People can be really rough, especially in Boston. I often forget that there are some places I am not welcome. I often forget that there are some people it is not worth being close to. So I sit in my apartment and watch slam videos. This one especially.
This would only ever happen to me. I was so excited for my first Providence poetry reading (and so flustered by the fucked up directions that Google Maps gave me to get there) that I locked my keys in the car. Thankfully, Geico roadside assistance came to my rescue free of charge in less than half an hour, so I pretty much love my car insurance and that silly green gecko a lot right now.
Blue State Coffee had a really nice vibe and very interesting voices, so I'll definitely be making it a regular stop on my highly limited social calendar. Ryk McIntyre, one of the hosts, has essentially booked me for the 23rd of June, which I am thrilled about, because it's a low key and loving place and I feel very at home there. Highlight of the evening: during the last poem of Patrick S's feature, a Providence police officer wandered in to use the bathroom. This last poem happened to be about the many flavors of Smurf sex, which was hilarious in isolation to begin with. But when the police officer emerged from the bathroom, he stayed to listen to what everyone was laughing about and turned many shades of horrified when he realized what was being discussed. Everyone in my corner of the room nearly died when he left before the poem was even over. I wish he had stayed even a few more seconds, because then he would have been there to witness the line, "Who's Papa Smurf now? Who's Papa Smurf now? Say it!" and all hell probably would have broken loose.
Needless to say, tonight has been memorable, and I can't wait for more nights like this one. Although hopefully not involving tow companies if possible. Tomorrow is the Cantab, my home away from home. And then Thursday night is AS 220, if actually decide to go, which would make three nights in a row of poetry for me. I should be so lucky on a regular basis.
I really don't understand what the big deal is. 125 people die every flu season from the regular flu. I'm pretty sure we all know that washing our hands and covering our coughing is important. Sometimes I really loathe being on a college campus. But the plus-side of my location is that I can eat noodles with gravy for breakfast and no one will frown upon me for it. Which is really important at the moment.
Promise not to tell anyone? Okay, here goes. Men will be boys. That's all for that.
In real news, Philly has been wonderful to us thus far, and tonight is the last night of festivities, so I plan on making it outrageous. The first night, we came in dead last in our bout, in spite of the audience absolutely loving us. Listen up, because I'm only going to say this eight billion times: slam doesn't make any sense. I was proud of how we performed our shit though. Then we went to watch Emerson's bout, which they rocked so hard, coming in first. Then it was time to get drunk. I had a lot of Soco, then piled on some Colt 45, and the combination did me no favors. I spent most of the night on the bathroom floor arguing with myself about many complicated things. A lot of crying happened.
Day 2: We ate lunch at a really fantastic Indian buffet (that was amazingly cheap as well), took second in our bout, and commenced partying for the second night. The cipher in the lower lobby of the hotel was lame, so we started our own with Emerson in one of their hotel rooms, which was awesome. I read a new poem that I am incredibly proud of. It was an alright night, although there is a certain amount of drama that refuses to resolve itself. AJ and I stayed up far too late for our own good, a large portion of that time spent either hanging out on the hotel smoking porch with Connor Dooley and company, or sitting on the floor in the hall talking about how retarded everything has been since we got here.
On our way to watch the first semi-final bout, we ran into two of the guys from Wyoming that we talked to last night, and one of them said (and this is really a quote), "So I didn't have the guts to tell you this last night, but you are delightfully gorgeous." In retrospect, I should have punched him, but I was feeling more flabbergasted than feisty at the time, so he didn't get what he deserved. Saying something like that to someone, especially when you're here for what is basically a writer's convention, is like telling them that the only thing you care about knowing is their face. It's really frustrating trying to be taken seriously when all anybody's willing to do is eye-fuck you. Poets are such hypocrites.
Finals are tonight, which means there is going to be straight up insanity in this hotel later, because everyone is going to be trying to get in one last night of partying. I can only imagine what all of it will look like.
I kind of can't wait to go home tomorrow morning. I really just want to be in a less manic state, even if it will only be slightly less manic. I have to go to court on Tuesday. Goddamn.
James Franco on Freaks and Geeks is such an asshole, but I am still so in love with him. This may explain a lot.
And people take her seriously? She bastardizes everything she believes in. It's just embarrassing. If I still considered myself a Christian I would give her a piece of my mind for speaking for me. But really, I don't know what to hate her for first.
Apparently freedom tastes like acid yellow yarn (80% Pima cotton/20% wool) on sale for less that $4 a hank at Webs. With a rare empty afternoon, I went and got a long overdue haircut - it's been over two years since the last time a professional has handled my hair...since senior prom. I shiver at the thought of such disasters, although that was probably one of the best haircuts I've ever had. Also, that weekend someone tried to hit on me in a Starbucks by telling me to give him a call if I ever had "the jungle fever". I kid you not. So probably one of the more memorable periods in my life, to be sure. Anyway, new haircut, but I'll only show you when I have found the perfect amount of wax-like products to put in it to make it not look like I'm a member of the Jetson family. Not that I mind such things. I just don't think it's a good everyday way to be. (I am clearly getting delirious as a result of the time of night; feel free to stop reading at any time).
I wrote a five page scene for my film class this afternoon, and in spite of its obviously flaws, I'm pretty proud of myself for churning out a chunk of solid dialogue without months of coaxing. As I said to James last night, it took me years to get the characters in my book to want to talk to each other, so fictional conversation is definitely not my strong suit.
Anyway, I have to get up at 7 AM. Oh how I love January. Just another two weeks and it will all be turned on it's ear again. We start shooting Evan's movie on Friday, and I could not be more nervous or excited. Acting is such a strange new fish.
So I was out at about 2 am driving to pick up Maggie from a friend's house, and I get pulled over just as I'm entering Westwood. I expected this to happen as soon as I saw the cop car. My sister rear ended a Hummer at least a month ago, cracking the hood of the car slightly in the front and completely shattering the left headlight. It had worked for awhile, if you can call pointing into the sky like a searchlight working, but it has since stopped functioning unless the high beams are on. She has recently taken the stance that since the car is technically mine and will revert back to my custody come August, that she refuses to fix the headlight at all. Even though it's illegal to drive around with one headlight.
Anyway, so I'm driving, get pulled over for the first time in my life, and a fairly young officer of the law reluctantly hands me two tickets: one for the busted headlight, and one for being out after midnight with a provisional license. Now, I can get the provisional license citation dropped if I just get my license changed while I'm still home. As for the headlight situation, yes it is my fault that I went out driving, but my sister should have fixed it by now because the accident was her responsibility especially when the car is really mine. Also, the reason I got pulled over was the headlight; if it had been working, I wouldn't have been pulled over, because I was following all other rules of the road.
Here is my dilemma. Should I make my sister pay the headlight ticket? Should we each pay half? Or should I just resign myself to her obvious response that she hates me, that I am an asshole, and that it's my own fucking fault. I think her words were a little harsh there, but that could just be me.
This is how I look when I wake up well-rested. No thanks to Mel Gibson. I tried to watch Apocalypto last night for the first time and only made it about fifty minutes before feeling completely sick to my stomach, not because of the excessive blood, but because it was just so unsettling. I couldn't tell who was on what side in the scenes where people were fighting. And they killed a tapir in one of the first scenes. I love tapirs. How can you not love something this cute?
The one in the movie didn't have stripes and spots, but it was still a big fat mushy elephant-pig looking thing and it made me very depressed to see it die. To get that bad taste out my mouth, James and I decided to watch Murder By Death, which is a lot like a better version of Clue, and I already think Clue is brilliant, so this was just delightful. Truman Capote is in it, and Peter Falk, and Alec Guinness, and Peter Sellers, and Maggie Smith. It was so silly and wonderful, I laughed so much.
I didn't get to bed until after four in the morning, but I feel so amazing today. I had wonderful dreams about India, probably because I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankar. And last night at Slam Collective Jai Chakrabarti featured, poems about Betty Boop and Calcutta childhood. Then there's our frequent viewing of Michael Palin's BBC journey through the Himalayas. And the other night James and I both saw The Darjeeling Limited for the first time.
The best bit of writing in the whole movie somehow doesn't show up on the IMDB page, which is criminal.
Peter: "They're laughing at us."
Francis: (completely in earnest) "I love it here; these people are beautiful."
My armchair tour through India makes me wish I had the money to travel so so badly. Maybe one day.
Meet Junk Bunny, a creature I made out of wire I'm pretty sure is meant to be used for baling hay. I find that I am most productive in my sculpture class when I have no idea what to do with myself and therefore start fucking around without a purpose. Junk Bunny will be a Christmas present for my mother, because she loves rabbits, and also when I give her handmade gifts. He looks like pencil scribbles, and that makes me smile.
I nerded out a little too much tonight talking about the incarnations of Star Trek from my childhood, resolving to find downloadable versions as soon as I get my external hard drive. I miss TNG and Deep Space Nine. I miss simpler times really, when television made me happy without the currently prerequisite channel-surfing. I will never remember the digital cable set-up I have at home. If I go looking for some innocuous movie to fall asleep to, I invariably end up passing out to a Girls Gone Wild informercial simply because I have given up on locating a channel that has actual programming past midnight. So frustrating.
I pre-registered for spring classes today. Time has gotten better at sprinting. I have never been a runner. I try to enjoy the view too often. The finish line never coincides with my line of vision. This could be an incredible problem or the greatest relief.
An impromptu poem (bad, I bet) to try and express how I feel at this moment:
Tearing out my hair--
in twelve hours
I will be at work.
But another twelve after that
I will be
tequila in the freezer,
Velma from Scooby Doo,
Maggie&Emily back in action.
Putting the Jersey back in New England--
not that it was ever here to begin with.
I can't finish real thoughts.
Hampshire Halloween, for the horribly uninformed, is supposed to be legendary. And maybe it was, once. Last year I just wandered around a little dazed, a little overwhelmed. This year is pretty much going to be the opposite. Or maybe the same, but for very different reasons. I can't wait for Sean's show! I can't wait to see Sophia as a robot! I can't wait for Maggie to finally know where I live for the majority of the year. Best friends should not be a summer-only commodity.
In the infinite amount of down time I have at the library, I get up to some pretty standard internet-type activities. Like Googling myself. Most of us have done it (including James McAvoy's seriously unlikely "bad-ass" character in this summer's Wanted, in fact it kind of catalyzes his desire for change), and I am no stranger. There is a woman who writes film reviews for the Village Voice with my exact name. If she ever gets asked about this blog (though I doubt many people read it outside of my immediate realm of consciousness), I apologize. No one deserves to be credited with such tripe. Anyway, I was Googling myself and coming up with various interesting things, none of which were me, unless you count the youtube videos floating around somewhere past page five of me performing poetry very poorly last spring. And in this fit twice-removed self-examination, I decided to Google my blog. In quotes, because the title words are all so common. And I found a post I had no idea about, one on the Tamur Records blog, refering to one of my posts from back in July. And it made me smile, all of it. Including the picture they chose to represent me, a very bald picture from last fall where I would look like a skinhead if I wasn't smiling so much and wearing a lilac colored dress.
So above, you see a picture of Gabby, the person who, whether realizing it or not, was my window into the world of successful home recording. I am listening to her sing right now on my ipod. Tamur's doing a really cool thing for kids who just want to get their music heard, so check them out. They're accepting demos until November first, so if you interested, go read about it.
Speaking of independent productions, Black 29 is beginning pre-production on one of two films it is responsible for in the coming year, Go Ask Alex, which is my friend Evan's smart, trippy, way-too-awesome reinterpretation of the perennial classic Alice in Wonderland that I am sure we all remember fondly. I have seen so many version of this story (including a musical porn version from the 1970's) that it is usually hard to get excited about new takes on it, but I am beyond enthusiatic about this one because I know just how talented Evan is. There is information on their blog, and there will be a website up soon, which I'll be sure to post a link for. So do some looking, and if you're in the Amherst area, come audition!