of hearing how totally awesome My Morning Jacket's Evil Urges is, I finally received it last week though inter-library loan.

I haven't finished it yet (on track five now), so I'll reserve judgement...sort of. After listening to "Highly Suspicious" (or "highly suspicious", according to the track listing, since apparently it's hip to avoid using capital letters), I have to ask the following questions:

What?
Are you serious?
Who let this happen?
Could this be any more annoying?

And the past two tracks, "i'm amazed" and "thank you too!" are nothing more than adult contemporary wedding dances, especially the latter.

I hope this album proves me wrong soon. I don't mind when bands take chances, and usually risky albums don't take long to grow on me. I immediately fell in love with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, for instance, and Kid A is quite possibly my favorite Radiohead album. But Evil Urges? It's dubious.

This is the album I keep seeing on 2008 best-of lists, right?

Plain Dealer Essay One

2008-12-30T07:10:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, Positively Cleveland and the Plain Dealer ran an essay contest called "What I Want for Christmas." Not the most original prompt, but at least it challenged me to find a strong, original angle.

I wrote two essays for the contest (three, really, but I only submitted two). The essay that won is in praise of Cleveland: my wish for Christmas is that people in Cleveland will start to appreciate and take advantage of what we have. At first I was reluctant to write this one, fearing that it might just seem like pandering since the essay would be printed in a Cleveland newspaper, for a contest run by a Cleveland tourism group. I ultimately decided that anyone who knows me knows how passionately I feel about the city of Cleveland, and how one of my main goals has always been to look for the positive and share my favorite Cleveland places and things with others.

That essay won and it was mistakenly credited to "Melissa Desantis." Whoops. It got corrected two days later.

I thought I'd post that essay to my blog, but first I want to post the essay that didn't win, since many people in my life are curious about it. It doesn't have a title, as that was not required of me upon entry. But here it is, all 400 words of it:

___________________________________________

This June I got engaged to a marvelous fellow. It all feels wonderful, but our wedding date will not arrive until 2010. Now, for the wedding I’ll be patient. But there’s just one thing I simply can’t wait for: there is no way I can go another year without a KitchenAid Artisan Series mixer.

As a little girl, I watched my grandma mix unreasonable amounts of Christmas sugar cookie dough in her hearty banana-yellow upright KitchenAid. I saw the beater, big as my head, tirelessly whipping potatoes into shape. I ogled the dough hook as it beckoned me with its calculated curve. Grandma used the model with the pasta maker attachment, slicing thick sheets of dough that would plump in her savory homemade chicken noodle soup.

I've always been a tomboy, eschewing girlish stereotypes and making crusades against what was expected of my gender. I always asked for the boy’s toy in my Happy Meal. I refused to wear the color pink. But my Grandma is tough, and so is her KitchenAid mixer. And I want one this Christmas.

Look at it. It's the ‘57 Chevy of home appliances. Seated firmly in the center of my hope chest, it's seducing the muffin pans and spatulas with its smooth and saucy sheen. Frilly aprons, beware! This piece of equipment demands to be operated in motorcycle boots. It's tough, it's sexy. Have you watched the videos on the KitchenAid website? The music is seductive, the camera angles provocative. They know exactly what they're doing.

This Christmas, watch me tilt back its chrome-plated head as I throw back my own in the uninhibited ecstasy of a culinary goddess. This thing can whip up enough dough for nine dozen cookies at one time. And oh, the speed! With that kind of production, I'll never have to worry about running out before Santa arrives.

This Christmas, I want what every red-blooded American wants, woman or man: a 325 watt motor, a 5 quart bowl, a stand mixer that looks like it was designed by the Fonz’s and Andy Warhol’s lovechild. The kind of tough-as-grits wedding present that probably outlasts most marriages. And it can probably beat tough grits, too. Ten pounds at once.

I want this one last whirlwind-whip hurrah before I get married. Or the rest of the wedding registry won't stand a chance.

Lunch Hour Poetry

2008-12-29T09:54:00.001-08:00

Wrote this one today while peeling an orange. Overheard a line from somebody in the front offices--thanks for the inspiration. Can't think of a title. Sorry for the fragments--my break's almost over.

With bitter rind still
stuck, dusty
beneath my fingernails,
I compose.

Ignore it.
Pull him off the road,
rest on the shoulder in a puddle
of tread-echo
and feel his wobbling head burst forward
like a forced tap.

My left hand fingers
dangling like baby shotguns
on a paneled wall,
a hot swollen door slams
in the middle of a thunderstorm.

These rusted pots and pans fill fast,
fill sideways
with percussive boil-over hope,
mouths skyward and earthward
in a fountain pile of spastic,
reaching
devotion.

Let this be forever
like a roadside mutt that follows close,
bone hips syncopated by the sun beat.
Let it be as loud as screen door-scratching guilt,
and freer.

No more drowning in my sorrow

2008-12-29T08:19:00.001-08:00

I can't listen to the opening notes of Over the Rhine's "Poughkeepsie" without crying.

I think I just want to start singing old spirituals. Isn't harmony the best thing in the world?

Sexism/Idiocy Brewing at McCafe

2008-12-17T08:43:00.000-08:00

This morning I saw a McDonald's commercial that troubled me deeply. The commercial is for McCafe, McDonalds' new attempt at competing with specialty coffee chains, providing lattes,
cappuccinos, and mochas for the fat masses. Homogenized products for homogenized people.

The commercial opens with two women sitting in a cafe and their dialogue is as follows:

Woman A: Now we don’t have to listen to jazz all day long!
Woman B: I can start wearing heels again.
Woman A: Read gossip magazines! (tosses book away)
Woman B: Watch reality TV shows…
Woman A: I like television!
Woman B: I can’t really speak French.
Woman A: I don’t know where Paraguay is!
Woman B: Paraguay?

After my mother told me that there was a male version of this same advertisement, I looked it up on YouTube. Here is the dialogue from the transaction between two men:

Man A: I can shave this thing off my face
Man B: We don't have to call movies films anymore.
Man A: We can talk about football.
Man B: I like football. I like sitting and watching football
Man A: I don't need these glasses. These are fake.
Man B: I do need mine. They're very real.

Alright. There are quite a few problems here.

The commercial seems to attack liberal elitists by creating caricatures of people who frequent specialty coffee houses. While I can agree that elitism (intellectual or otherwise) is obnoxious, this advertisement seems to wrongly define elitism as cultural awareness, well-roundedness, and even basic intelligence.

The message seems to be: "Only stupid people should drink McDonald's coffee. If your only interest is football or gossip rags, or if you don't know where Paraguay is, we have the perfect McOpiate for you!"

Furthermore, clear gender roles and dangerous sexism are perpetuated in each of these ads. By McDonalds' definition of what is normal and acceptable, women who don't wear high heels are pretentious, snobby, and undesirable. And it doesn't matter that neither of the women in the commercial is intelligent. (The fact that the one woman actually gets giddy when she learns she can wear constrictive footwear is deeply disturbing as well.) It also seems to say that intelligent women can't wear stylish or sexy footwear (since heels are apparently stylish and sexy...so I've heard.)

Can't speak French? Don't know basic geography? That's fine--we don't expect you to. Stop overworking your poor tiny little lady brains pretending to be educated.

And she throws her book away! In this commercial, there is no happy medium. You cannot read substantial material and enjoy a McLatte. Books are for stuffy, pretentious beatniks who hang out in coffee houses discussing philosophy, world events, films (not "movies"), that evil and intolerable jazz music you hate so much, and a slew of other topics you can't be bothered to
deal with or relate to. But let's see what TomKat is up to over a watered down Styrofoam cup of saccharine garbage. That's something normal, down-to-earth women can get behind.

I can't believe she throws her book away.

The male version of this commercial is just as bad. First, the idea that having facial hair defines a man as some sort of counterculture pompous snob is absolutely absurd. I get the idea that these men are supposed to be "regular guys." When my mom told me that this commercial existed, she said that it had "two jocks" in it. So I guess I get where they're going. But I know so many "jocks" with chinstrap beards and soul patches...

In this version, the men don't seem to have collected quite as many pretenses as the women, but they also don't seem to be very deep or interesting. They are the ultimate cliche: two straight men who just want to sit and watch football. Period. That's it. American men should strive for nothing more. Just football and homosocial encounters over cheap McCafe beverages with their bros. Why can't the men be interested in literature and film AND enjoy watching football? I've never met a man who was exclusively into sports. Even my dad, a retired football/basketball coach and self-proclaimed jock reads books, eats at independent restaurants (and McDonalds), and enjoys classic and independent film. My fiance is one of the most well-read people I know, but he still plays cards and watches the Steelers with his friends. The same goes for a lot of women I know. But the female version of the ad doesn't even acknowledge that American women enjoy sports. Because they totally don't. Not ever.

It's also quite telling that the men don't have to do all that much to shed their false intellectual skin. They basically alter physical attributes: remove glasses, shave goatee. Next to the female version of the commercial, this shows that women have to try a lot harder to be accepted in the intellectual community; they have to pretend that they know things instead of just donning a pair of spectacles to appear confident or astute.

The commercial doesn't really go much further than this, except for presenting the silly idea that wearing glasses denotes intellectual elitism, and then trying to make good by giving one of the characters actual prescribed eyewear.

Nowhere in the commercial does McDonalds mention value, which could be a preferable consumer-empowering way to sell its product: "You're smart; you like to save money. So order a McMocha." Maybe they don't use this selling point since most McDonalds specialty drinks are only about fifty cents less than those offered at Starbucks.

It doesn't really mention quality either, but that's not much of a surprise, since McDonalds is clearly uninterested in selling quality products to quality people. Just simple, aw-shucks products to equally simple [read: stupid] people.

Man. And I thought McDonalds commercials were just racist most of the time.

And to make one thing certain: all of this is not in defense of Starbucks. I tend to support local. All of this is in defense of people--people who deserve more respect from advertising agencies and from each other.

Caves of Sound

2008-12-15T08:23:00.001-08:00

My favorite parts of my job have little to do with my actual day-to-day duties, who I work with, how comfortable my desk chair is (the answer is moderately, if you're curious), or how often I get out of kitchen duty.

One of the best things about working 9 to 5 at a desk is that I have an hour commute that often allows me to listen to a complete album on my way to and from work. This morning on the way in I listened to Times New Viking's loud, infectious, and refreshingly lo-fi Rip it Off. On the way home I think I'll do Constantines.

The other great thing is that for eight hours straight, I sit in my cube, covered in a blanket with headphones wrapped around my skull in a warm cocoon of music. Since most of my work involves documentation and email correspondence, I rarely have to tug at my phones or deal with anything but my own little private fourth wall of sound.

I still maintain that the car is the best place in the world to listen to music. Sam Jones affirmed my belief in I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco. As a musician, I get some of my best songwriting done in the car, fueled by the romance of coming miles and an anxious feeling of transience. A car trip is the best way to listen to a new album. You are focused, captive and free. You are both plotting and distracted. It's very possible to be swept away by a new unheard-of something.

In the film Once, a group of newly-recorded musicians leave the comfort of the plush recording studio to do a "car test" with their new record. Because anything sounds good pouring out of a set of pro-grade speakers, but the best albums sound good everywhere, where real people are, and where real people are going. In Once, the musicians and their producer prance and delight along a grey, dismal autumnal beach, an ethereal celebration of creation, and completeness.

There are some albums that have become synonymous with the road for me: My Morning Jacket's Z, Over the Rhine's brilliant double disc, Ohio, Neil Young's Harvest, Janis Joplin's Greatest Hits, and Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, to name a few. Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago is my new favorite night-driving album.

At 74 minutes, Sufjan Stevens' Illinois is almost the exact length of the trip from my home in Cleveland to my fiance's home in Beaver Falls, PA. I've made a game where I try to time my arrival to the end of "Out of Egypt, into the Great Laugh of Mankind, and I Shake the Dirt from My Sandals as I Run." As much as I am going to love having my man 100 miles closer than he is currently, I will truly miss that 1.5 hours of uninterrupted musical immersion.

Great music is meant to be shared, but my most intimate and affecting moments with music are when I am completely alone, even if my aloneness is just a pair of snug headphones, a rolled up car window, a two foot padded cubicle wall, a wish for the other warm-bodied shoegazers to dissipate and leave me staring, central in the room, at a new local band that is selling me their goods, raw and sensuous and kinetic.

I look forward to my Greyhound ride to Cincinnati this weekend.

Christmas List

2008-11-06T06:50:00.000-08:00

http://www.shockhound.com/merch/2061-crosley-cr249-usb-tan-turntable

I wonder if it's a good product...

Ears

2008-11-05T17:51:00.000-08:00

I was blessed with taste and smell. My hearing? A constant battle. This poem has been inside me since I was a little girl, squeezing the arm of a sterilized chair with my mom looking on like she was in pain for me. It still doesn't say everything, but it feels good to write about my ears for once.

Half head
a diving bell,
invisible and flooding
with murmur and hiss,
with feeding hummingbirds.

I move about the office
as a string of ribbon released
from the cage of a fan.

Not knowing how to heal,
my body simply
leans,
adjusts,
bargains with floaty side effects,
tossed covers,
increased effects of alcohol,
imbalance.

In the chair
he asks if he's hurting me,
but there are abstruse degrees
I can't pretend to understand:
high alerts
and low, like unfathomable pitches
ringing out of range
and burning.

A flood of saline solution
bursts from his trained hand.
Feverish dead cells hurl and sweep,
fluttering like warm children
in the rush of a flushing hydrant.

When they leave I am open
only briefly
and a little less each time.
I keep filling
with lifeless white tissue,
or some unborn child's body
curled up and swollen within my
tiny ear canal,
his dead silence
becoming more
and more pronounced.

Mmm Mmm Salty

2008-10-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I ate a can of Campbell's condensed chicken noodle soup. This may not seem so impressive or interesting or uncommon, but to me, scooping spoons full of thin, salty, golden broth with its wiry inch noodles and tiny chicken bits was satisfying in such a pure, unpretentious, classic way.

A simple lunch, warm and quieting Campbell's soup took me back to sleepovers at my grandma's house--me and grandma and one of my cousins splitting a family-size can when my grandma didn't have time to make us her homemade noodles. It's the kind of meal you have to eat with a big spoon. Our bellies were always grateful.

I know that Campbell's has always used nostalgia, goodness, and American values to market their products. And I know that I always tend to get a little sentimental at the beginning of soup and sweater season.

I think it's just that for a while I've been beyond Campbell's classic chicken noodle. I've been dining at local restaurants--at bistros enjoying gazpacho and cous cous, at brew pubs eating creamy beer cheese broth. Even when I eat canned soup I've been doing the "healthy choice" varieties with less salt and more veggies to compensate. And all of these things are good (some more than others), but there are varying degrees of perfection.

And the commercial with the snowman is pretty adorable, too.

Love, Asiago-ly

2008-10-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

I came to Panera to write tonight. I often find that I'm more able to concentrate outside of the house, where I don't have a needy kitten or a DVR to distract me.

Tonight when I came in, I plugged in near my regular leather armchair next to the fireplace, before realizing that the middle-aged man in the royal blue turtleneck one table over was going to use his outdoor voice for his entire visit. He sat and jawed at the woman across from him, who was dressed in what looked like corporate attire from the early nineties, about playing the keyboard and giving up "rock star aspirations," the state of the global economy, installing carpeting, and how he could have saved her thousands of dollars if he helped her remodel her condo. The woman maybe said five things, most of them polite questions about his topic-of-the-minute.

Then I saw her get up to leave, and I noticed that she was holding a single red rose. "I'm so glad we got together," I heard her say. In the parking lot, they exchanged a painfully awkward hug. So, I thought, I just witnessed a really awful first date. Much worse than when I thought he took her to Panera to sell her wall-to-wall carpet. I don't think there's going to be a second.

After that horrid exchange, though, something entirely different happened. A young man dressed in gym clothes and flip-flops walked in and said hello to the girl behind the counter who gave me incorrect change earlier tonight. They exchanged some words out of my sight, but I got the sense that they were romantic.

Then, he came back in moments later and called her to the other side of the counter. He got down on one knee, in his gym shorts on the bread crumb-covered floor, and asked her to marry him. She said yes, and the two threw their arms around each other, he dressed like he'd been watching football on the couch, she in her green work apron and visor. And they looked so incredibly happy. Satisfied with her answer, the young guy left her to finish the rest of her shift. Every few minutes I hear squeals from behind the counter.

This is why I come out to write. To be in the middle of everything, to witness the mundane, the traumatic, the ecstatic, the odd, the trivial. Tonight I got a little bit of everything in one sitting, and I haven't even gotten a refill yet.

It's a Start...

2008-10-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

In the land of dissonant whistles
and lolling tongues
and skinny trouser legs clinging
to the ankles of mad lovers,
and of the desperate menthol burn...

Warm tongue vibrations hum
inside painted stained dead walls,
unknown bruises and a burning lead singer,
his necktie caught in a woodchipper crowd
of nodding samefaces,
with their water-slick
levitating bottles of beer.

Hiding in the standing-room shadows
of Thursday night, I am reeking with sex
and breathing the stagnant loitering ego,
the musk of hip,
the sandalwood and cigarillo essence
of the it-girls and boys
who are
tongue-kissing the fall
in someone else's clothes.

How do they live
outside of the frantic evening?
Will their halcyon days
be measured in moonlight?
And why must I fight to be their breed of free,
running my hands against you beneath the bar,
windblown and dehydrated,
and shifting my weight to stay awake
on aching rootless calves?

Ride the Moustache Wave

2008-08-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

Somehow in the course of our relationship, my fiance and I became equal parts ironically and erotically obsessed with Burt Reynolds. It's one of the many elusive little quirks we share that has a muggy, mysterious origin.

I bought James a book of perverse love letters written to Burt in the Playgirl years. I made James a birthday card with a masterfully cropped image of Burt's famous bearskin rug photo on the front. I bought James an unauthorized biography.

Okay, so perhaps I was the purveyor of this ridiculous obsession and I am therefore the one to blame.

Regardless, we talk about Burt all the time. And the one thing it always comes back to is the 'stache. It's glorious. Sure, the moustache does not make the man, but Burt's moustache is so closely tied to how we remember, perceive, and celebrate him.

The Burt Reynolds moustache is also important because it defies the three most common/seedy moustache associations: Burt's lip fur doesn't belong to:

1. A child molester (we're pretty sure)
2. A porn star (not that he couldn't be one if he wanted to)
3. Hitler

And maybe it's the reason that my fiance, my darling James, felt that it would be okay for him to at last sport some man-baleen.

At first I was pretty excited about the possibility of my man shedding his full beard for a more streamlined look--something that would require one of those neat little metal combs. When the idea surfaced (again, muggily) in one of our late night conversations, I had recently purchased "The Darjeeling Limited" on DVD, in which Jason Schwartzman sports a very sexy, brooding, full moustache. If it works for him, why couldn't it work for my fella?

And so, armed with the most convincing of arguments...

Jason Schwartzman had a moustache for a while. He's hip.

and:

Burt Reynolds.

...I somehow managed to convince my fiance and myself that this moustache would be a good idea.

And so, last Saturday, I waited nervously outside his bathroom door as he shaved with a fully-charged electric razor.

First the sideburns, then the beardy mass. Eventually, he got his face fur down to a simple classic goatee that made him look sort of like a veteran closing pitcher and sort of like a stuffy literary critic (both turn-ons, in case you didn't know).

Then came the Fu Manchu. Ridiculous. Standing shirtless in his tiny bathroom with a sloppy moustache dripping all the way down to his chin, James looked like he was the father of one of the kids in "Gummo," posing for his proudest MySpace picture.

I was at last glad to see the jowel hair go, making way for an adorable moustache-soul patch combo. It looks perfect--all the trappings of a power-stache plus the sensitive hipster presence of the patch. I could really get used to this look. It kind of works for--no, no! Please don't shave off the soul patch, James!

But he did. And there it was. A shocking, straightforward strip of orphaned beard hair, bristling above his grinning upper lip.

Throughout the day, the moustache took turns surprising me, mystifying me, and warming up to me.

It's kind of an okay look for him, really. But I still can't get over the 'moustigma.' The next day we happened upon a pretty low-rent community fair, and there were three things that the good country folk were celebrating there: cheap hot dogs, cut-off jean shorts, and--you guessed it--moustaches. Every burly dude we came across had a well-seasoned bushy moustache and the kind of stiff upper lip that comes from years of working in a factory or lifting weights on a bench in the garage beneath a poster of Tawny Kitaen on the hood of a Firebird.

This judgment is deeply seated within me, and I don't know how to respond now that I'm engaged to marry it. Poor James.

And yet, when I look at Burt I feel no trepidation. I feel not a tinge of doubt. I don't associate him with a good ol' boy eating Funions at a truck stop.

Perhaps then, it's one thing to grow a moustache, and quite another to grow into a moustache. To allow the stern and brooding power of a well-trimmed patch of lip hair tell the world, "why, yes, I do enjoy Russian literature." Or, "come. Let's spend the evening savoring small plates at a tapas bar and then retreat to the veranda for cigars and aged scotch. What? Did you think I was some sort of rube?" Or maybe even to let your moustache say to the world, "Why, yes, I did once go out for a pass with a bare ass in an issue of Playgirl. And you know what? I'm still here."

Prove me wrong, honey. Prove 'em all wrong just like Burt did. And maybe someday, your facial hair will also have a band and a sex act named after it.

Instant Writing

2008-06-04T12:09:00.000-07:00

My professors of creative writing recently sent me a book of surrealist games. I decided to do some "automatic writing" exercises. Each of these short pieces were written without editing, without planning, without stopping. Every time my consciousness slowed or became too present, I ended my piece. The only real "edits" are the breaks that form sections. Here they are:

One:

The journeyman’s pack is full of baked beans and barley wheat, stiff and worn, and full of midday sun. Dried sweat and leaves stick to his calves as he hooks a strap around his ankle and sets to rest in the shade of a willow at the edge of a trickling ford. This is the way we wash our hands, he thinks, recalling some rhyme from his past, some chanted childhood dirge smelling of lavender soap and a warm oven.

Now constant motion is his reality. He is a soldier with active joints and tendons, muscle that has little time to be sore, only to react, to react, to react, to build, to ache only for what is new.

The beard was an accident—a consequence, a guarantee, whatever. It’s there, ruddy and full, consuming his features and blurring his existence.

Two:

My father never asked me to pull his orange cart, though I idle through the market most weekdays with no import. After his heart attack my mother had to re-learn how to cook for him, and consequently grew exhausted. She died clutching a ginger root at the Fratelli’s stand, of old age as far as we can tell.

The thirteen year-old kid from the floor below hooks the cart to the back of his banana bike and pumps standing up down the street, smiling lasciviously at buxom mothers shopping for their family meals. Every day is a Fellini film, full of tit ogling and the coming-of-age celebration of cock.

Every day I regret stealing the bills from his wallet. Every day I punish myself by feeding my supper to the mutts that gather below our window. It’s always unseasoned beef and some sort of limp, wilted vegetable.

Three:

Our prize was a bowing pin, spraypainted gold. My husband hoisted it above his head and gloated in front of the lesser couples, still sweating, still red-faced and fat-fingered. We weren’t bowling—this was a Scrabble tournament. Someone thought it would be funny to have a trophy. Tom found it at a secondhand store, already painted, as if designed with our specific needs in mind.

That’s the thing about Jim. He sweats constantly with no regard for company, for upholstery, for shirtsleeves, for decency. Even with a tray full of vowels for the last three turns, we managed to win. We need to start spending time with people who are more than passably literate.

When you relocate, you make friends with the first genial people you meet. Genial people are mostly simple-minded. To meet anyone with any sort of complexity, you have to put on airs or pretension. You have to be aloof yet full of attractive kinetic energy. We’re so tired from the move though. Jim’s aunt died and left him all of her antique furniture. It smells of rose-petal sachets and her oxygen tank, except that the oxygen tank doesn’t smell like anything.

Eponymous

2008-05-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

Sam Cooke's "That's Where It's At" is truly where it's at. Best slow dance ever. End.

Back in Action

2008-04-25T05:48:00.000-07:00

I found this scribbled on a scrap of paper while I was cleaning my desk yesterday. I'm assuming it's the beginning of a poem, so that makes it qualify for my "Poem-a-Day" challenge. It has no title, and the penmanship is horrible.

Remember type
before fluidity,
Gestalt dot matrix particles
within
sounds
within
symbols.
Remember
before it left behind
serif
scars?

That's it. Sounds like an ode to my parents' old Apple II GS, complete with noisy dot matrix printer and those perforated reams of paper.

She & Him

2008-04-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

Lars and the Real Girl

2008-04-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

No Country For Old Men

2008-04-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

Quit Doggin' Me!

2008-04-18T05:14:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Major slackery alert, right? But I will have 30 poems on here eventually. I promise.

I haven't been neglecting poetry completely. In fact, two nights ago I organized a guerilla group of poetry writers, and we spent the waning hours of the evening chalking some great poetry across the campus of Baldwin-Wallace College. Sides of sandstone buildings, sidewalks, fountains, picnic tables--none were safe from our dusty little fingers!

I've also been devoting a lot of my time to a documentary collage that I'm creating for my creative writing seminar capstone. More about that later...

Oh! And yesterday was Poem in Your Pocket Day. More about that at www.poets.org

Okay, here's the next poem. This is actually a "found poem" that I wrote for my seminar. The assignment was to collect words from billboards, road signs, print advertisements, product labels, and non-English textbooks. We were only allowed to use the words we found--nothing more than that. Here's what I came up with:


Night Paving

Bottled,
           positively     balanced on
shoulder (in
                     different cities
in one day),
a good alternative to caffeine.

The elderly
              de-
              clawed consecrator
handling tarot cards
                         begins recruitment.

Women buy
             guns &
                           tackle
well-balanced flight
attendants,
                           made of
                                   malty
                                             eukaryotes.

You can...
                      imply
full-bodied         truth
in          carbonated
                         express lanes.
North,


            south.

At the Museum of Natural History

2008-04-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

You kissed the little girl
who shares these thick
frames, now clouded
with your skin oil.

Particolored moths,
pinned,
looking the most alive (their
wings are still dusted).

A stuffed kodiak bear,
still hazardous.
Looming,
head-sized paws
stupidly reaching.

Something ceremonial:
a headdress for a wedding...

What implores you to stay here?
I have been here myself
all my life,
her
then me,
like wooden nesting eggs
behind glass.

Pitch

2008-04-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

I was only
told
of the last shape he took.

Paws outstretched,

sunning lifeless
on one side in a
clearing
of trees.

Fur unmatted,
legs un-
broken.
Only a drop of blood
creeping from the side
of his cat
mouth.

Death
with a pellet gun,
aimed steady.

Startling,
the way a flashlight is
to a frog
in our creek bed.

Day Three

2008-04-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

State Fair

A row
of bearded
pie-eating gallants,
the moon a packaged pad
of butter
in an old man's pocket
at a buffet line.

Baskets of deep-fried
ferris wheel riders
dripping oil onto
the head of
prize pig
with her symmetrical
nipples, roasting
on a spit.

Me the apple
in her mouth,
red and hot
with shame
for having entered that tent
and staring too long
at the man with the
reflective forehead.

Day Two

2008-04-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

For Maic:

What if I am your sister,
the one bathing
in a pool of
ersatz moonlight?

Unashamed
of my nakedness,
you spring
upon me
in a bear suit
on your tiptoes,
challenging my height.
And you wrap me (like text
at the end of a
line)
in your Stooges t-shirt.

We watch the ball game
broadcast late,
West Coast,
our arms resting limp
on your sweaty
gaping
brilliant bear head.

National Poetry Month

2008-04-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

The title of this entry tells it like it is, for sure. April is National Poetry Month. In the past, I've celebrated by gathering large groups of friends and chalking poetry over sidewalks, buildings, streets, and fountains. I plan to do this again (college being the perfect setting for this sort of play).

This year, I've also decided to write at least one poem every day, and to share my writing, completely unedited, in this blog. I want every poem (or start of a poem) to feel organic and unmussed, for better or worse.

Today's poem, my first of the month, seems greatly influenced by the departure of my lover this morning. I should also note that I've been reading a collection called "Isn't It Romantic: 100 Love Poems By Younger American Poets" edited by Brett Fletcher Lauer & Aimee Kelley." Sappiness often occurs by osmosis.

Wire

I confess
I am not so afraid
of birds.

But if you will continue
to squeeze my
elbow, to arrest
my pulse
in the presence of gulls,
I will never object
to your protection.

Pretentious Literary Form #294: The Lyric Essay

2008-02-11T19:56:00.000-08:00

The concept of the "lyric essay" still eludes me, even after reading several essays that attempt or profess to define it. Perhaps it should be expected that writers writing about writing will do so in coy metaphor. Whatever.

In my senior creative writing seminar, we were assigned to write a two-page lyric essay using the conventions of one of these forms:

Flash Cards
Billboards
Catalog Descriptions
Rorshak Tests

I decided to explore the duality and the associative power of the flash card. A single word and its intended definition, teamed together with the intention of being forever committed to memory. The workings of memory and free association are at the heart of my latest effort.

I should also add that this morning I found my love's t-shirt next to my bed, which was enough of an event to make me cry over my oatmeal. I hardly ever eat oatmeal. I'm not generally a big fan of mush. Unfortunately I fear that my first conscious attempt at lyric essay might possess that quality:

Three Spices Commonly Used to Disguise Sentimentality

Tamarind:

The pod of a large, tropical tree, Tamarindus indica, of the legume family, containing seeds enclosed in a juicy acid pulp that is used in beverages and food.

Under creased blue tarps upheld by whitewashed two-by-fours we slip sideways through a sidewalk-wide market, past bulbous tubers and raw earthly monster fruits, and family-owned cardboard signs with tentative prices, your hand in mine as a necessity. This is not my city. To slip away would be the pinch in a muddled Hollywood comedy.

We will complete our mission at an Asian market that is held together by stapled parti-colored flyers and incidental grime. There is a bell, the woman at the counter does not understand us, and we cannot read the labels on the jars. While I pay for the pulp, my eyes gravitate toward the coy lips and navels of a hundred Bollywood women on bootleg clamshell cases, splayed beyond my reach. I want to ask if these films have subtitles. Can we sweat together in bed tonight to the garish trill of Mohammed Rafi and to the beaten sound of your mostly inadequate window air conditioning unit, and to the spices that squeeze persistently through our pores like delivery bicycles in curb lanes? But I assume that this sort of communication is futile. No bag, please. Alright, then. Plastic.

Fennel:

A plant, Foeniculum vulgare, of the parsley family, having feathery leaves and umbels of small, yellow flowers.

This one’s harder. My limbs have elongated, swollen and melting with the warmth of taste. The seed, the stalk, the heady climb up the stairs while the stomach still lingers at the dinner table. During the first set, my eyes are closed and his softer songs are punctuated with clattering silverware one wooden floor below. I forgive them, and weep in time with the percussive nature of the universe, each open-mouthed sob releasing the lingering vapors of thyme and some other spice that still eludes my palette.

On a different evening there are gossamer curtains falling around like fluttering scarves. The room is accentuated with copper and murmur. Everything is flickering. We have trouble with pronunciation for different reasons as the night surrenders to the subtly erotic grace of my elbow, bent with lusty intention towards the waning boddess of a stemless wine glass. Tonight I will give myself to you on a full stomach.

Lemongrass:

A tropical grass (Cymbopogon citratus) native to southern India and Sri Lanka, yielding an aromatic oil used as flavoring and in perfumery and medicine.

The flea market closed before we could make love between the leather bound encyclopedias and the unwittingly racist Americana antiquities, the way we’d buzzed about on especially complacent Saturday mornings. That one time, I let the taste of summer dissolve beneath my tongue, and plunged euphorically past you into stacks of must and warp and hairline cracks from amnesic use. Leaving without purchasing a single relic will be the easiest decision we will make.

Soon after it closes, the Chinese restaurant across the street follows. We have yet to find a new place. Mornings, bristles scrape across reluctant papillae, and we are made conscious of it all again. The taste, when mixed with toothpaste, is understandably unpleasant.

Evolution

2007-10-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

There's rough gray carpet around the edges of the glass, surrounding the sharks in a sort of domesticated tranquility. The little children gather around it, their warm hands pressed against the wide pane that towers seven feet, maybe more, over their cowlicked heads, their dusty craned necks, their faces shrouded in sickly green aquarium glow.

The inside of the tank is curved and cylindrical like a soup can, its cement walls coated in mossy film. From the main viewing side, Lana can see across to two hidden portholes, and if she stares long enough, she sees a kid's face appear in the lower of the two as a blacktip sweeps sharply by, cutting another neurotic circular path.

Lana watches, a canvas tote bag weighted down with juice boxes and triangle-cut turkey sandwiches hanging limply over her left shoulder. She is standing contrapposto, posing in a way, as another living exhibition in the zoo's aquarium gallery. Her frizzled dirty-blonde hair is tamed, with much effort, by a red bandana. In an oversized t-shirt and a hand-written name tag, she watches mothers pass by with their own, actual children. She wonders whether they wonder how old she is. If they know that she is pushing thirty. If they could trust a day care that would employ a fragile woman like her. At 12:30, once the kids have tired of the sharks, Lana will seat them at the splintered wooden picnic tables in front of the polar bears, and distribute the lunches. Then she will retreat behind the ladies restroom and smoke a cigarette while she watches a daddy long legs crawl up a drain pipe.

For now, the kids aren't tugging at the legs of her jeans. They are engrossed, captivated by prehistoric silky bodies that seem weightless and hazardous in the water. Lana is repulsed by their black eyes, their gaping mouths. She is bothered that she cannot see her reflection in the side of the tank. The dim lighting in this space makes her feel as though she is drowning, but there are mothers and fathers milling about her, holding the arms of their children, negotiating problems with camera flash against the glass, breathing underwater.

As she moves toward the back of the exhibit to recline on a carpeted bench, one of her charges, Madeline the doctor's daughter, lets out a scream. Its shrillness is absorbed by the fibers in the walls, but it is felt and echoed just the same, from the cavernous mouths of the other children with their unfinished stalagmite rows of teeth. And then Lana sees the source of fear. The smooth-sided body of a blacktip shark rolls to one side, suddenly lifeless and no longer sustaining its own motion. Slowly, it cuts back and forth like a sheet of paper blown from the edge of a desk, and plummets past the viewing window, sinking to the bottom of the tank, leaving no wake.

Madeline runs, flailing to Lana, her stubby pink arms outstretched, plump fingers splayed. Lana watches her gaping mouth, her chubby cheeks, the way she chokes on her own spit when she sobs, and knows that one day Madeline will be ugly. And so she hugs her, the way she's been told to, and is suddenly joined by a mass of other bandwagon seekers of affection, who dutifully rub Madeline on the back of her corduroy jumper, and pat her hair until it is a knotted mess.

Outside at the picnic table, Lana watches the children eat their sandwiches and trade juice boxes, which come in two flavors--grape and apple. One of the boys has a ring of artificial red food coloring around his lips, and he's watching her with heavy, watery eyes. Lana reaches into her back for a pack of cigarettes and swings her tired legs over the bench of the table, heading for a spider-infested patch of dead grass behind the ladies restroom. She'll stay here for a minute or two. Long enough for a smoke. And when she returns everybody will have forgotten about death.

It's Official.

2007-10-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

Ricky Nelson is the hottest teen idol of all time.

Daunting Task Force

2007-09-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

My good friend Kevin recently published a list of his top five albums. I've always wanted to do this, but most "Top 5" lists in my life are too tentative to document. My attentions are fickle.

I've learned that growing up can change the way you feel about an album, the same way falling in love can change the way you feel about a song. It's the same with all art, I think.

But these are the albums that have always been there, or that have come into my life so boldly and explosively that I can only assume that their effects will be lasting. There are five of them. I think I might be ready.

1. Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

There were seventeen tracks on Wilco's previous effort, Summerteeth, but this time, one of the most inventive and versatile American rock bands did it right, releasing a cohesive and groundbreaking 11 track album that would forever change the way they made music. The critical and commercial success of "Yankee" allowed Wilco to grow as a band, and listening to this album made me forget that any other band in the world existed.

The album feels dreamlike. It lets me into a new place, where negative space becomes important, where descending chimes and sleepy fragile vocals play with underwater guitars, and where everything echoes.

I listened to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot two summers after it was released. I'm actually ashamed of this fact to this day. Though I was familiar with Wilco, I had never listened to much of their music, except for a few tracks off of Summerteeth. Now I can't make it through a week without immersing myself completely in the final dissonant measures of "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," or the playfully nostalgic pounded piano chords at the beginning of "Heavy Metal Drummer." Every time I hear "Reservations" I fall hopelessly in love.

2. The Police: Outlandos d'Amour

Even finding out the sad news that my cat had died while I was listening to "Born in the 50s" did not ruin this album for me. It says something that I only own it on vinyl; there's no skipping tracks with this one.

This is the time in the Police's career that I admire most. Nobody knew what they were supposed to sound like, and I think they didn't either. And on this album, it sounds like they didn't care. Part reggae, part punk, all pop genius, "Outlandos" has been one of my favorites since I was thirteen.

It's driving, it's fierce. Sting's vocals wail and gargle and scream. Everything is tight when it needs to be, and cacaphonous when appropriate. It's probably measured and calculated like most things that Sting does, but it doesn't feel that way. It makes me go nuts.

3. Ellis Paul: Live

I've always hated live albums because they never sound like they should, and because there's always an annoying person in the crowd who makes jarring sounds at inappropriate times. But this is a folk concert. And it's one of the most intimate folk concerts I've never been to. When Ellis breaks a string he reads an original poem whilst changing it. His guests include Patty Griffin and Chris Trapper. He jams on "Autobiography of a Pistol" and "Martyr's Lounge," and whispers and coos on "Last Call" and "Conversation With A Ghost."

Ellis is a storyteller, and each one of these songs moves gracefully and keenly, like fiction you want to believe. His soaring vocals are unmatched on any of his other studio efforts. It's two discs of modest, heartfelt pleasure. Every time I hear it I pick a new favorite song. Ellis Paul is simply one of the best living songwriters, and this is him, essentially. It's all you need.

4. Weezer: Pinkerton

Screw The Blue Album! Regardless of how much Rivers Cuomo seems to hate Pinkerton, I think it's one of the strongest rock albums I've ever heard. This was a time when the guys of Weezer weren't afraid to be playful. Their self-deprecating, angsty lyrics are the soundtrack of adolescence. But they aren't pandering to anybody. They're just playing fun, kicky, rocky, pop songs.

I miss the days when the boys would make strange noises in their songs, and sing along with guitar solos. Weezer was too big to play in the garage at this time, but this album feels like it belongs there. I love it. It makes me feel like I fit in somewhere. It always has.

5. Sufjan Stevens: Seven Swans

Sufjan Stevens saved me in a way. His music and Over the Rhine's music finally gave me positive feelings towards Christian artists. This wasn't annoying praise music. This was lyrically dense, intelligent, complex stuff, that just happened to have Christian themes.

One of the most intimate, sensitive, and heartbreaking albums I've ever heard in my life, Seven Swans makes me feel like a human being every time I listen to it. The melodies, the banjo, the haunting starkness, in contrast with Stevens' other efforts, are what makes "Swans" so special. The first time I heard it, I was driving home from the library, and it began to rain. "To Be Alone With You" came on just as I pulled into the driveway, and I remember sitting in the car and listening to it all the way through. That's what Sufjan makes you do, especially here. You have to stop and listen to all of it.

Things left in the pocket of a winter coat

2007-09-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

I can shapeshift in the fall. I can slip into things and realize that they feel familiar. I can be more restless, but I can also be more patient.

I was quiet in my mom's car, getting my sense of hearing confused with my sense of feeling, exhausting my memory. The last time I heard this album all the way through without stopping, I had a broken heart. I basked in melancholy on my roommate's futon, under piles of blankets in the middle of the day with the blinds closed tight, trying to create the illusion of night for dramatic effect. The feeling of hurting someone else made my skin feel pinched. I was punishing myself. The time before that, I was reclined in the driver's seat of my Toyota Echo on the night of my high school graduation party. Guests had gone, I was alone with the windows up. This album was a graduation present. It was hard to sleep.

Traditionally, this is the time of the year when I want to say the most, but when I feel the least eloquent. Nothing that I write will match the importance of what is happening around me, or inside me.

I'm unpacking sweaters that I didn't know I had. I'm recalling moments that I'd similarly forgotten.

This is the ticket from the theater in the park. The wrought iron table teeters, my right wrist slips across the page of a notebook, the spine creaks when I press too hard. This is the end of the summer and I'm writing this. And I can smell popcorn that doesn't smell like popcorn, but more like a high school football game, or the floor of a movie theater on Lee that we've just trodded into, wrapped in wool scarves and watching our shoulders moisten as the flakes melt under soft yellow lobby light. Now we are at the corner, and we've said goodbye too early and isn't it strange now that we must continue this way. This is you and me drinking coffee from clear cups, being diplomatic about the last bite of cheesecake, which has fallen over onto its side in surrender, and I'm realizing that you are leaving. Now I understand why you came, and why you stood for so long under the hot lights of the stage. Not because of the cold, but because you weren't sure. And at the time, neither was I. I kept a few things. When I get my phonograph fixed, I'll think of you again, when I play them.

This is me promising that my attentions will not die with a season anymore. I will play the same two-disc set all year long--perhaps more rigorously at times. And I will keep one of my sweaters folded on the top shelf of my closet.

Brushing Past You

2007-08-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

I just imagined, briefly, whilst brushing my teeth and simultaneously pacing circles around my apartment, that there is someone else in the world who similarly wanders during personal dental care processes. Perhaps one day I'll run into this person on a sidewalk. Shaken, we'll stare nervously at each other, toothbrushes hanging limply from mirrored cheeks. We'll want to smile then, and we will, but only for a moment, before our lips self-consciously suck themselves inward to avoid dripping fluoride-rich foam across the concrete. And then, just as suddenly, we will retreat on shuffling slippered feet, to spit.

Creative Juice, Foiled, Sings Swan-Shaped Song

2007-08-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

I just had this wonderful and weird idea for a story, involving a boy throwing his little brother's possessions into a well. I began writing about fifteen minutes ago, and it was all going, well, well. And then my parents' computer decided to freak out just as unexpectedly as my story idea came to me.

I may never get that page back, but I assure you, it was a good one while it lasted.

Better Mileage

2007-08-17T20:50:00.000-07:00

Imagined Dialogue Between Me and My Toyota Echo, as I Trade Him in for My New Toyota Prius:

Me
Echo

I'm sorry, you know. You know I am sorry. I've told you this.
I know.
I'm older now. You're older now.
These things happen.
But lately, I've felt different with you.
Different how.
Smaller different. Like I...
Like you deserve better.
No.
You do, though. I get it. I look at him, and I see why.
He responds to my touch.
Keyless entry. Yeah, I know. Could we just not, please?
Aww, come on. You know I loved rolling up your windows. It kept my arms fit.
Remember that time we were going 85 with the windows down? The way it felt.
Yeah. Insane.
You didn't like it?
The truth is, I never felt really safe with you.
You're telling me this now? I could have tried harder!
It's just not in your nature. It's okay.
So all those miles I gave to you. That just means nothing now.
Of course it still means something. You've seen Ferris Bueller. You know that odometer doesn't run backwards.
Again with the references. Always the references. You name me Akira. From Kurosawa to Hughes. We've certainly come full circle, haven't we?
Ha.
What?
Circles. I'm gonna miss your turning radius.
I'm not the only one who's turned.
Don't. I'm saying goodbye, Akira.
For him, though? Come on. 30 miles to the gallon wasn't enough for you? I know you're a poor college student but...yeah! How the hell can you even afford a guy like that?
You and I both knew from the beginning that this wasn't going to last. I've been planning this for a long time. Saving up. I was a rebound, remember?
Yeah. Me and your mom first.
It's weird when you say it like that. This whole dialogue is.
Remember that time in the park? With--
Quiet.
Or the time you hid in my trunk and tried to---
Stop, please. Just stop.
I feel so close to you now. Here. Where we met.
It has to end. It has to.
Don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just...
60,000 miles.
You've taken all your stuff, right?
From the trunk.
And the backseat?
Yeah.
He has a pretty big trunk.
With a privacy screen.
Good. I can't bear to watch.
You know I really did. I really do.
I love you too.
I'm leaving now.
I know. But could you...
Yes?
Could you leave the Spandau Ballet sticker?
Does it mean that much to you?
It's the last ironic reference we'll ever share, isn't it?
I can't do this.
Are those the keys? To him?
Yeah. I have to...
Just go. Jesus. 55 miles to the gallon. And a back-up camera.
I'll have to watch you as I leave.
In the mirrors.
And the camera.
And the camera.
I'll miss you, Akira.
He's grey. Perfect.
I'm waving goodbye, Akira.
60,000 miles. God, I feel so old.
Me too.

Shorn Is A Good Haircut!

2007-08-10T19:51:00.000-07:00

There really isn't anything like a good haircut. I swung through the door of the salon, the soles of my Converse slapping the swollen pavement, and for once I didn't feel the day's humidity festering between my thick, unruly locks. I wasn't moved to pull my hair back into a bandana. I arched my back and felt a breeze--an actual breeze, across my neck. And why wouldn't I feel the breeze on my neck? There was no hair there anymore to block it.

A lot of people are asking me what moved me to have my curly, shaggy coif whacked. It's a long history. For the past two years, I've been seeing two stylists, and every time I sat in the chair before this time, I'd say, "I want it short." And one of my two stylists would say, "short?! Really?! How exciting!" And then I'd put a stop to the madness and say, "not like that. I mean, just a little above the shoulder."

Then I'd leave, and by some frustrating tinge of buyer's remorse, I'd regret not having something different done. At least make it worth the wad of money I pay. Do something different. I've called myself a wuss in this blog before. But not anymore.

Maybe it was watching "Roman Holiday" last summer with my Culture Night girls. I'd seen the movie before, but seeing it this time, being a woman now, watching her face sink and then brighten almost instantly.

The way such a simple change can make you walk differently--can make you into a different person. It's what she needed to be, and it's what I needed to be. That's what I thought as I watched it, curled up in my basement with a group of the most smartest, beautiful, talented girls I know.

One year later, and I've got my change. I can't tell which version of me looks more like me now, and I love that. This new haircut makes me want to hug everyone! Miss Hepburn got to thank the Academy after "Roman Holiday," and now I get to thank her. And my stylist, Dana, for the best good-hair day of my life.

Oh yeah, and I should thank my supportive fella (seen above) for encouraging me to take a risk (whilst also warning me that shaving my head could have some undesirable consequences.)

For The Love Of Pieter!

2007-08-02T05:10:00.000-07:00

This morning, I woke up, and the name "Breugel the Elder" echoed in my head. It was literally the first thing I thought of upon waking. I think that deserves a hearty:

WTF?!

I hope it all means that today I can expect to debauch like it's 1566!

Laundry, Laundry, Big Hair...Underground Club?!

2007-07-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

Parma Heights is dead, man. Everyone in the Greater Cleveland area knows it's a hole. Parma is what people outside of Cleveland think Cleveland is really like. Dying businesses, citizens who are tragically stuck in the 80s, pierogi enthusiasts, flamingo-decorated lawns.

I work in Parma, part-time, and one afternoon on my lunch hour I passed an old non-descript, defunct building with a home-made paper banner on the side of it that read "JESUS LOVES PARMA" in dot-matrix print. I tried to remind myself to bring my camera the next day I worked so I could photograph it, but when I got back the following Monday, the building had been completely demolished--reduced to a heap of concrete rubble. It must be a sign.

Still, there's hope for Parma, Parma Heights, and its surrounding communities. The key is never to leave The Davenport.

My mom actually discovered this two-week-old club by visiting the website of a band with whom we're (oddly) mutual friends. The venue was listed simply enough, and we decided to check it out.

Located at 6287 Pearl Road in Parma Heights, the Davenport is hidden securely beneath a Marco's pizza shop, in the same building as Parma's Arabica coffee house. We later found that all of these fine establishments are owned by the same kid--a prodigy of an entrepreneur, it seems.

Stepping down into the Davenport after being exposed to miles of laundromats, decaying strip malls, and seedy fast food joints, is like being pulled into a hipster's oasis. There's a classy, sprawling wooden floor, an elevated yet unassuming and personable stage, a bar stocked with over 45 different beers, and, yes, a comfy collection of davenports that feel like home.

I'm still in shock. When my mom told me that this place was located on the same street as my place of employment, I said to her, "But I work in one of the creepiest places in the world!" Did I mention that the Davenport has over 45 different beers?

There are good things about the Davenport. For one, it's a big enough venue to draw in a variety of different performers. The owner has his choice of bands. Last night, a singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar tried to channel the Decemberists before bowing out and letting an alternative-looking (think Crispin Glover) comedian do five minutes. Then a piano-driven pop/rock trio (Return of Simple--my band) took the stage. The final act of the night was an alt-country band called Ghost Town.

I don't want to ruin anything by saying this, but since it's on the Davenport's myspace (myspace.com/davenportbar), I feel okay letting the ten readers of this blog know that smoking is allowed, despite Ohio's recent smoking ban. While I'm not a smoker, I was oddly excited for those around me who gleefully lit up. I felt like I was in a speakeasy.

There's a cover charge to get in (at least, I assume there is on all live music nights), and that's okay, but the drinks are pretty pricey. My mom was upset that they didn't have any wine (just beer and liquor), so she ordered a Smirnoff Ice, and I had an oatmeal stout. Our bill together came to $9.00 before the tip. Harsh.

Another problem with the place is that the acoustics need a lot of work. With the wooden floors, and the size of the place, there are some major problems with sound bouncing off of everything and echoing to a distracting degree. By the owner's attentiveness to the sound board last night, though, I'm sure he'll have everything ironed out in time.

I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes things are worth searching for. Or that seedy and creepy things are sometimes nice of you flip them over. Or that if you build an indie rock club that's got 45 different beers and a jukebox with Pavement in it and a bunch of cushy couches and an eff-you-smoking-ban mentality, hipsters will come.

Or that maybe, just maybe, Jesus really does love Parma.

Remorseless Pleasure

2007-07-19T12:57:00.000-07:00

I've come to hate the term, "guilty pleasure."

It's made many appearances in my life lately, as a new season of the Canadian teen melodrama, "Degrassi," begins to "go there" once again on "The-N" (or "Noggin", before 5:00 PM). Every time I try to explain to somebody why I really and genuinely enjoy the show, the person I'm talking to will invariably chuckle and then muse, "so it's really just a guilty pleasure."

No. Not at all. I love the over-the-top, at times surreal predicaments that the same ten characters will get themselves into every year. Eating disorders? Check. Student-teacher relations? Check. Panic attacks? Check. A boy getting shot, paralyzed, confined to a wheelchair, losing his best friend (who actually got him shot), playing funk guitar in a terrible wedding band, becoming a struggling artist/t-shirt designer, having trouble getting it up, being oppressed by his father, and totally crushing on three girls at the same time? Check.

I'm sincerely trying not to feel guilty about any of it.

When I was a kid, I preferred the Monkees to the Beatles, and my favorite 45 to listen to was "Henry the VIII" by Herman's Hermits. That song made me the happiest. The Monkees were easier to dance to than the later Beatles era records that my mom owned. It was okay that I liked the Monkees and Herman's Hermits back then.

Now, if I told anybody that I really like the Monkees better than the Beatles, I'd be judged. People would respond with a) "ha. that's funny." or b) "are you an idiot?" For some reason, it's now regressive behavior for me to enjoy listening to one set of poppy mop-tops instead of the other collective-approved set. Listening to the Monkees was never a "guilty pleasure" until people out there made me feel guilty for doing it. And now all of these snobs are in my head, blocking out the lyrics to "Porpoise Song."

Chuck Klosterman says what the term, "guilty pleasure," should mean:

"In and of itself, the phrase "guilty pleasure" seems like a reasonable way to describe certain activities. For example, it is pleasurable to snort cocaine in public restrooms, and it always makes you feel guilty; as such, lavatory cocaine fits perfectly into this category. Drinking more than five glasses of gin before (or during) work generally qualifies as a guilty pleasure. So does having sex with people you barely know, having sex with people you actively hate, and/or having sex with people you barely know but whom your girlfriend used to live with during college (and will now consequently hate). These are all guilty pleasures in a technical sense."

Although I've never actually participated in any of the aforementioned behaviors, I'm sure I would feel hundreds of times more guilty for doing those things, than I do when I watch anything on E! Why not save my guilt for the big old nasty stuff and simply immerse myself in the God-given pleasures of Patrick Swayze, or John Woo, or "The Suite Life of Zach and Cody", or Cowsills records, or Ring Pops, or roller derby, or the Oxygen network?

I read today that Seneca recorded an inscription from the gates of Epicurus' garden, where his first followers once met to learn and philosophize:

"Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure."

And so, I shall tarry for these two days, until the newest episode of "Degrassi" airs. I shall escape the oppressive thoughts of my judgemental snobbish bretheren, and excitedly watch the fate of Marco, the show's token gay kid/addictive gambler/class president, unfold. And it shall be good. It shall be so, incredibly, deliciously, and gloriously, illuminatingly good.

On the Drive Home

2007-06-03T21:07:00.000-07:00

I got distracted by a melody on the night drive home from Beaver Falls this evening. It was pitch black out there on the turnpike, the road was wet, my body was jittery with caffeine, and I had to shut off my iPod and just let the song in my brain take over. I had this set of lyrics:

"Before the weight of touch/Before our time was worth so much"

And I felt like I could build a whole song around that lyric, and the few little minor chords dancing around in my head. It turned into an odd little love ballad, that's actually kind of creepy in some ways. I like it a lot though. I'll put the lyrics here. Once I got home it took about twenty minutes to write, which is actually longer than it usually takes me to write just a first version of a song.

In playground days,
before I ever knew your face,
I was four and you were ten.
That's why I'm glad I didn't know you then.

Before the weight of touch,
before our time was worth so much
We could have taken turns on a tire swing
and it wouldn't have meant a thing.

But I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
And if I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

In innocence
Before I became cognizant,
I might have thrown some rocks at you
and eaten all your Big League Chew.

Without these words
I couldn't say what you just heard.
I couldn't say how nice it is to grow
with somebody who already knows.

And I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
If I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

Look at us,
the way we call eachother 'kid'
like we're dying just to know
what we were like so long ago.

But things are fine
when our legs become intertwined
when taunting children aren't close by
to tease us when we kiss or cry.

I'm grateful now
for six years between us.
I waited much longer
without you around.
If I had known you
for all of my life
nobody would have been found.

Also, if you're my friend and I haven't responded to your e-mails or phone calls in the past few weeks, I'm sorry. I'm a deadbeat, and I deserve to be punted inside a wind tunnel or something. I promise I'll make it up to you.

Stack Judgements

2007-05-21T16:39:00.000-07:00

Last year my city's branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library (CCPL on the streets) suffered tragic losses during an odd and epic flood, and had to undergo a huge renovation. Before, the library was alright. The selection of books and music was not nearly as good as it is at other branches of CCPL. Creepy old men sat in the back, where the romance novels shared a corner with YA materials. Poor planning, really. I was always grateful to have a library just five minutes from my home--I could walk there on a nice day. Still, before the flood, it always left me feeling a little empty.

Now, the Brecksville Branch is sexed up. We've got tall, oak stacks, carved with leafy designs. They're staggered and spaced so the whole building can finally breathe. Things are rearranged for easy access. The DVDs and the CDs aren't on opposite sides anymore--they're close to the door--so people who are afraid of books don't have to step too far into the realm of the scary written word.

My favorite thing about our branch now is that it's totally self-service now. You scan your card and your items. You remove the little plastic security devices and deposit them into a few specially-marked colored bins. You print out your receipt. And you also pick up your "held" items off of a giant shelf.

On this shelf, items are arranged alphabetically, according to the last name of the person who requested them. I simply search for "DES" in the group and pull out the stuff I've waited for. But the best part is, I get to see what the guy next to me requested. Today, I found a young person, whose name starts with "DER", who I suspect is just discovering Daft Punk (there were four different albums bundled together.) My friend whose last name starts with "DEM" requested the last Harry Potter book (and by "last" I mean the most recent one--not the last of the series, which some of my friends are itching their skin off for.)

I get to judge people based on their interests without even having to have a conversation with them! How cool is that?!

Of course, I guess this works the other way too. People are probably judging me. This means that if I ever need to borrow a Michael Bolton album (for whatever reason), I'd better just drive to whichever branch has it and pick it up. Folks I know might see it on the holdshelf and disown me. And then there was that time last summer when I read about Stetson Kennedy's fascinating infiltration of the Ku Klux Klan, and decided to study the Klan's history as a result. I took so many Klan books from the library, I'm probably being watched by the government or something. What if those books were out in the open on the holdshelf and people saw them? Is this some sort of invasion of privacy?

Maybe not. Maybe it just makes it easier for creepsters like me to relate to strangers with the same taste. I think the "DOL" person with the Abe Lincoln biography on hold could be my new best friend.

Static Evolution

2007-05-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

The title of the chapbook that I completed for my Advanced Creative Writing workshop at B-W is, "Static Evolution." The concept is basically that you can create the illusion of change by looking at something in a different way, switching lenses, etcetera. I also wanted to make small things seem profoundly important. Thus, I included poems about electrical outlets, grapefruits, a shark's mouth, a turnpike sign.

On the cover of my chapbook, I included a series of photos that I took a few weeks ago outside my apartment on Seminary Street in Berea. There is a massive amount of construction happening, and in the early stages of the process, many of the streetlights were taken from the ground and laid in pieces on the grass. They looked so vastly different that way--like alien pods or something. When I show people these photographs, they tend to get confused. So I thought I'd post them here, and confuse as many people as possible.

Above: A streetlamp on the lawn.

Above: Things start to get a little strange

Above: I liked the patches of yellow grass where these things used to lay.

Above: This one's my favorite. It was such a bright and sunny day that the idea of needing streetlights at all seemed absurd.

Sidekickin' It

2007-04-26T08:36:00.000-07:00

In a Batman Notebook...

2007-04-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

There's a poem called "Self Portrait in Ink" by Bruce Beasley, originally printed in the Virginia Quarterly Review. In it, Beasley becomes a translucent octopus, releasing an exact copy of himself, in ink, which he leaves behind to escape from a shark. Layered meaning ensues, etcetera, etcetera. Actually, it's a gorgeous, dense poem with exciting wordplay and tantalizing line breaks. It's a fun read. I may add it to this entry later.

Anyway, our Advanced Creative Writing professor had us read it in class today and then decide what we would want to use as a medium for our own self-portraits. Some of the answers were as follows: wind-blown leaves, guitar strings, a stone bust (like Lionel Richie's!), and a jar of honey. It's a small class, nonetheless chock full of weird people, as you can tell. Anyway, I chose comic book cells.

The next part of our assignment was to create a self-portrait using the medium that we chose, in the form of a poem. We had about seven minutes to create. The results were actually incredibly impressive. What I struggled with before I started to write was not wanting to create a self-portrait. I really wanted to explore the control that an artist has over its subject, and the dynamics of that relationship. Then I inadvertently got into the audience's response to art as I wrote.

No matter how introspective of a person I am, and no matter how much I truly try to know myself, I want more than anything to be able to see myself from the outside, to get the best objective view. So I fell in love with the man who draws me in this poem. It may or may not be Daniel Clowes.

Hunched,
he draws my breath
and blood.
I am drawn to
exceedingly self-aware
thoughts in clouds,
colored blue
by Small Press, Inc.
ink,
only when we can afford to.

Each cell as a linear,
filmic storyboard:
bird's eye black,
XCU, flecks of green
in mine,
establishing.

Tales of little consequence
made epic
by thick black guiding lines,
boxes of time and space
with white space in between,
never filled.

Comics are supposed to be!
comics are not!
comics never!
Shouldn't this be
funny? You're funnier
in life than on paper.

The paper is under my
skin, I say silently,
and pull a long
pointed speech
bubble
from my tongue,
and there's a paper cut
on my windpipe

which he kisses in
his brain, hot
under clip-on easel
light.

Demanding Re-counts!

2007-04-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

"You Voted For it! This Month's B-W Cinema Movie is 'Wild Hogs!'"

On the way into the student union this sign assaults my vision. "You Voted For it!" It says. So accusatory. Like it's my fault that I have to suffer through this crap with the rest of my colleagues. The truth is, I didn't vote for it. I didn't even get to vote. When did this so-called "voting" take place? And why the hell are we watching "Wild Hogs" again? Are you serious?

Baldwin-Wallace has this monthly event called B-W Cinema that takes place in John Patrick Theater. Students vote on a movie that they'd like to be screened, and whichever film receives the majority of the vote is shown. There's free popcorn, some raffles, etcetera. It's a simple, free event that's easy to enjoy.

Usually the films that are nominated by Student Senate are semi-popular ones that are about a month away from being released on DVD. It's kind of cool if you've missed the movie while it was in theaters and still want a chance to see it on the big screen. In the past, the Senators provided a great variety. Last year I got to vote for "Mad Hot Ballroom," for instance. This spring, "Wordplay," was one of the nominees. Obviously these were dark horses. I'm perfectly happy that "Batman Begins" and "Casino Royale" beat out the less popular "indie" choices, because I enjoy both of these movies very much. I'm not against Blockbuster films at all, when they're well-done and entertaining, and I agree that it's appropriate to show something that most college students will enjoy watching with their friends.

But seriously: "Wild Hogs?"

This year, the voting process has been shrouded in mystery. I actually don't think that the first semester's films were voted on by students at all. I think Senate hand-picked them. Last year I was sent an e-mail that directed me to an online B-W Cinema poll. And this year? Nothing. I wasn't given a ballot. I'm incensed.

The first blow was when Senate chose Chingy to perform here this spring. It was between Chingy and OK Go. And they picked Chingy?

First Chingy. Now "Wild Hogs."

Is there something terribly wrong with my peers, or am I the weirdo here?

Five-Minute Farce

2007-03-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

1. Head across campus to pick up screenplay evaluation.
2. Realize halfway there that you've popped your front bike tire.
3. Opt to walk.
4. Trip over bike while passing through front door of building.
5. Recover, pick up screenplay from professor's office.
6. Head back outside, walk bike towards streetcorner.
7. Curse madly as your messenger bag strap rips.
8. Laugh it off, pick bag up off ground in front of attractive jogger.
9. Arrive at crosswalk too late for "WALK" sign.
10. Decide that you deserve chocolate for all this nonsense.
11. Go out of your way to the student union.
12. See that some of your favorite candy bars are on sale--two for a dollar.
13. Fling useless messenger bag onto table, dig around for wallet.
14. Snap. You left it in your sweatpants when you changed out of your gym clothes.
15. No chocolate for you, suckah.
16. It's a lot colder outside than you thought it would be.

Imagination is Freer Than Memory

2007-03-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Last week in Advanced Creative Writing, we had to make short lists of specific places--things that could be settings for poems or short stories. I came up with a list of stuff like: a stairwell, a winter coat pocket, a shark's mouth, an eyelet.

Today our prof wrote all of our nominations on the board and we voted on one that everyone would have to write "a short history" of. It ended up being, "a fluorescent ashtray in the bedroom."

So anyway, we got thirty minutes to write something about the fluorescent ashtray in the bedroom, and in my case, a shark's mouth. Surprise, surprise, right?

A Short History of a Fluorescent Ashtray in the Bedroom

That's where I see her,
Aunt Judy.
In cheaper motels,
under broken lattice front porches,
in leaves, dodging loan sharks
and cobweb clutter,
in film
and filth

and sepia,
a beer-pitcher Bonnie to a
steel-toed, line-dancing,
one-night Clyde.
But not as wry,
or motivated.
Like Salinger's Zooey,
in a chain of smoke
and cynicism,
only not as witty,
not as pointed.
Dull, really.

And this is all she's left:
nightstand, stolen console TV,
tinfoil rabbit ears and
no heirlooms.
The last to get boxed
is what she'd miss most,
if forced to feel.
We don't know.
She is missing,
and this is her likely ghost,
a fluorescent ashtray glow,
casting shame.

A Short History of A Shark's Mouth

I've been here,
biting,
shifting seismic rows,
pointed plate tectonic teeth
and the like,
pre-dating badass, sans
evolution.
I've always been this cool,
watch yourself.

Open, suck, pump
twitch, lorenzini dots
sense, dodge fish flutter.
Feel that?
Each one serrated,
ribbed
for my pleasure.
Saw soldier, thrash monger,
frenzy firer.

The salt stands still,
the jaw gapes and drops,
at the ready. Ripping scales
with no remorse,
but plenty of remoras trailing,
sucking guts and gills as it were.
Put that on your neck and wear it.
I'll just grow a new one.

Something of a Moment

2007-03-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

When my ear finally popped in the shower, I wondered how long the dump truck outside had been beeping.

Borrowing From The Yellow House

2007-03-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

Robin Behn has a series of "Yellow House" poems that are thematically linked--sometimes very loosely, sometimes very intensely. She's working on a collection of these poems. In my advanced creative writing class, we were required to read a handful of these works, and I loved a few of them so much that I couldn't stop reading them out loud last night before bed.

Today, our professor read each of the poems one-at-a-time and after each was finished, we were told to write down particular words or short phrases that we remembered--things that jumped out at us. We did this with six separate poems. Then, after we had the lists made, we were instructed to go outside for twenty minutes and write something new using, or inspired by, Behn's words that we'd recorded.

I tried to use every single word on my list, and I came up with this, although it has no title. Also, because of the nature of blogger, it's not formatted the way it is in my notebook.

The perpetuity of dank stones,
chestnut smell of death, a
filmic latch-key monster
with velvet teeth and
fallen feathers.

Your fingers,
your beard as curators of my neck, no--
more like fluttering tails
of blind cavefish
climbing
the lattice of my ribcage.
And then you are,
you are
arched over like a spoon, like
the letter r on its side,
unaware of the policing squares
of light
that pass through latitudinal
tree trunks and jagged crosshair
branches.
in the still--okay, cemetery;
in the exact middle of what is not

not a dream,
but a street where I once lived
in an--
almost--yellow house.

Squealing Inside!

2007-02-23T19:25:00.000-08:00

13 Reasons I really really really want to go to Bonnaroo this June 14th-17th:

1) The Police.

2) Wilco.

3) The White Stripes.

4) The Decemberists.

5) The Black Keys.

6) Spoon.

7) Wolfmother.

8) Franz Ferdinand.

9) Damien Rice.

10) Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals.

11) Martha Wainwright.

12) Gogol Bordello.

13) David Cross.

The Making Love of Art

2007-02-04T16:46:00.000-08:00

An assignment in my Advanced Creative Writing workshop this week was to combine two favorite works or literature and turn them into a new original poem. They didn't have to be poems--they could be short stories, novels, etc. I asked my professor if I could use a poem and a painting. She approved.

As soon as I heard the assignment I immediately thought of one of my favorite poems, Recovery of Sexual Desire After a Bad Cold by Fred Chappell:

Toward morning I dreamed of the Ace of Spades reversed
And woke up giggling.
New presence in the bedroom, as if it had snowed;
And an obdurate stranger come to visit my body.

This is how it all renews itself, floating down
Mothy on the shallow end of sleep;
How Easter gets here, and the hard-bitten dogwood
Flowers, and waters run clean again.

I am a new old man.
As morning sweetens the forsythia and the cats
Bristle with impudent hungers, I learn to smile.
I am a new baby.

What woman could turn from me now?
Shining like a butter knife, and the fever burned off,
My whole skin alert as radar, I can think
Of nothing at all but love and fresh coffee.
-------------------------

As soon as I knew I wanted to use this poem, I knew I needed a Frida Kahlo painting to team up with it. The Ace of Spades sold me, a tarot symbol, a supernatural force symbolized by a skull. I can't think of skulls without thinking of the Day of the Dead. Then I remembered Frida Kahlo's painting "Tree of Hope" and I knew this was it. The fertile, proud, healthy version of herself, perched in a nightscape next to the daytime bed of invalid Frida. No more back brace. There's a duality here, broken and virile, color and absence of color, day and night, sickness and health, and a strong theme of renewal that I see in both Chappell's and Kahlo's work. So here's what I came up with:

Desiring Frida by Marissa DeSantis:

This morning the brace is gone,
for in the night the stubborn bolts
vacated and left the blood and blister, sweat to dry,
the skin to renew.
A woman in a red dress was here,
or perhaps a fever dream
or perhaps the Ace of Spades
reversed,
a tarot skull with
chiclet teeth white as dogwood,
chattering through the forest para Dia De Los Muertos.
But I am alive
in this bed with my flag and my forsythia.
And I wave for the woman to come,
Come, I am virile, I am not asleep
I am waiting for coffee,
for this clean snow to fall and kiss
your dark eyebrow
while I touch you again
for the first time.

Holy Grounds

2007-01-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

I ask the barista which of today's blends is the darkest and she tells me that it's "Frank's Big City Blend." When I first sit down to read a collection of Kelly Magee short stories in a coffee shop with wood floors and paperbacks and perfect lighting that is so far away from the big city, a woman enters with three kids right next to where I'm spread out on a leather couch by the front window.

These kids are young--all of them over four but under nine, and all equally expressive. I wonder why a mother with kids who are obviously difficult to quell would seat them beside a studious-looking lass like myself, clearly trying to get reading done. When she gets up to order her coffee, I try, so hard, to get in a paragraph. A really long one with lots of syllables.

The youngest one, a boy in a gray knit cap and mittens, attempts to spell the word "Fox" and gives up before the "x." His mother encourages him. "What would Jesus do? He wouldn't give up, would he? He'd try his hardest."

Now I'm too involved in this family and their love of Jesus to concentrate on pages. So I move, and as soon as I stand up I hear the mother say, "Do you guys want to snag the couch?"

I imagine that every man in this coffee shop walks up to me and asks what I'm reading, and then hits on me. I smile politely, tell him I'm spoken for by a man in a town that's even farther removed from Frank's Big City, who works out harder than I'm trying to concentrate on this book. It looks like Chick Lit but it's not, I swear. I'm a smart girl. You don't know what you're missing.

I have a scratch on my right shin and I itch it, lifting the leg of my jeans just high enough so he can see my grey knee socks, and then I realize that I'm also revealing my boyish (albeit incredibly hip) tennis shoes. My toes wiggle nervously and because the tops of these shoes are nylon, I think he probably notices and falls in love with me.

I've heard this stupid Bon Jovi song three times in the past two days. I've got to befriend one of the baristas so they stop playing such awful music in here. So far though, this isn't my place. I just read here. I mean, sometimes I read here. Sometimes strange men hit on me and sometimes I get distracted by noisy children and two old ladies in matching red wool coats discussing politics in the corner where I usually hide away.

When I pull on my hat and throw my bag over my shoulder, I notice the empty coffee cup I've left on the table. It's not far to the counter, to the gray plastic bin with all the dirty dishes in it. So I pick up my cup with the half-sip lingering at the bottom and take it up there, depositing it in the bin and balancing it on top of a stack of saucers. I wait for a moment, listening across the room for the mother of three to notice and tell her children, "See? That's what Jesus would do."

Ballad of a Hipster

2007-01-19T20:25:00.000-08:00

I wrote this song tonight. The challenge was to start a song with the line "Woke up this morning" because I think everybody should have a song that starts that way. It turned into a sort of self-reflexive/social comment thing. The italicized parts are spoken!

I find that it adds to the humor of the piece.

See?

Ballad of a Hipster

Woke up this morning
feeling like a metropolitan pocket-sized version of me.
Yea I'm such a hipster.
Gonna meet my friends for some hookah and darjeeling tea.

After the shisha
Gonna head downtown to a place where they have some good shows
once in a while
and they're usually indie bands that nobody knows.

But I knew them before they were on the radio.

But after a while
it all feels the same.
A person gets tired
trying to remember all those names.

Can't see through my glasses,
at least not enough to spot all the phonies in here
who enjoy Oprah's Book Club
and offend me by drinking pitchers of domestic beer.

Yea, I prefer imported sake.

It's so hard to smile.
You might think I'm a little mean,
but I'm surrounded
by poseurs and philistines.

And when it's bedtime
I pull my vintage covers up over my head.
The four Ninja Turtles
in ironic nostalgia, crawling all over my bed.

I'm sleeping alone.
It's the price you pay when you're the coolest person you know.
I'm such a martyr.
Yea I hope I die young;
it gets exhausting looking down my nose.

I guess that's why I need glasses...

With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!
With such thick frames!

Workshop it Out

2007-01-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

I'm back in a workshop-style creative writing class. Advanced Creative Writing: Fiction & Poetry. I took Advanced Creative Writing: Poetry as a freshman with this very professor. She's tough as nails, and quite demanding, but I've put out good work under her tutelage so I'm psyched to start another semester with her. There are only seven other people in my class and I always find that smaller groups are more conducive to workshopping.

I'm posting my first workshop poem on here. Over Christmas break this year I spent a lot of days at the mall with my sister--usually I end up at the mall a maximum of four times a year. I think I went to the mall seven times in a matter of two weeks this December.

On one of these trips, I saw an elderly woman fall and hit her head in front of the cosmetics counter. She was with her daughter and her granddaughter. I don't actually know if she died or if she lived, but I wanted to write down what I saw because I can't get the image out of my head.

Christmas Shopping

I watched the old woman fall
against the trampled
marbled department store floor
in front of a dozen make-up artists,
who stirred to life like entranced mannequins.

The fragrance saleswomen rushed at her first,
angels on commission,
through a sinking overpriced haze
of floral spray.
It already smells like a funeral home.

I stood an aisle away
between racks of discounted Christmas sweaters,
the kind I give to my grandma,
who is the same age,
because I can't think of anything better, or maybe
I don’t know her at all.

Her face looks powdery and desolate,
a latex mask with eyes as wide and hollow,
a frozen front-porch grimace,
cracked lips,
parted.

Nobody heard her daughter scream for her
over the Muzak and the hard hurried footsteps
and because everything is unwittingly absorbed
in places like this.

I fear she died instantly upon falling.
That her brittle soul is mistakenly headed
for the garishly bright fluorescent light
of the cosmetics counter.
I want to scream
You're going the wrong way!
You're going the wrong way!

But instead I flee in fear
up the down escalator.

Amuse, O Muse!

2007-01-12T18:30:00.000-08:00

I wrote a new song tonight. I wanted to use the word "saline" in a set of lyrics so I set off for the task by making that word the first line of the song. After that it sort of evolved into a piece about the frustrating failings of memory.

Saline.
How your fingers taste to me
I've tried to re-create.
My senses discern and refuse to wait.

Come clean.
Do your hands ever think of me?
Do they scratch at your bodyand make you feel free?
We're safe behind eyelids,
they're curtains that hide our dreams.

Just like Ulysses I'll block my ears
I want to keep your voice right here
The sirens silenced by the din
of your soft whisper from within.

In my head there's a matinee.
You're on three screens but to my dismay
the film breaks in the projector's haste
and it warps the angles of your face.

Saline.
How your fingers taste to me
I've tried to re-create.
I think I've waited too long.
I think it's getting too late.

Sky High-atus

2006-12-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

I wrote these journal entries during my trip to visit my sister and her betrothed in Cincinnati the week before Christmas. I thought it would be an easy way to work myself back into the habit of posting in this journal regularly. The personal journal entries end abruptly, so don't expect some grand objective/retrospective look at the totality of my stay in Cinci. I actually started writing what I think may be my first novel in the middle of my regular day-to-day journaling.

12/14/06

As I make my descent into Cincinnati's Lunkin Airport from a tiny little prop plane, I'm reminded of why I'm so attracted to the water. From ten thousand feet above land, everything that's paved or settled looks so linear--just a bunch of interlocking pieces of nature, tiny terrariums subdivided and demarcated like dioramas by men. But the bodies of water are different. They are awkward and unruly, curved and seductive, rippling and sparkling circles amidst an otherwise stoic and rectangular landscape of olive drab and brown.

The water appears in different shades, the deeper, the darker; the rougher, the whiter. I'm the only passenger on this plane and I feel like a celebrity. The captain says "ma'am" to me in a slow drawl over the intercom in the cockpit. The flight attendant, Debra, offers me a sundry assortment of food and beverage, but I decline. It's only an hour trip.

I wonder what her story is as I see her black trunk shift under her seat as we make a smooth landing. Stickers from London, Vancouver, and Honolulu grace its weathered skin. She is wearing a white turtleneck and glasses like mine. I imagine that she and the steady, long-legged pilot are lovers.

To save my ears from the uneven pressure in the noisy cabin, I'm chewing a folded-up drinking straw that my friend Cory playfully presented to me two nights ago. I'm fairly positive that I left my pack of chewing gum on the living room floor before I left this morning.

I laugh audibly at a particular house, surrounded by a white picket fence that is clearly askew from up here. I can see all of your imperfections, suburbia. And they are much more calculated and precisely awry from up here. Height--distance--is a truly great objectifyer.

12/15/06

First day in Cincinnati felt a little bit like a homecoming, only the kind of homecoming where it's the people who are familiar while the setting stays foreign. Down here I get overly excited when I see restaurants or stores or streets that I remember from prior visits.

Yesterday we shopped for hours and Natalie spent a record $22.00 at the Dollar Store. We bought some fabulous puzzles, one with a mythical beast fight scene that looks something like this:

[WILL TRY TO SCAN DIAGRAM SOON!]

Unfortunately, this gift is being forfeited to the family "Yankee Swap." I'll have to beat up my kin for it, I suppose. [Update: My cousin Derek has since won the puzzle. We all assembled it on Christmas day and I will add a picture of us with it. It's fab] Anyway, we assembled a 100 piece winter-scape puzzle and started a tragically obnoxious train puzzle (500 pieces and just as many similar shades of green to contend with!) We drank champagne (good stuff, from Michigan I reckon) and then went with Seth to eat Mediterranean at a swanky place called Andy's. Delicious, delicious! We destroyed a sampler platter filled with tabouli, hummus, baba, and ludmeh (?) (I'm also definitely destroying the spelling of these names, I'm sure.) I ordered fattoush, and it was the best I've ever had in my life (don't tell the Vajskops!)

After dinner was the Over the Rhine Christmas Concert with friends Christie and David--charming folks. Christie is a truly earnest and friendly girl in an adorable tweed cap, boyfriend David snaps unlimited candid photos on his miniscule digital camera. He wears a corduroy vest that's a size too small over a boyish striped rugby.

Just passed a place called "Unicorn Miniatures!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Must go tomorrow!

?/12/06 I don't know the date

Today saw bumper sticker: "Your child is a Honor Student, Mine is a Marine." Get it? "A" Honor Student? How about "An" Honor Student? Sounds like that Marine's parents are on board the Ship of Fools.

I can't concentrate on anything in this coffee shop. There are two college-age kids in jeans and button-down shirts, with hip haircuts, who sat down and immediately began talking "business" which apparently translates to pretentious dissertation of the latest James Bond movie.

Now they're debating which Bond girl is the hottest. They're actually quite eloquent. I like the curly-haired one's Pumas.

This place is charming, but not too charming.

Now they're discussing the finer points of the VHS-DVD conflict. Part of me wants to jump in and say something clever about how the gentle hum of the spinning heads of a VCR help soothe me to sleep. I'll win them over, they'll ask me to co me out with them tonight for an art film and a beer, and then I'll decline and let them in on my "out-of-towner" secret.

The folks at this place roast their own coffee daily and it's very rich and bold, but never burnt. Today I'm drinking Guatemalan. I'm allowed one free refill. I'm a sucker not to take it.

Everyone who works here is hip--pierced, tattooed, vintage. The clientele doesn't seem to mind with their bifocals and their sweater vests and moth-eaten age. I think there's an English professor one table beyond the film geeks. He's wearing denim, clicking away diligently on his slim Sony laptop, glancing occasionally over his cluttered array of textbooks, one of which is the "Best American Essays of 2004." I imagine that he is a creative writing professor and that no one in his class gets anything higher than a "B+." He's saving his "A's" for the next O. Henry or O'Connor. I should pass this journal to him so he could...(insert self-deprecating comment here.) =) [Edit: That smiley face is upright in my journal.]

P.S. The Mocha Java is great!

On the next page, I began writing my novel.

Pointy Bangs

2006-12-06T18:11:00.000-08:00

I've been studying pictures of TomKat's Baby Suri for a few weeks now, and I finally realize what it is that's freaking me out about the thing. She looks like a miniature Liza Minelli. Don't question me on this one. Just check out the evidence:

That is all....Jazz hands!

A Seasonal Mix

2006-10-31T19:06:00.000-08:00

I'm one song away from completing this year's Fall Mix CD. I'm putting a draft of it up here, and I'll add my "liner notes" later on. You'll notice a severe lack of female representation on this one. Originally, I had some tracks from Joni Mitchell, Loretta Lynn, and the Indigo Girls on here. Unfortunately, they got crossed off (and so did a large number of perfectly qualified men.)

Right now I should be writing my Odyssey paper. I'll do it after this, I swear.

The final track is a song called "Saffron" by a local band (made up of some mates of mine) named Return of Simple. They play piano-driven pop/rock with really smart, introspective lyrics. I don't yet have their new album, but I'm seeing them play at Wilbert's downtown, so I'll pick up a copy there.

Here's the list:

1. Beck--Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes (from the Eternal Sunshine soundtrack. This movie, and this song always remind me of the fall.)

2. Cat Stevens--The Wind.

3. The Raconteurs--Steady as She Goes (acoustic version.) I know it's a pretty well-known pop song, but it felt good here and I like the unplugged version very much.

4. The Shins--Gone for Good. Again, another fairly well-known tune, but I dig it. It's a song about a transitional time and there's really nothing quite as transitional as the fall.

5. Simon & Garfunkel--Old Friends. I wanted an S&G song and it took me forever to decide which one was the most appropriate. Again here, I've included a song that lyrically speaks to the theme of change.

6. Sufjan Stevens--Romulus.

7. Iain Archer--Canal Song (End of Sentence).

8. The Decemberists--My Mother Was a Chinese Trapeze Artist. I may still strike this.

9. The Walkmen--Another One Goes By.

10. Billy Bragg & Wilco--Remember the Mountain Bed.

11. The Long Winters--Ultimatum.

12. Bob Dylan--I Want You.

13. Elliot Smith--Needle in the Hay.

14. Jolie Holland--Ghost Waltz. The only girl!

15. Ryan Adams--My Winding Wheel.

16. Iron & Wine--Naked as We Came.

17. Wilco--Say You Miss Me.

I think I just realized that Wilco is my favorite band. I was never able to answer that question before. My favorite solo artist has been Ellis Paul for the past five years or so. But I've always answered "early Police" when people asked me my favorite band.

My favorite band is Wilco. Just FYI.

The Cake Mistake

2006-10-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

Last night after a family friend's wedding, my mother told me of a ridiculously silly old wedding superstition that she learned in her youth.

When the wedding cake is cut and passed out in a wrapper or napkin for guests to take home, you're supposed to put your piece of wrapped cake under your pillow. Then, whoever you dream of in the middle of the night is allegedly the man who you're supposed to marry.

I did this, mostly as an experiment in absurdity.

I remembered my dream this morning. I had a foggy/unclear dream mainly involving one of my best guy friends. He's gay.

This is just like Prom.

Books Are [In] My Bag

2006-10-15T14:38:00.000-07:00

Today I visited Berea Library's "Friends of the Library" book sale. It was one of those rare dealies where they hand you a paper grocery bag upon entry and whatever you can fit in it, you get to take home for a mere dollar.

Days like these remind me why I should probably try to stay alive.

I thought I'd create a post detailing the many gems that I snatched up today. The sale seemed pretty picked-over, but I was able to procure a great deal of decent (and some indecent) literature. I also found a few prize CDs. Here's the grand list:

1) Dante's The Divine Comedy. A paperback prose translation by H.R. Huse, Copyright 1954. I have a copy of this'n already, but I really liked the annotations in this one. It has a lot of personality and really sweet cover art. Pitchforks a-plenty!

2) Maurice Sendak's Higglety-Pigglety Pop! or There Must Be More to Life, Paperback Copyright 1967. In this "children's" book, the hero of the story, a mutt named Jennie, renounces her possessions and goes on a journey to discover the meaning of life. Heavy, man.

3) Bob Colacello's Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up, Hardcover Copyright 1990. This actually doesn't look that great, but having a Warhol book on my shelf couldn't hurt.

4) Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s God bless you, Mr. Rosewater, Paperback Copyright 1965. I haven't read this and I'm genuinely excited about doing so.

5) Anne M. Raso's New Kids on the Block, Paperback Copyright 1989. Yea, it's an NKOTB classic with "fabulous photos inside" AKA pop trash!

6) Frank S. Caprio M.D.'s The Sexually Adequate Male, Paperback Copyright 1952. It's got case histories about impotence! Sold!

7) A gift for James. Secrets!

8) David C. Cooke's Better Bowling For Boys, Hardcover Copyright 1963. This book was owned by someone named "Nikki" who wrote his/her name on the inside cover. I always thought Nikki was a girl's name. This made it okay for me to buy a book explicitly targeted toward boys.

9) Jeremy Daldry's The Teenage Guy's Survival Guide: the real deal on girls, growing up, and other guy stuff, Paperback Copyright 1999. The irony of books with titles like these is that if you're a guy and you're caught reading them, it's probably less likely that you're going to survive a severe ass-kicking. This fascinates me so I grabbed it. My favorite section of the book is in chapter two (Surviving All the Changes in Your Body.) It's called "Plumbing (Masturbation, Wet Dreams)" and it's just after "Greasy Hair" and "Being Stinky." Awesome.

10) Munro Leaf's El Cuento de Ferdinando, Hardcover Copyright 1962. The original English translation of this children's book is Ferdinand the Bull. It's one of my dad's favorite stories, so now I can torment him by dangling a version that he can't understand in front of his face.

11) Ben Franklin's Wit & Wisdom, Hardcover Copyright ? This book is lame. It's basically a collection of witticisms from the Poor Richard's Almanack. I like Ben Franklin so I picked it up. Whatever.

12) John Osborne's Look Back in Anger Paperback Copyright 1974. One of only two plays that I got. I've never read this one and I should.

13) Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman Hardcover Copyright 1949. My favorite play! I was lucky to find it because it was mistakenly categorized as "Horror and Science Fiction." Ha.

14) The Pocket Book of O. Henry Stories Paperpack Copyright 1948. I haven't read O. Henry in a long time. I used to really admire him. Now I can revisit whenever I want to.

15) The Jesus And Mary Chain Hate Rock 'N' Roll (1995.) A CD.

16) Spike Jonze's Adaptation (2003.) VHS. Every time I go to a library sale or to Blockbuster, there's a dirt-cheap copy of this movie. I even saw a bunch of them at Marc's one day. I'm taking this as a sign. I really liked Adaptation and it was free today so I might as well own it.

17) J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey Paperback Copyright 1961. This was the prize of the afternoon. I am happy and incredibly psyched to read this one.

18) John Beecroft's Kipling: A Selection of His Stories and Poems Vol II Hardcover Copyright 1956. I always liked Kipling.

19) William Faulkner's The Faulkner Reader Hardcover Copyright 1954. He writes his own foreword in this sucka'.

20) Darby Conley's The Get Fuzzy Experience Paperback Copyright 2003. I can't believe this didn't sell before I got to it. What a score! Get Fuzzy is fantastic.

21) Grace Catalano's New Kids on the Block Paperback Copyright 1989. Ideally, I would have found two NKOTB books from different stages in their career. Oh well. You work with what you've got.

22) Sol Gordon Ph.D.'s How Can You Tell If You're Really In Love? Paperback Copyright 2001. This book looks as though it was never opened and it still has a Borders price tag on the back. This is the same author who wrote the book Why Love is not Enough.

23) Denise Johnston (ed)'s Cats, Cats, Cats--I Love Them All Paperback Copyright 1987. This is a sort of animal rights book, but the title just kills me. Don't kill the cats though,or Denise Johnston will find you and own your face.

24) Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn Hardcover Copyright 1943. Good times.

25) Moulin Rouge OST (2001). A CD. I like the soundtrack better than the movie.

26) Shawn Colvin's Whole New You (2001). A CD. Go, Shawn Colvin. I'm a folk nerd.

27) Cornershop's When I Was Born For the 7th Time (1997). CD. Track 2 = Brimful of Asha. Oh yea.

28) PUSA's Self-Titled Album (1995). I lost my copy of this years ago. Everyone had this sucka back in the day. Now I've got it again, and it's just about as scratched up as my original copy would be by this time.

29) Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, April 2000. This is really lame. I just picked it up because it was on a "free"table and it's almost Halloween so I guess I have a sweeter spot for Hitchcock these days.

I also got five free vinyl records and I made friends with two gentlemen in the record room. We exchanged trivia about the Captain & Tenille. It was swell.

Enough literature. I'm going to study math now. Eesh.

A light is waiting

2006-10-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

I realized today that Full House is absolute crap.

It's not even bad enough to be good. What was I thinking?

This is possibly one of the worst sitcoms ever created.

I can't say much more right now. I'll come back with some worthwhile analysis later on. But for now, this revelation alone is blogworthy.

Strangers in the Stacks

2006-10-05T14:18:00.000-07:00

I have a collector's nature. I keep things in plastic, I leave tags on, I save heaps of ticket stubs and theater programs, I have four closets, etc. I also revisit things. There are some books I've read at least five times, and some movies I've seen at least forty.

I also have this thing where I collect people. This man I met at a pet store when I was twelve, a girl named Amy who indexed her poems as she wrote them in the back of a lined leatherbound notebook every Thursday at Arabica in Pleasant Valley. Mark, a stocky kid with thick glasses who was hypnotized at an orientation program my freshman year and who I've been secretly observing ever since.

And today I thought of a gentleman I met at the Brecksville Library in the middle of the summer, one night after work whilst I was picking up a few essentials. Here is a transcript from my other blog giving a detail of what occurred:

I was browsing through the movies, just looking for some new films to watch because I realized I was going to have more time at home this weekend and I always like to be well-versed when it comes to cinema. I picked up a few movies and went to stand in line at the check-out. There was some sort of altercation. A woman and her two girls were having a battle of wits over whether or not their copy of "Madeline" was in fact overdue, since they had allegedly just turned it in tonight. They were arguing for a good two minutes when I started to get antsy. Now normally, I'm such an impatient person that I wouldn't hesitate to just reshelve the movies and come back another time but just as my weight began to shift away from the counter, a voice distracted me from my nervousness. "I'm sorry but I can't help noticing--are those shoes in reference to the film, "Me and you..." "Me and You and Everyone We Know? Yes they are!" I interrupted him excitedly, pleased to death that somebody had actually picked up on my reference. See, several years ago at Marc's I found a pair of flat-soled brown corduroy tennis shoes for a few dollars. I bought them, wore them a few times, but then inevitably another pair of hot new tennis shoes took their place and my brown cords got stuffed in the back of the closet. This year, however, I began wearing these shoes religiously. My wardrobe has grown to be overwhelmingly brown so they're practically essential these days. In the movie, "Me and You and Everyone We Know," the main character is a kind of performance artist. She's an intense romantic, almost to a fault. When a charming and mysterious department store shoe salesman encourages her to buy a pair of pink flats, she does, and creates a moving artwork by writing "Me" on one shoe and "You" on the other and then films her feet from above, gently caressing each other. It really is a beautiful moment in a cleverly-crafted film. So I expressed my excitement to this strange man with the well-kept gray hair, thinning, but appearing to be quite soft and smooth. It had the appearance of being pressed flat and then shaken out, which made sense to me after I noticed the shiny, sleek motorcycle helmet nestled under his left arm. In his right hand, he held a copy of the Robert Duvall film "The Apostle." I mentioned that it was an interesting choice and he explained to me that it was a revisit because he had recommended it to a friend and remembered how great it was. I thought I was the only person to frequent the library and check out films that I've already seen multiple times. We chatted. We chatted about "Me and You and Everyone We Know" and about how we weren't sure what to think of the girl for being so brazen with a man whom she just met. (Metafiction?) He smiled endlessly. His round wire-rimmed glasses caught the light so I couldn't look into his eyes the whole time. Then I finally got called up to the counter, checked out my three movies, and left. I turned around and said "bye." And then passed through the Stanley Power Assist doors into the parking lot. His bike was parked right outside to the left in the closest spot to the door. On the way out of the parking lot I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw him leave the library, looking left and right--I assume for me. I kept waiting for him to come up behind my car driving up 21. I turned before he could catch up to me and I lost him.
Today in my Religion & Film class, we discussed "The Apostle," which was the film that this strange man was checking out of the library the night we met (and the night we parted.) It's so strange that I still feel a connection to him so many months later. I was familiar with "The Apostle" before seeing it in class and before I met my stranger. Still, I wonder how much longer I'll think of that gentleman's face whenever I see "The Apostle" on a shelf at the video store or at the library, or even whenever I see Robert Duvall.

Because, you know, I see Robert Duvall a lot. That dude is everywhere.

You're my Rushmore.

2006-09-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

Upon the invocation of the t-shirt muse, I created a new piece of art yesterday with a $1.39 Jerzees cotton tee and a black Sharpie. I don't have much time to write about this'n because I have a paper to write which is exponentially more important than this, but I thought I'd post anyway.

Why, yes! It's Jason Schwartzman as Max Fischer in Wes Anderson's brilliant comedy, "Rushmore!" Thanks for knowing! Go, Yankee Racers.

A simple stencil-style design traced (I don't usually trace but I had the luxury of being able to do so since it's a thinner/lighter fabric) with a black Sharpie.

"The secret, I don't know... I guess you've just gotta find something you love to do and then... do it for the rest of your life. For me, it's going to Rushmore."

Here I mimicked Wes Anderson's handwriting to capture the youthful precociousness of Max. I wanted something that looked somewhat childish to make a striking contrast with the actual phrase.

Alright. Off to write about the Iliad. Wish me luck, lovers!

You been out ridin'....bicycles.

2006-09-08T18:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a wee little girl, I was very close with the four boys next door. We would play together almost every day and during the summer we spend hours riding our bikes up and down their long driveway, playing "garage" and "drive thru" and other such games. Anyway, one afternoon their father unveiled to them the bike that he rode before he got his first car. It was a 1982 Huffy Desperado, tan with a dark brown banana seat painted with an orange and yellow desert landscape. The handlebars curved and tilted back so when you leaned all your weight against the back of the seat, it felt like you were riding on a chopper.

Soon after the boys received this bike, its novelty wore off. They were distracted by cooler, newer models and Desperado started gathering dust and rust in the back of their barn. It stayed there until a fateful garage sale one summer day when I was in my third year of high school. I saw Desperado, marked with a price of five dollars, and vowed to save him from his life of celibacy. I took him home and gave him new tires. I oiled the chain, I put new bolts in the bar holding the seat in place, I took steel wool to the chrome and rubbed all of the rust away. I weather-treated every inch of Desperado. When I was done, the bike looked quasi-new. It looked so good, in fact, that the boys next door found a renewed interest in Old Desperado and soon I found that they had taken him from my back porch and had begun to ride him again. I was proud that I had made Desperado desirable once again, so I hardly protested.

It wasn't until this summer that I was reminded of Desperado when I began to take leisurely bike rides around the park. It would be nice to have a bike at school but I wouldn't want to bring my good bike there. It's cumbersome and worth too much money to just leaved chained in the basement of my building. Besides--most of my walking is confined to a very small area. A bike isn't completely necessary--it would just be fun. And then I thought, "what's more fun than Desperado?"

And so, dear friends, yesterday I ventured to my neighbor's house and spoke with one of the twins who is quite savvy with mechanical things. I asked if he remembered Desperado, and slowly, he recalled the splendor of this rusty relic. We ventured to the attic of the barn and found Desperado, now looking like Frankenbike, with the seat of another bicycle transfixed where the banana seat used to rest, and with a few of the wrong parts attached to his handlebars. After a good hour of labor, however, Desperado was back in business, and I pedaled him up to my car (with a bit of a running start actually--without the gears and all, it's hard to get going on that little cuss.)

Today for the first time I rode a bicycle to class. He waited loyally outside for me whilst I engaged myself in lectures on philosophy and world literature. And then we went for a jaunt around Coe Lake and through downtown Berea. My friends all seem to "get" Desperado. They appreciate him for his kitsch and for his good rattly nature. But I think other students at my school are still skeptical. I watched as one young man chained his mountain bike next to mine on the rack outside of Marting Hall. He looked quite perplexed, indeed.

I may need to get a helmet. Desperado's tires rattle a little bit because they have these weird plastic mudflap things over them and they shift when I go over bumps. Today I almost faceplanted in front of a construction worker sitting outside of Pizza King. I think I might want to get a Vespa helmet and some oversized goggles so I can look even more alien to today's modern college students. Actually, I think the next step is designing a new picture for Desperado's long and lean banana seat (which I'm confident can fit at least two people, provided their legs are short like mine.) At first I thought that a photograph of Kenny Rogers would be delightful, but now I'm considering that Hank Williams might be a little more badass.

With or without the handsome mug of an outlaw country singer gracing his seat, Desperado is my little buddy and I look forward to riding him off into many more sunsets this schoolyear.

I am the Charter!

2006-09-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

The Maelstrom is making great strides this year and the community of Baldwin-Wallace College would be wise to don their water wings, lest they drown in our massive and beastly wake.

Five years ago, a humble little group of hyperintelligent and progressive students at Baldwin-Wallace got together and felt dissatisfied with the available campus media. Back then, we were a one-paper college. We had the Exponent, a by-the-book campus newspaper with little to say. The Exponent was bad back then. It's changed since, but more about this later.

So these like-minded kids decided that it would be cool to start an underground newspaper. And just like that, it happened. Using only Microsoft Word and some pilfered office supplies, a renegade group of would-be journalists began to serve up a subversive and satirical bi-weekly magazine that kept students laughing and thinking in ways that no other campus newspaper had. This was a different sort of magazine. It was edgy but it hated being called edgy. It was different but it prided itself on uniting all of the college's bizarre subcultures.

When I was a freshman, I joined up with the Maelstrom. After nervously submitting two writing samples to the editor-in-chief, I was embraced as the youngest staff writer in their history (brief as that history was, I was proud of this feat.) My first story made it onto the front page of the year's debut issue. Ever since, I've been devoted to this publication.

Last year as a sophomore I stepped up as co-editor-in-chief with a very capable partner. I didn't want to see this thing die but it was clear that the dynamics would soon be changing drastically. Four of our strongest staff writers were seniors and they were all set to graduate. And without funding, the only way to recruit new writers would be to beg around campus. It slowly became apparent that we might need to reconsider our place on campus. Can the underground sustain us forever? Will we have to sell out? Will our demographics change? Do any of us know how to manage a budget?

For the Maelstrom to live, we need to become legitimate. And so, today I say with no hesitation, that the Maelstrom is now an official club at Baldwin-Wallace College. I'm proud of this. I'm proud because I was able to sustain something that was created by people who came before me and now it has a chance of becoming a legacy. Even after I graduate, the Maelstrom will rave on if all goes well.

I hung my first club poster in the student Union yesterday with a fellow Maelstromite. He's my friend. Everyone who writes for Maelstrom is my friend. Everyone who reads Maelstrom is my friend.

I'm not afraid of being a sell-out anymore. It's more important to me that as many people as possible are able to get in touch with the Maelstrom and become a part of it. Our ideals aren't changing. We're still a little elitist. We're still going to be irreverent. We're still going to print really offensive advice columns and declare "victory in Iraq!" on April Fool's Day. That's who we are.

I think as an officially sanctioned club we get to nominate people from our group for homecoming court. So the minute I get to ride around downtown Berea in a tiara on the back of a float, you can talk to me about selling out. Until then, I have new business to attend to.

The Wayward Spiral

2006-08-31T17:03:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up and felt like something was missing. I feel like this a lot of mornings upon waking, but usually it's just one of those "who am I and where do I belong" type conundrums that I forget about by lunchtime. Today there was something actual and concrete missing from my world and I couldn't figure out what it was.

I took my shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed. When I walked into my living room I noticed that I had left my hummus out on the coffee table overnight. So that must be it. I must have been feeling lost because I knew I had forgotten to do something semi-important the night before. It's the funniest thing too, because I can't tell for the life of me if the hummus went bad. It's got an overpowering smell to begin with so it's not like it suddenly smells rank like sour milk or something.

Anyway, I forgot about my emptiness for a while after I replaced the hummus in the fridge. Note to self: don't let any of your guests eat that hummus.

Then I packed up my books for class. Women's lit. Religion & film. Respective notebooks. Respective folders. Day planner. Journal. Journal. Journal? Bueller?

It was nowhere to be found. Not in desk drawers, not in closets, not under chairs or in my laundry basket. Not in the fridge with the spoiled (?) hummus. It was just simply gone. I didn't have time to look for too much longer so I began to walk nervously to class, feeling strangely like I wasn't wearing trousers or like I was sleepwalking the night before and unconsciously plucked off one of my eyebrows.

Now, reader, you must understand the importance of this, the mysterious disappearing notebook which eluded me so cunningly and cruelly this morning. I carry this notebook with me everywhere. I fill at least a page every day with some of my most vulnerable thoughts and musings. I've got song lyrics in it, poetry, hypothetical conversations between myself and people I love, even a really embarrassing sharpie cartoon drawing of Weezer.

What if someone finds it? I can't even imagine. I don't have my name in it. The closest ID stamp within the pages is a cartoon self-portrait that only vaguely resembles me. If someone were to find this notebook, he or she would have a field day leafing through pages and pages of my existence. He could steal all my good ideas and chastise the bad ones. He could read the most unfinished and sophomoric passages aloud to members of the English department.

The English department. Located in Marting Hall. I was in Marting Hall when I realized that literally every one of my classes this semester is in Marting Hall (the philosophy and religion departments are located here as well.) There was still an off chance that my spiral notebook could have found its way to one of the tables in the Union or the Cyber Cafe (where there are FOOTBALL PLAYERS! Eeesh!) but I've only eaten there three or four times this semester. It had to be in Marting.

Frantically, I ran up to Barb in the English office. Barb is one of those all-knowing secretaries that every institution seems to have one of. She's Superwoman. She's untouchable. She's probably got a third eye or something. Anyway, I talked to her and she showed me that the only item in the English "lost and found" was a yellow folder. But she told me to go upstairs and check the Religion office.

I've never run up that third flight of stairs faster in my life. And this is saying a lot because that third flight is a killer. The stairs in Marting are insanely steep because the engineers of this building all those decades ago must have thought that they needed to conserve space. Or maybe it was designed for the pygmy literati.

Anyway, I made it up the stairs and as soon as the secretary in the Religion Office put the defibrillator paddles back in her desk, I resumed normal breathing and from my reclined position on the floor I noticed, in a small printer paper box top under a table to my left...

my spiral notebook.

It's okay.

It's going to be okay.

I'm gonna go buy one of those child leashes now. Later.

Dig the New Digs...

2006-08-28T07:48:00.000-07:00

Here is a shot of the essence of the apartment. See how worldly we are? We're rocking an Indian throw over our decrepit recliner, a wooden Japanese sake set, a Costa Rican tablecloth (I think it's South American anyway), and out of this picture is some Chinese art that we've yet to hang. We also have a French painting which will also grace the wall somewhere.

Below is a view of John looking disapprovingly at my antique sake set.

Another view of the apartment at large...

My bed. I read and write and sleep here.

We have so many appliances. All of them are essential. Well, maybe not the ice shaver..,

Here is a shot of the kitchen, where we've got a huge fridge, a small (but mighty) stove, and much storage space.

My desk, tucked away behind a bureau. I like being hidden whilst I work.

So that's that. Come and visit sometime.

In the van, with my friend

2006-08-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

You never told me you were leaving
So I never thought to cry.
The concept of distance is deceiving
people grow closer
but that's not you and I.

Everybody says I'd love Chicago.
Maybe that's why I'm afraid to go.
I'd rather drown here in the wake you left behind,
wondering if it's better not to know.

You've got your own skyscrapers now.
I hope you never take your head out of the clouds.
I always knew you'd take off and fly
but not without saying goodbye.

It's pretty cold back here in Cleveland.
I turned my collar up today.
I passed three places where we might have stopped for coffee
back when our words still knew just how to melt the ice away.

If you happen to get carried away
by Chicago winds while you're walking down the street one day,
just think of me and I'm sure you'll be astounded
by how the ones you left behind can keep you grounded.

You've got your own skyscrapers now
I hope you never take your head out of the clouds.
I always knew you'd take off and fly
but not without saying goodbye.

This is another jealous song
But it's too late now because you're long gone.
You're bigger than this town could be
but are you so much better than me?

Are you so much better than me?
Is there something there that I can't see?

I don't know where that song came from but I really like it.

Marissa V 2.0

2006-08-16T16:12:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to dye my hair purple. I can say it's about the money but it's not. I have a friend who owns a hair salon who would most likely hook me up so that money shouldn't be too much of an issue. It's not because I'm not sure about the right color. They know their colors and they know what's going to look good on me and what isn't.

This whole thing comes down to cowardice. My fear looks funny in writing. I'm an eccentric person. I do weird things. People know this about me. A lot of people relate to me because I'm different. So why not look a little more unconventional on the outside? What difference will it make?

Why do I have such an irrational fear of being poor? I have plenty of money. Why do I suffer and moan through the afternoon without eating lunch? Why not just take a single bill out of my fattened wallet and cross the street to buy something off of the McDonald's dollar menu? Why am I afraid to eat McDonald's?

Lately I've felt like there's another person inside of me pestering my comfortable shell and making me question the way I live my life. I know that if I let that person be free I could do so many wonderful things. I might buy a truck with the money that I've been saving since I was six. I'd spend my afternoons driving around trying to find a job that would make me happy. Or maybe I wouldn't work. But I'd definitely drive. I'd jump in my car and take epic road trips across the country.

I'd drink and I'd stay out late. I'd learn, but I'd do so on my own terms. I wouldn't turn down my music at stop lights and I'd shop at actual stores---not thrift shops and markdown places. I'd make a movie--a feature length movie, and I'd make it with equipment that I bought. Top-of-the-line equipment. I'd be a Mac girl.

I'd stop being afraid of dancing. I'd learn how to swing dance and I'd get really good at it.

Maybe I would give comedy another shot. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to really invest myself in improv. I used to love it and be good at it. Confidence would never be a problem if I were the new me. Everything would roll off of my shoulders. And I'd stop worrying about impressing people. The new me would be impressive enough.

I wouldn't be afraid to throw stuff away. I don't know why I feel the need to collect, to capture and store and hoard memories. It's all just clutter. The new me would understand that and say goodbye to the extraneous.

I didn't wear socks today. I think maybe I wanted it to be easier for other versions of myself to slip out from under my feet like ringworms and take hold of my ankles, dragging and pushing me in new and exciting directions.

That's a ridiculous image, but the new me wouldn't care what you think of it.

If you give a girl a sharpie...

2006-08-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

A new nerdy t-shirt, designed by me.

This time, I actually needed to use a ruler for some of the design. But it was drawn, not traced, since tracing was impossible with this thick dark fabric.

The "A" in the logo was the hardest part. Once I got that down, I knew the rest would be easier. The "n" in "Splendor" also proved to be quite difficult, especially on the ribbed material I was working with.

I copied the back design from a cell of an actual "American Splendor" comic. It's actually one of my favorites, even though the artwork isn't necessarily the best. I tried to copy the image exactly but it's tough to do. I take solace in the fact that everybody draws Harvey differently anyway.

There's our girl, sporting her latest creation. She made it in the driveway, stretching the shirt over a big piece of cardboard. She finished just as the sun was starting to set.

And there's a nice little back view. The real splendor in this picture is that fine geek physique.

Below is a gift for a good friend of mine who really digs the movie "Sideways." No ruler was used. All the letters were drawn by hand with two Sharpies.

The front design was copied from my DVD.

Anyway, those are my latest. I'm getting pretty good at it so I think I might start taking requests. My next big project is a shot of Joel and Clem from "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I'm going to use the aerial shot of them on the ice. They'll be in the lower corner of a powder-blue t-shirt and the cracks will spread all the way up to where a pocket would be.

Before I get to that though, I might try practicing some other simpler stuff.

Goin' Cohen

2006-08-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight I finally got to see the film "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man" at the Cedar Lee Theatre. It's a fantastic tribute to one of the greatest and most underappreciated songwriters of our time. I was particularly moved by his humility, his self-deprecating tendencies, his denial of what others call his genius. His lyrics are so poetic. I'm so glad that a few of the better musicians of my generation have picked up his songbook and continued to breathe life into it because his words really are timeless. This can be a good thing when he writes about the beauty of love, or it can be disheartening and painfully real when he writes about the torture and agony of war.

Anyway, I wrote a song tonight. I almost feel ridiculous putting it after a post about how wonderful Leonard Cohen is at writing songs. I just wanted to mention that I saw the movie and this is what follows that thought I suppose. It's no Cohen. But it's the best I can do for now. The other night I had a conversation with someone about having trouble seeing myself from the outside. I realize that this is becoming more of a problem as I get closer to "freedom" from my childhood home--as I get closer to my diploma, to my possible career, etc. So I wrote this song as a conversation with myself. I tried to open up a dialogue from me to me. It's also a bit of a thank-you note to the person whose actual conversation inspired it. I don't know how much I'm going to be able to learn from this song, but it felt good to write it. I guess a lot of my songs are like those letters that you write but never send.

I was startled by your honesty
"I'm lost," you said and I could see
the mounting fear,
a cavalier deterred.

You're the center of your universe
you said to me and so I'll sing it in the verse
so when you hear it from my lips instead
you'll swallow every word.

Because
You're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

You know I've got tea and sympathy
But as long as you've got time to drink with me
Then you've got time to think about
who you want to be.

This place you're in is dark and cold
You've told me shakily it's getting old
You're bottled so you might explode
Please, take it from me.

That
you're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

For all your existential turmoil
there's somebody who can see
stones you never could have overturned alone
and that person could be me.

You're better than what's got the best of you.
You're smarter than the test you're going through.
Go out and get the debt that's owed to you.

Another note:
Parents who buy vehicles with televisions in the headrests do such a disservice to their children. Instead of having another extraneous flat screen tv, these kids should instead be spoiled with the rich American landscape. They should count cows and license plates from different states. They should wave at proud cities as they pass through in wonderment of what is new and excitingly unfamiliar. Instead they sit dumb in front of a tiny consolation prize with unnatural color and stereo sound. Will these kids ever be impressed by the dangerous grace and balance of a towering skyscraper? Will they feel humble in the vastness of an open yellow plain? Landscapes will not exist for them! All they will know is the falseness that is projected twelve inches in front of their vulnerable, ignorant faces.

Eschew! Bless You! (Allergic to Flowers)

2006-08-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

Most girls are happy to get flowers from their boyfriends. In fact, from my observations over my years as a single woman, I've noticed that this is all that some ladies hope for from their significant others at any given time. I've actually heard things like this:

"He didn't have to take me out for our anniversary, but it would have been nice to get flowers."

"He didn't get me flowers for Valentine's Day. Isn't your boyfriend supposed to get you flowers on Valentine's Day?"

"I told him that flowers were a waste of money but that doesn't necessarily mean that I don't want them."

I'm usually of the mentality that flowers are nice every now and then but overall I think the idea of giving flowers is a fairly unoriginal cop-out. I've seen so many girls walking around with bouquets on their birthdays, on anniversaries, and on that most horrid of all the questionably fabricated holidays, Valentine's Day. And every time I see one of them, beaming ignorantly with that stupid glazed-over baby rabbit look on her pretty little face, I can't help feeling a little bit sorry.

These are girls whose boyfriends are doltish clones. Sure, they should get points for remembering, say, three semi-important (depending on your opinion) days of the year. But flowers? That's a little textbook for my taste. None of these guys would have the brains or the courage to get their girl something different.

I don't usually get flowers from my boyfriends. And the only boyfriend I had who ever got me flowers did so on creative days for interesting reasons. Example: once I was stage managing a play and he sent me a bouquet on opening night. Quite thoughtful. This is the same boyfriend I stayed with for an extra few weeks after he bought me a copy of "Synchronicity" on vinyl, because I thought a gift like that should definitely warrant a second chance.

Another fellow I dated bought me an original print of a poster for a movie about Santa Claus fighting the devil, made in the early '60s. It's incredibly rare (the film and the poster.) He still won't tell me where he got it. This was one of my birthday gifts from him. There's nothing floral about it. I love it.

I think the reason that my relationships have been flowerless is because of my bashing of the flower right from the start. When I'm being courted, I tend to verbalize my dislike for the flower for two basic reasons:

a) the guy will think I am low-maintenance, and thus, better girlfriend material.

b) the guy will think I am practical (flowers die!), and thus, better girlfriend material.

b) the guy will think I am unconventional and unique, and if he appreciates this, he is better boyfriend material.

Of course, after I finally snag the guy, I do go through times when I think, "Why would I do that? Flowers are nice. I wouldn't necessarily mind getting flowers from this fellow." And then there's the danger of ending up with a guy who is cheap and is merely dating me because he doesn't have to spend money on frivolous presents. Mostly though, I find that the man I'm with takes on the challenge of finding unusual presents for me with great fervor and tenacity.

This weekend my lover surprised me with what is probably the coolest present that he could have found for me. It's an Enid doll. One of my favorite books is the Daniel Clowes graphic novel, "Ghost World," and Enid is one of the two main characters in this novel. In 2003, Clowes designed an Enid doll and marketed it ironically as a "Hi-Fashion Glamour Doll." And now I have one. It's positively delightful.

Earlier in our courtship he thrilled me with two thrift-store records: Shaun Cassidy's Born Late, and Tom Jones's The Fever Zone. (Oddly enough, I already had the first of the two titles in my collection but we can't fault him for that--it's really absurd that I owned that record in the first place.)

This is the kind of stuff that I'm used to. That may make me sound like I'm hard to please, which is not the case at all. I really am low-maintenance. I don't like asking for anything. And usually it's because I don't want anything. I don't like to be spoiled at all and most of the time I'm perfectly happy with an extra phone call or e-mail or maybe a letter. I'm a better giver than a receiver. But I do immensely appreciate the extra effort that my fellow goes to in order to insure my happiness.

He doesn't need to wear himself out buying such weird gifts though. I kind of like lilies.

Playing the Odds

2006-08-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to try to write a song every night. That way, even if only one out of every five isn't a sappy love song, then I'll have one decent song every week. I can deal with that.

Last night I re-wrote "Enid," a song that I based on the character of the same name from Daniel Clowes' graphic novel, "Ghost World." I'm really happy with the product. It has a pretty strong melody and a decent-sounding chorus. I've known for a while that I needed to write a song about Enid but my original version was really wordy and didn't feel right. I didn't capture enough apathy in it and even the tune wasn't appropriate. Here is the new version. If I think of it later I'll post the old one--I don't have my other journal with me so I don't have the lyrics to copy.

Enid

My name is Enid.
How perfect is that?
I live in a town with some lawns
and some strip malls.

Biding my time
a bottle of hair dye
a record that spins me a lifetime
until fall.

Am I really moving?
I can't tell.
Put something soothing
on the record player.

It's hot outside,
we follow the weirdos.
We call them our people
but she doesn't seem to believe.

So maybe I'll leave
on a bus and I won't say goodbye.
I'll meet some new strangers.
Hey that's some kind of reprieve.

Am I really moving?
I can't tell.
Put something soothing
on the record player.

Is this really living?
It's just as well
with nothing to offer
but the shell
of some other ghost
inside of me.

There's a ghost inside of me
There's a ghost inside of me
There's a ghost inside of me
and her name is Enid.

Sassy Arse

2006-08-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Most of the time when I see this I take it as a warning.

The pants say, "This ass is juicy. You'd better stand back." I often follow young girls with printed posteriors the way a jainist maneuvers sidewalks and dirt roads with a broom to protect small organisms from harm. Carefully anticipating fallout, a few steps behind the behind, I shake my head in disbelief. Mostly I'm shaking my head at the nubile, soft-skinned, fleshy sexual being in front of me, her swaying arse printed with a promise. Maybe she's "FOXY" (FO on one cheek, XY on the other.) Maybe she's "SASSY" (SA on one cheek, SY on the other--the other "s" often gets lost somewhere in the middle.)

But sometimes when I'm shaking my head I'm disappointed in myself. For looking. And for wondering what my ass wants me to communicate to the world. What's my ass-essence? When I saunter down the street in the midday sun, earbuds in, closed off from the world, can my heiny do my talking for me? How transcendent is her message?

Here are some words that I think the back of my pants would like to communicate:

EXISTENTIAL--it was my choice to put on these pants this morning and the rear end of said pants say that much and more. When I walk in these pants, I'm looking for purpose. I'm in control. When I take them off, I seriously don't know what to do with myself. I freak out.

SARDONIC--maybe I don't take myself too seriously when I'm wearing my ass pants. Big deal. When I wear my sardonic ass pants, SARD on one cheek and ONIC on the other, people know that the real message is actually just tongue-in-cheek.

ESOTERIC--this will guarantee that I only get hit on in my ass pants by a particular kind of man or woman. Someone who gets it. Someone who's smarter and cooler than you.

SURREAL--my rear is dream-like, homie. Recognize.

FUTILE--sometimes this means that any attempts to attract attention to my bum by printing words on my pants are useless. Sometimes it means that your efforts to get into my pants are useless.

MANIFEST--my heiny is your destiny. There it is. Seriously, it's right there. Bam.

NARCISSIST--really, when you think about it, there isn't any other word that's better for this particular use.

POMO--maybe I'll pair my butt-talker sweatpants with a wool sport coat and a pair of thick-framed glasses. And saddle shoes. Maybe I'll be carrying old records under my arm. And maybe I'll eschew the grand narrative.

So there are my ideas for some truly original ass-pants. Look for me on the street--I'll be wearing them for sure. Just don't expect me to answer if you call out to me. I think my back end is bad by itself without my own thoughts and musings getting in the way.

They all sound the same

2006-07-31T17:49:00.000-07:00

I often get frustrated with myself because I have trouble writing songs of great consequence. I don't usually sit down and try to write songs of social or political importance. I don't say, "Hey, I should write one about freeing Tibet or about spousal abuse." Usually a good string of lyrics will pull me in and I'll just let the song happen. When I do approach a song with a particular agenda, it ends up sounding forced. So I've learned to just let my process flow freely.

That's where the problem is. Apparently my subconscious mind only has thoughts of love--that's the agenda. So even when a song starts out with a different message, love somehow ends up seeping through and coloring the final product.

"Fall Back Samantha" is a song about an abusive relationship. But it's also a love song that reveals the abused woman's perspective.

"American Splendor" is about Harvey Pekar's battle against cancer. But it's also a love song, sung to him from his wife Joyce's perspective.

"Got You By the Memory" is about landmark locations from my life being destroyed or taken away by corporate America. But it's also a love letter to the memory of some places that I've lost.

There are others that aren't love songs in a classic sense that are also somehow flavored with love. And of course, I always joke about 70% of my original tunes being written on the subject of unrequited love.

I know it shouldn't bug me. If you can write love songs, you should write love songs. But sometimes I wish I were more versatile. Right now I'm in the best relationship of my life so it seems every time I pick up a pen something saccharine pours out onto the page. And then I try not to vomit on top of it, telling myself that maybe it's salvageable. Maybe I can pull something bigger out of some of those amorous little nuggets.

For now, here is another love song. At least it's something:

Beneath the bruises
that you left
on my neck
I feel my pulse and know just what it's there for,
what it's there for.

In my room at night
I rifle through
my records
and throw out all the songs that you don't care for
you don't care for.

For you
for you

When you're not here
you're here.
I hear your footsteps
on the stairs and at my door,
at my door.

And when you are
I smile
and realize that I've got
one more cup to pour,
one more cup to pour.

For you
for you

When you leave
you take the color
I paint by numbers
on a calendar where days all lead to you.

In my dictionary
all the synonyms
for need and want are all defined
by one word and that one word is you.

It's you
it's you

You're the coffee grounds
that I swallow down
get me through the day.
You're the traffic signs that tell me where I'm going to.

You're my tylenol.
You're my Wailing Wall and
when I've gotta fall
you're my favorite kind of parachute.

That's you
that's you

The Latent Functions of Pie-Making

2006-07-27T18:17:00.000-07:00

I wrote a new song tonight. It just happened. It's the product of about five minutes. This is a good thing because for the past two months I've been slaving away at about three songs that are still unfinished and my usual method of songwriting is to just crank out about five songs in three days. So the fact that I wrote this one so quickly might mean that I'll have a good songwriting spurt. Whee!

Here are the lyrics. It's probably one of the simplest songs I've ever written, especially the chorus. I like it alright though.

There are a hundred miles between us
Try explaining distance to a pair of idle hands
Try to cool the fire of a late-night conversation
Next time I see you I'm gonna have a list of demands.

I tried so hard
I tried so hard

In my dreams you nibble at my neck
Like you're some sedated shark
Thrashing covers as we turn and glide
We're so steady in the dark.

But I wake up cold without your head to hold
And my bed looks way too wide
I guess I just can't make another night without you
There's nothing but a pillow on the other side.

I tried so hard
I tried so hard (2x)

It's good to have a muse. Anyway, I'm just glad I got to use a shark in a song. One time as a joke I improvised something called "The Ballad of Mr. Quint" where I used the chorus of "Show Me the Way to Go Home" between the verses. So I obviously sang about Jaws in that one.

I think the next song I write should have flapjacks in it or something equally absurd. We'll see...

Play "Misty" For Me

2006-07-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

I come to work early every day. It always feels good to sit in my car for a few minutes before somebody comes with a key to open up the building. I have time to collect and examine runover thoughts from the previous night, do a bit of reading, actually chew my breakfast, and generally take some time to enjoy the early moments of a new day.

Yesterday morning, because of a doctor's appointment that ended at 8:30, I was incredibly early for work. I got there at 9:00 and technically we don't open until 10:00 so I knew it was going to be a while. I reclined the driver's seat in my mom's Toyota Corolla, which I've been driving during the few days my Echo has been in the shop. I manually rolled down the windows, and laid back with my current book club read--Connie Schultz's "Life Happens."

I was really enjoying myself, reveling in the glory of being scarcely a pinky finger away from the end of the book. I had stopped popping my head up to look for the boss's car in the parking lot. I was determined to finish the book this morning. And I knew I would.

Then out of nowhere, I was jilted from my seat by an offensive knocking at the half-open window on the passenger side. I jerked forward, startled, and saw a young man, maybe thirty years old, leaning towards the car smiling at me. He was a man of medium build with bright green eyes, a purple button-down shirt, a braided belt, and he had smooth sandy brown hair that he wore long like a student. If it weren't for the scar that crept down along the right side of his smile, he wouldn't have seemed creepy at all.

I suppose this is why I wasn't opposed to saying hello and conversing with him. "You look comfortable there," he said, and I could almost hear him wink although I was reluctant to look him in the eye. "Are you reading?" I nodded and told him that I was in a book club. "You came to work early just so you could read, didn't you?" I laughed and told him that I did because I wanted to finish before my friends and I met to discuss it.

Then it happened. He leaned back from the window just slightly. At this point I was looking right at him when he spoke.

"So where's the Echo today?"

I closed my book. My eyes narrowed and my knuckles tightened. I felt like I was in that moment in a bad horror movie--the one where you finally know who the killer is. This is the moment where the orchestra strikes suddenly and you jump out of your skin in spite of yourself. That one sharp fiddle squeals and everything feels eerie and dissonant. This is how I felt. A strange man knows what car I drive. I've never seen him before, and he knows I normally drive a Toyota Echo. And he's pointing it out to me. Be cool.

"It's in the shop. Oil leakage." And then I added in a tone of voice that's meant to sound coy but probably sounded nervous and frightened, "How do you know I drive an Echo?"

"I work upstairs at the juvenile center. I see you coming to work a lot. I've never had the chance to say hello." The business I work at is housed beneath a juvenile detention and rehabilitation center. So he works with the criminally-minded youth. I hope and pray that they haven't given him any ideas.

Boldly, I offered my hand to him, and my name. He returned the gesture.

"Anyway, I thought I'd just come by and say hello. I saw you with your little book there and figured I'd make a smart-ass comment. I'll talk to you later."

He'll talk to me later? What is that? And how condescending of this man I don't know to say "your little book." What is he reading right now? War and Peace? The complete works of Shakespeare? The dictionary? Where does he get off calling my book "little?" And color me old-fashioned but a person who calls himself a "smart-ass" just after an introductory handshake is no gentleman.

Needless to say, I went from being creeped out and scared witless to being offended and annoyed. He walked away. I continued reading until I finished my book and then I locked my car and headed towards the door, shooting paranoid glances at the cracks in the blinds of the windows above me.

On my list

2006-07-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of making lists. I've done it my whole life. It keeps me organized on a day-to-day basis, and making lists helps me define myself and my interests in a really anal-retentive fashion that started to become charming after Nick Hornby (and especially after John Cusack) made it that way in "High Fidelity." Now I can make lists all the time, almost immediately when prompted by others or when challenged by my own mind (which usually happens because not too many people really care enough to ask me to list my top five of anything.) For instance, if you asked me what my top five flavors of Rosati's Frozen Custard are, I'd say:

1) Key Lime Pie
2) Birthday Cake
3) Higbees Chocolate Malted (So Classic)
4) Apple Pie Ala Mode (Which is a redundant name because, duh, it's "ala mode"--it's ice cream.)
5) Peanut Butter and Banana (Always listed as "An Elvis Favorite" on the calendar. And as far as I'm concerned, if Elvis does it, I'm doing it.)

Or if you were wondering about the top five songs I don't want played at my wedding:

1) Abba "Dancing Queen" (Also number one on my top five most hated songs list.)
2) The Village People "YMCA"
3) Kool & The Gang "Celebration" (Madonna's "Holiday" is a much more tolerable alternative.)
4) Diana Ross/Lionel Richie "Endless Love"
5) Marcia Griffiths "The Electric Slide"

Or if you asked me the top five records I'd like to get frisky with if it were physically possible and socially acceptable:

1) The Police "Outlandos d'Amour"
2) The White Stripes "Get Behind Me Satan"
3) The Black Keys "Rubber Factory" (Great wordplay here...)
4) Elvis Costello "Elvis Is King"
5) Wilco "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"

So now it's time to add a new list to my repertoire.

In a blog entry posted by a woman in my boyfriend's comedy troupe several months ago, she wrote of our courtship:

"A friend of mine is in the beginning stages of a relationship, the part where everything is magical and great and you still notice little things (like how they bite their lip or check the mirrors when they drive, not the little things like how freaking loudly they chew.) The woman my friend is interested in actually poetically noted the "angle of his jaw" or something sweet like that in a post bursting with the iambic energy of a blogger in love."

Looking back, she couldn't have been more right. I'm past that overly cautious, selflessly obliging, respectful period in our relationship. It's time to put everything out on the table. This post is for James. We've been together for six months now and all-in-all everything's peachy. But a relationship is only as good as the sum of all its parts, right? All of its completely annoying, frustrating, and at times, mildly infuriating parts.

So, per our conversation tonight, lover:

The top five most obnoxious things that James does:

1) He tries to force food upon me in tasteless ways in public places. This happens a lot with baked beans, which is strange because how many times are you really in a situation where you get baked beans with your meal? I can't even enjoy my food in peace without him trying to make a pass at me with a heaping spoonful of the stuff. It's like the old parenting trick where you tell the kid to open the hatch so the plane can fly in. Only it's not cute. Sometimes the beans come in a quaint little crock that I have to comment on and draw his attention to. And that's when he perks up and goes in for the kill. The jerk. Stop feeding me.

2) He reads from a book called "Magnificent Monologues For Teens." Okay, so he only did this once, but he kept it up for a long time and still references it when we chat. We were just lying in bed one day and he reached over and pulled it off the shelf and proceeded to read aloud, in character, some of the most juvenile acting monologues I've ever heard in my life. Nothing that I did could distract him from this book. Nothing. I had to lie there and listen to a kid named Jared try to blackmail his teacher into giving him an "A." And then a troubled girl called Susan or something who didn't know you could get raped by your boyfriend. I'm not going to get this hour of my life back.

3) He works out. And he likes to talk about it. Not in great detail. He just likes me to know that he works out. Here is a simulated conversation that is likely to take place on any given weekday:

M: So how did work treat you today, Mister?
J: It was really dead today. Really slow.
M: Did you do anything else?
J: You know. I woke up, got coffee, went to work, went to the gym and worked out.
M: That's cool.
J: Yea I worked out so hard.
M: That's cool.
J: Seriously I was wailing on my guns. I worked out so hard. So hard.
M: Rock on.
J: I've told you I work out, right?
M: I don't think you've mentioned that a hundred other times, no.
J: Well I do. I work out. Hard.

I'm tired of this black hole in our daily conversation. It sucks us in every time. I'm going to have to stop asking him about his day on days I think he might have time to go to the gym.

4) He is really bad with directions. Granted, I'm not the best at giving directions either, and I tend to forget how to go to places I've been to a million times. I'm sure there are countless little proverbs and fables that tell me not to throw rocks from my glass house or whatever. But say there's actually a glass house, okay? And James knows where it is. And he drives there all the time. You'd think he' d be able to tell me how to get there in fairly simple terms. With street signs and road names and landmarks and stuff, right? Not so much. The one time I was actually frustrated with him almost to a point of anger was the time I was stuck at his apartment and didn't know how to get to the coffee shop he was going to for his radio show. I got the weirdest directions ever. And one time I needed the address of his workplace so I could mapquest it (after I learned that the James version of the map was better used as a placemat or coaster) and he couldn't provide that. Boo hiss.

5) He doesn't like my idea for a magnetic compass. This was the one invention I thought of that I think might actually be plausible and helpful to people of the world. Math teachers, anyway. I won't post the idea on this blog since it's pretty much public domain and I don't want some leech stealing my genius idea, but trust me when I say that even though it has limited appeal and seems a bit simple and maybe even unnecessary, it would make the world a better place. And it's damn crafty. But when I pitched this idea to him in bed one morning, he shot me right down. I was pretty supportive of his hot air balloon movie concept--I even helped him cast it (all hypothetically of course--I still think Adrien Brody would be killer as the brooding hot air balloon pilot.) So when do I get the boost I deserve?

That's my list. Actually, I really had to stretch to think of a fifth item. And of course there's a follow-up list. There has to be. A sappy rebuttal. You saw it coming:

1) It's kind of cute that he tries to feed me. Call it an Oedipus thing, but sometimes I appreciate the almost paternal gesture. And sometimes when we're together we forget to eat so when he's trying to feed me, it means that I'm getting fed at that moment, which is a good thing.

2) He seemed really happy and entertained when he read from that book. And it was funny at times. I guess I don't have much of a rebuttal for this one. It was pretty annoying.

3) I appreciate his physique--he's very fit and strong. And I guess I'd rather hear about him working out hard than hearing about him drinking heavily and eating giant bags of potato chips while playing Halo 2 on his couch or something.

4) I mostly just get frustrated about directions because usually if I'm lost it means that I'll be spending less time with him and that's a bummer.

5) My idea for a magnetic compass is brilliant. And I stand by that.

Of course, this is all in jest. Simple tom-foolery. The only reason I did it at all was because it would be pretty hard to narrow down the top five best things about him.

When did I ever become this sappy? I'm losing my edge, man. I'm getting soft in my old age. Anyway, at least I don't have a Cosby Sweater yet, right?