So I was hanging out with Rick last night at the Bread Factory, and in between Boston clam chowder and cheesecake we came up with a terrific idea:
Dante's Inferno, the Musical. With such memorable musical numbers as, "Oh My God, I'm on Fire," "The Cerberus Shuffle," and "Song of the Flatterers." We're thinking that if it has a high enough budget, we could have a big bronze Satan at the end rise out of his ground, flapping his wings and chewing on the three sinners (with understudies playing the roles of Judas, Brutus, and Cassius). We'll crank the AC really high to simulate the chilling effect of being at the farthest possible point from the Grace of God, and use nifty immersion techniques like a chorus to do the moans of the damned. It'd be so terrific!
On a slightly more serious note, I actually did briefly contemplate the logistics of a musical about a high school drama class that attempts to put on "Dante's Inferno, the Musical" using a shoestring budget. There's nothing very solid, but I decided that they'd have freshmen carrying signs like, "Canto II: The Lustful" across the stage to indicate where Dante and Virgil have ended up. If I'd actually experienced what it was like being in high school drama, I could probably make this idea considerably more successful than anything I could produce at the moment. Oh, and if I could compose. That would probably help.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
On hoping prostitution isn't a necessity
So a rather disturbing event occurred today at work. It seems that Jess will be leaving us to manage a dog walking company. She'll be making *enormously* more than she is making now and she'll be getting benefits to boot, so I'm quite happy for her. At the same time, however, I'm dreading the possibility that I'm going to be asked to step into her place, as the only other permanent full-time employee at my company. Yeah, we're a pretty tiny company, and being a manager of any sort pretty much runs against the grain of my being.
I dunno. I enjoy working at my company. I get paid lunches, lunches paid FOR me, and a very relaxed work atmosphere. So I actually make *substantially* more than my hourly wage seems to suggest...although I don't get any sort of benefits, which sucks. Maybe it's just that sudden and massive changes that may have long-term effects on my surroundings make me very uneasy. While not necessarily a creature of habit, I do prefer that I have a nice, level surface to work from.
Although...I HAVE been contemplating moving to a new job for a while. It'd be nice to have benefits and a pay rate that will actually let me assemble something resembling a savings account, but I kind of hate the idea of sacrificing flexibility for it. Plus, it seems incredibly difficult to find a decent job in New York without offering illicit services to somebody. I think that someone with my level of experience and technical skill ought to be considerably more marketable than I currently seem to be. Wait? Was that a non sequitur? I'm a bit tired right now.
Anyway, perhaps when I hit 30, if I still haven't really done anything to speak of as a creative professional, I'll start contemplating getting my Masters and going back to engineering. Perhaps.
I dunno. I enjoy working at my company. I get paid lunches, lunches paid FOR me, and a very relaxed work atmosphere. So I actually make *substantially* more than my hourly wage seems to suggest...although I don't get any sort of benefits, which sucks. Maybe it's just that sudden and massive changes that may have long-term effects on my surroundings make me very uneasy. While not necessarily a creature of habit, I do prefer that I have a nice, level surface to work from.
Although...I HAVE been contemplating moving to a new job for a while. It'd be nice to have benefits and a pay rate that will actually let me assemble something resembling a savings account, but I kind of hate the idea of sacrificing flexibility for it. Plus, it seems incredibly difficult to find a decent job in New York without offering illicit services to somebody. I think that someone with my level of experience and technical skill ought to be considerably more marketable than I currently seem to be. Wait? Was that a non sequitur? I'm a bit tired right now.
Anyway, perhaps when I hit 30, if I still haven't really done anything to speak of as a creative professional, I'll start contemplating getting my Masters and going back to engineering. Perhaps.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
On cheese alerts
So I've had three rather successful dates with The Boy, and that's been quite marvelous. We entertain each other, we make each other laugh, we have both stimulating and idiotic conversations ("Did you know that you have the softest arm hair of anyone I've ever met?") and we cuddle during movies. Wonderful, right?
Except my intuition is telling me that...well, basically that I'm not really his number one choice. Mind you, he clearly likes me - I mean, good lord, we've had three dates, and we're planning a fourth for next Monday. Who'd be so masochistic as to go on that many dates with someone whose company they don't enjoy? But there's just...something. I don't really know what it is. Maybe tiny hints my conscious mind has glossed over, but that my subconscious has picked up on, which collectively suggest to me that although The Boy likes me, he has his reservations. I have my insecurities, but I don't think that's them talking. There's just...something piercing through my usual armor of excessively over-compensating self-confidence. (That was a joke. Laugh, dammit!)
Of course, I could be excessively overthinking this. Because clearly I don't overanalyze things, or obsess about tiny, stupid details most rational people wouldn't even notice. *Eyeball roll*
Anyway, to keep my entire post from being a self-indulgent whine-fest about The Boy (Oh, you know what? This is totally idiotic. Chris! His goddamn name is Chris!), I'd like to add a little advisory to anyone who's planning to purchase a house. If, in the contract, it's listed as a short sale...run away. Run away like there's a t-rex up your skivvies. The fact of the short sale makes actually purchasing the house SUCH a bloody chore that unless you're paying SUBSTANTIALLY under the market rate, it's just not worth the trouble. I've been wrangling with lawyers and loan agents and real estate agents on behalf of my mother for the better part of three weeks, and it's getting to the point where I just want a zombie horde to chew all their faces off, I want a meteor to fall on Wells Fargo's national headquarters, I want a herd of elephants to stampede the house in question into so much inedible pancake, and I want violently malevolent fleas to eternally plague the original seller of the house for not paying back his mortgage in full.
If cosmic justice is the order of the day, I think Wells Fargo deserves some divine smiting for the shit they've put my mother through the last month or so.
Except my intuition is telling me that...well, basically that I'm not really his number one choice. Mind you, he clearly likes me - I mean, good lord, we've had three dates, and we're planning a fourth for next Monday. Who'd be so masochistic as to go on that many dates with someone whose company they don't enjoy? But there's just...something. I don't really know what it is. Maybe tiny hints my conscious mind has glossed over, but that my subconscious has picked up on, which collectively suggest to me that although The Boy likes me, he has his reservations. I have my insecurities, but I don't think that's them talking. There's just...something piercing through my usual armor of excessively over-compensating self-confidence. (That was a joke. Laugh, dammit!)
Of course, I could be excessively overthinking this. Because clearly I don't overanalyze things, or obsess about tiny, stupid details most rational people wouldn't even notice. *Eyeball roll*
Anyway, to keep my entire post from being a self-indulgent whine-fest about The Boy (Oh, you know what? This is totally idiotic. Chris! His goddamn name is Chris!), I'd like to add a little advisory to anyone who's planning to purchase a house. If, in the contract, it's listed as a short sale...run away. Run away like there's a t-rex up your skivvies. The fact of the short sale makes actually purchasing the house SUCH a bloody chore that unless you're paying SUBSTANTIALLY under the market rate, it's just not worth the trouble. I've been wrangling with lawyers and loan agents and real estate agents on behalf of my mother for the better part of three weeks, and it's getting to the point where I just want a zombie horde to chew all their faces off, I want a meteor to fall on Wells Fargo's national headquarters, I want a herd of elephants to stampede the house in question into so much inedible pancake, and I want violently malevolent fleas to eternally plague the original seller of the house for not paying back his mortgage in full.
If cosmic justice is the order of the day, I think Wells Fargo deserves some divine smiting for the shit they've put my mother through the last month or so.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
On reconsideration
So I've had a bit more time to ruminate about The Boy, and I'm thinking I need to take a more balanced approach toward this. Now, anyone who really knows me would probably yell here, "But you try to take a balanced approach to everything!" Well...yes. I'm a pretty cautious guy except where relationships seem to be concerned, because the moment I like someone a great deal (which often happens as early as the first date) it's like I practically want to drag him into a chapel. I mean, really. Wow. Creepy much?
My aunt remarked to me in the past about my cautious streak, and again, I generally agree except with regard to relationships and oh, careers as well. I've already transitioned from engineering pre-med to acting, which is about as anti-conservative as you can get, and I've said I have this nasty tendency to plunge headlong into forming attachments to guys who, frankly, may not have that same attachment to me. I look at Isti and the way she knew Diaz for a good two or there years before they started dating, and now they've been together...what? 9 years? Or I look at Dave, and the way he and Jordan seemed to date in a very casual sort of way before becoming joined at the hip. The way they got together just seems a lot less...turbulent, maybe, than what I always seem to put myself through. Then again, Isti and Dave both are much less...erratic, I guess, than I am. It's just that the difference in our approaches seems to be the difference between slowly gliding down a slope, or hopping off a cliff. The first is obviously a lot less painful, but considerably slower, more cautious, and arguably less fun. At least until the splat at the bottom.
I'm just bringing this up because...I dunno. Maybe it's acknowledging that my natural tendency isn't particularly healthy for my emotions, and I'm trying to insulate myself a little in case things DON'T work out with The Boy. Mind you, I hope that they do (I *really* hope that they do), but at this stage it's probably wise not to become too attached.
Ha. As if I had any choice in the matter.
My aunt remarked to me in the past about my cautious streak, and again, I generally agree except with regard to relationships and oh, careers as well. I've already transitioned from engineering pre-med to acting, which is about as anti-conservative as you can get, and I've said I have this nasty tendency to plunge headlong into forming attachments to guys who, frankly, may not have that same attachment to me. I look at Isti and the way she knew Diaz for a good two or there years before they started dating, and now they've been together...what? 9 years? Or I look at Dave, and the way he and Jordan seemed to date in a very casual sort of way before becoming joined at the hip. The way they got together just seems a lot less...turbulent, maybe, than what I always seem to put myself through. Then again, Isti and Dave both are much less...erratic, I guess, than I am. It's just that the difference in our approaches seems to be the difference between slowly gliding down a slope, or hopping off a cliff. The first is obviously a lot less painful, but considerably slower, more cautious, and arguably less fun. At least until the splat at the bottom.
I'm just bringing this up because...I dunno. Maybe it's acknowledging that my natural tendency isn't particularly healthy for my emotions, and I'm trying to insulate myself a little in case things DON'T work out with The Boy. Mind you, I hope that they do (I *really* hope that they do), but at this stage it's probably wise not to become too attached.
Ha. As if I had any choice in the matter.
Friday, May 16, 2008
On squee'ing like a blooming idiot yet again
So today was the big day, and it's 2:17 in the bloody morning, my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, and I really ought to just get in bed and sleep, but I really, really wanted to get on here and put this down before the moment is lost.
God, where to start? Well, Sherry and I went out drinking like we'd planned. Jess did, indeed, still feel like an ambulatory ball of pestilence and rot, so she opted to go home instead of coming out with us. I exaggerate here - it sounds like I'm suggesting she was a shambling mound shedding disease at every turn. She really just felt like crap and looked a bit wan, is all. Anyway, Sherry and I went out and had drinks at the West Side Brewery. She gave me a brief lesson on the difference between lagers, ales, and stouts, and we mostly made lewd comments to each other the entire afternoon while I fretted endlessly about the date with The Boy tonight. (Yes, we've decided to just call him The Boy for now, rather than that heinous acronym.)
Oh! The reason we actually were drinking at 3:00 in the afternoon (which is so incredibly white trash / hick that I'm sitting here cringing just thinking about it, and I'm imagining everything I'm typing up to be spoken with a heavy Appalachian accent) is that Philip, whom I work for, was holding a birthday party for his 7 year-old granddaughter. And her 30 friends. As Sherry and I were walking out of his apartment we commentated on the numerous children heading up to the apartment. I think we got out just in time, because otherwise I'm pretty sure we'd have been mowed under fairly quickly by a swarm of midgets. There were at least 10 adults supervising the party, but my money remains on the rugrats.
Anyway - Sherry helped me pick out a flower after we drank. It ended up being kind of a bulbous monstrosity anyway - a bright yellow and orange tulip on a stem that was probably two feet long. It could have been used as a bludgeoning instrument if it weren't so floppy. I had a major brain malfunction and didn't ask for the stem to be cut - I think because I liked the two little leaves jutting out near the bottom - and it wasn't really until we were in the subway that I realized how ridiculous it would be for him to carry this thing throughout the evening. Well, I had my bag, and I'm sure we could've stowed it if it became really inconvenient.
So I get to the Thai restaurant I'd scoped out earlier - Pam Real Thai Encore (I know. Did they draw magnet poetry out of a hat or something when they named the place?) I'd never actually been there, but I checked it out online and it had good reviews for a decent price. Anyway, in spite of a miscommunication in which I briefly feel like I've been tossed into the Twilight Zone, we meet up. Being the stealthy son of a bitch that I am, I manage to sneak up on him yet again, this time while he's reading a menu, and give him my flower without feeling too much like a buffoon. His reaction is about what I'd expected - flattered, but a bit unsure how to manage the flower for the rest of the evening. I really should've gone with the orange rose. That was comparatively small, compact, but still stunning and just about perfect.
Anyway, we spent a lovely time at Pam Real Thai Encore (I'm still not tired of saying that). The food was indeed excellent, as advertised, and his company was delightful. I'd actually typed up sort of a summary of the evening, but subsequently decided that I don't particularly want to go into details right now and deleted it all. Let's just say that he surprised me a couple of times, quite pleasantly, and I wasn't nearly as much of a ninny in that regard as I was on our last date. I will say, however, that we decided on our way out of the theatre that there will be a third date. We don't know when or what we'll be doing, but there will be one, and that makes me very happy.
So in conclusion...I'm awfully taken with The Boy. I think you knew that already, but it bears mentioning again. I'm awfully taken with The Boy. I guess what makes this more noteworthy is that...I think he actually likes me back. Perhaps not as much as I like him (would I be arrogant in sticking a "yet" in here?), but hell, it's only our second date. Which kind of brings me back to earth again, and reminds me that I get attached to people just way too fucking easily.
(*Whispers*) But that doesn't stop me from liking him!
God, where to start? Well, Sherry and I went out drinking like we'd planned. Jess did, indeed, still feel like an ambulatory ball of pestilence and rot, so she opted to go home instead of coming out with us. I exaggerate here - it sounds like I'm suggesting she was a shambling mound shedding disease at every turn. She really just felt like crap and looked a bit wan, is all. Anyway, Sherry and I went out and had drinks at the West Side Brewery. She gave me a brief lesson on the difference between lagers, ales, and stouts, and we mostly made lewd comments to each other the entire afternoon while I fretted endlessly about the date with The Boy tonight. (Yes, we've decided to just call him The Boy for now, rather than that heinous acronym.)
Oh! The reason we actually were drinking at 3:00 in the afternoon (which is so incredibly white trash / hick that I'm sitting here cringing just thinking about it, and I'm imagining everything I'm typing up to be spoken with a heavy Appalachian accent) is that Philip, whom I work for, was holding a birthday party for his 7 year-old granddaughter. And her 30 friends. As Sherry and I were walking out of his apartment we commentated on the numerous children heading up to the apartment. I think we got out just in time, because otherwise I'm pretty sure we'd have been mowed under fairly quickly by a swarm of midgets. There were at least 10 adults supervising the party, but my money remains on the rugrats.
Anyway - Sherry helped me pick out a flower after we drank. It ended up being kind of a bulbous monstrosity anyway - a bright yellow and orange tulip on a stem that was probably two feet long. It could have been used as a bludgeoning instrument if it weren't so floppy. I had a major brain malfunction and didn't ask for the stem to be cut - I think because I liked the two little leaves jutting out near the bottom - and it wasn't really until we were in the subway that I realized how ridiculous it would be for him to carry this thing throughout the evening. Well, I had my bag, and I'm sure we could've stowed it if it became really inconvenient.
So I get to the Thai restaurant I'd scoped out earlier - Pam Real Thai Encore (I know. Did they draw magnet poetry out of a hat or something when they named the place?) I'd never actually been there, but I checked it out online and it had good reviews for a decent price. Anyway, in spite of a miscommunication in which I briefly feel like I've been tossed into the Twilight Zone, we meet up. Being the stealthy son of a bitch that I am, I manage to sneak up on him yet again, this time while he's reading a menu, and give him my flower without feeling too much like a buffoon. His reaction is about what I'd expected - flattered, but a bit unsure how to manage the flower for the rest of the evening. I really should've gone with the orange rose. That was comparatively small, compact, but still stunning and just about perfect.
Anyway, we spent a lovely time at Pam Real Thai Encore (I'm still not tired of saying that). The food was indeed excellent, as advertised, and his company was delightful. I'd actually typed up sort of a summary of the evening, but subsequently decided that I don't particularly want to go into details right now and deleted it all. Let's just say that he surprised me a couple of times, quite pleasantly, and I wasn't nearly as much of a ninny in that regard as I was on our last date. I will say, however, that we decided on our way out of the theatre that there will be a third date. We don't know when or what we'll be doing, but there will be one, and that makes me very happy.
So in conclusion...I'm awfully taken with The Boy. I think you knew that already, but it bears mentioning again. I'm awfully taken with The Boy. I guess what makes this more noteworthy is that...I think he actually likes me back. Perhaps not as much as I like him (would I be arrogant in sticking a "yet" in here?), but hell, it's only our second date. Which kind of brings me back to earth again, and reminds me that I get attached to people just way too fucking easily.
(*Whispers*) But that doesn't stop me from liking him!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
On being too lazy to open a closet door
So I have this interesting little complication at work.
On Thursday, Sherry, Jess (hopefully, if she's not still feeling like the black death walking), and I are going to go out and have a drink to celebrate the fact that Sherry is done with her finals. If I didn't have a date with the boy-whom-I-won't-mention-because-I'm-superstitious-and-don't-want-anything-to-jinx-this (henceforth referred to as the BWIWMBISADWATJT...I think I need an acronym for my acronym) afterwards, we'd probably be getting plastered. On a Thursday night. How trashy is that? But anyway, we'd be getting plastered and having a grand old time, because both Sherry and Jess are good-ole Southern gals with utterly un-Southern sensibilities.
My other co-worker, however, is planning to come with us. I'm going to avoid names, since she has her own real estate business and I don't want to embarrass her in a professional fashion, in case someone searches for her and, with that random one-in-a-million chance, ends up over here instead. Let's just call her...ah...Tang.
Tang is...eccentric, for lack of a better word. She's currently fixated on a man who's in the middle of a divorce and who has two children, and she cannot seem to understand why, precisely, getting romantically involved with him would be a bad idea. She seems to have sort of an intellectual grasp of the concept, but it clearly hasn't sunk in because she comes to Jess or me periodically to confirm that yes, dating the divorcing man is still a bad idea. Bad Tang. No man candy for you.
She also seems to have this unhealthy interest in me, I suppose since we're both Chinese. In any case, she intends to invite two of her friends, both apparently very nice Chinese girls, out drinking with us. And that would be fine, except that it's flagrantly, blatantly, full moon on a cold black night obvious that she intends to set me up with one (or both? Eek!) of these girls. Is it bad that my current impulse is to stand up and scream, "Get your fishy vajayjay twin-pack away from me!"
Jess has suggested that the solution to my problem comes in the form of two words: "I'm gay."
I sidestep a moment here to assure everyone that I am by no means a closet case. I'm not very flamboyant, but everyone in my work place (and all other places I frequent) knows that I'm a total queer. Everyone except Tang, that is, and I'm rather resistant to the idea of telling her. I'm not afraid of any vitriol - I could totally get her ass fired if she starts being overtly hostile around me - but the thought of having to field her questions about the matter, or worse, attempts to "straighten me out," is just wearying.
Yeah, basically I'm not telling her because I'm lazy.
I suppose I'll just let them know in no uncertain terms that I'm not at all interested, and console myself with the fact that I get to meet up with a cute, sweet, hilarious boy immediately afterward. I'm kind of excited about the prospect of getting him a flower for our second date. I was thinking something not too ostentatious - a single rose, perhaps, in lavender. Sherry has, however, been trying to convince me that I ought to get him a calla lily or sunflower or some other bug-eating monstrosity. And I'm like, "I want something sweet and simple. Not something I can use to club him over the head. I'm pretty sure we're past that stage of social development."
But dammit...the calla lily is looking pretty attractive.
On Thursday, Sherry, Jess (hopefully, if she's not still feeling like the black death walking), and I are going to go out and have a drink to celebrate the fact that Sherry is done with her finals. If I didn't have a date with the boy-whom-I-won't-mention-because-I'm-superstitious-and-don't-want-anything-to-jinx-this (henceforth referred to as the BWIWMBISADWATJT...I think I need an acronym for my acronym) afterwards, we'd probably be getting plastered. On a Thursday night. How trashy is that? But anyway, we'd be getting plastered and having a grand old time, because both Sherry and Jess are good-ole Southern gals with utterly un-Southern sensibilities.
My other co-worker, however, is planning to come with us. I'm going to avoid names, since she has her own real estate business and I don't want to embarrass her in a professional fashion, in case someone searches for her and, with that random one-in-a-million chance, ends up over here instead. Let's just call her...ah...Tang.
Tang is...eccentric, for lack of a better word. She's currently fixated on a man who's in the middle of a divorce and who has two children, and she cannot seem to understand why, precisely, getting romantically involved with him would be a bad idea. She seems to have sort of an intellectual grasp of the concept, but it clearly hasn't sunk in because she comes to Jess or me periodically to confirm that yes, dating the divorcing man is still a bad idea. Bad Tang. No man candy for you.
She also seems to have this unhealthy interest in me, I suppose since we're both Chinese. In any case, she intends to invite two of her friends, both apparently very nice Chinese girls, out drinking with us. And that would be fine, except that it's flagrantly, blatantly, full moon on a cold black night obvious that she intends to set me up with one (or both? Eek!) of these girls. Is it bad that my current impulse is to stand up and scream, "Get your fishy vajayjay twin-pack away from me!"
Jess has suggested that the solution to my problem comes in the form of two words: "I'm gay."
I sidestep a moment here to assure everyone that I am by no means a closet case. I'm not very flamboyant, but everyone in my work place (and all other places I frequent) knows that I'm a total queer. Everyone except Tang, that is, and I'm rather resistant to the idea of telling her. I'm not afraid of any vitriol - I could totally get her ass fired if she starts being overtly hostile around me - but the thought of having to field her questions about the matter, or worse, attempts to "straighten me out," is just wearying.
Yeah, basically I'm not telling her because I'm lazy.
I suppose I'll just let them know in no uncertain terms that I'm not at all interested, and console myself with the fact that I get to meet up with a cute, sweet, hilarious boy immediately afterward. I'm kind of excited about the prospect of getting him a flower for our second date. I was thinking something not too ostentatious - a single rose, perhaps, in lavender. Sherry has, however, been trying to convince me that I ought to get him a calla lily or sunflower or some other bug-eating monstrosity. And I'm like, "I want something sweet and simple. Not something I can use to club him over the head. I'm pretty sure we're past that stage of social development."
But dammit...the calla lily is looking pretty attractive.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
On cutting habits without methadone
I think my attention span for new and swanky things has gotten drastically shorter as I've gotten older...or perhaps the daily grind of work, then rehearsal, then bloody eternity on the A train has simply killed my desire to do, oh, just about anything else by the time I get home. Except Guitar Hero 3. I swear, that game is like crack. It will probably give me arthritis by the time I'm 30.
I am a little annoyed by the work-rehearsal-sleep schedule right now, because I'd actually like to start going to the gym again on a regular basis. That would, however, actually require me to get up at 6 or 7 in the morning in order to get to the gym before work, and since I don't get home until 11:00 or so, that would basically mean I'd become one of those people who doesn't do anything except work and go to the gym. Seriously igh. Still, this sedentary lifestyle is making me feel more than a little bit like a lazy slob. Mind you - I know that I'm not a lazy slob. Since I'm technically working upwards of 10-12 hours a day and I do an immense amount of writing on the train, I'm probably accomplishing more than a good 70% or 80% of the general population. Knowing, however, doesn't really help when I realize I'm getting a bit soft around the midsection. I suppose I could restrict myself to cardio for now, which is a little less time-consuming than the weights regime that I usually aim for, but...I dunno - I'd like to pack some muscle onto my frame before attempting to get cut.
Somehow, in the course of debating all this, it ends up being that the only thing I can readily sacrifice is sleep.
At least I've more or less managed to cut World of Warcraft out of my life for the time being. There's a time-consuming addiction if there ever was one.
I am a little annoyed by the work-rehearsal-sleep schedule right now, because I'd actually like to start going to the gym again on a regular basis. That would, however, actually require me to get up at 6 or 7 in the morning in order to get to the gym before work, and since I don't get home until 11:00 or so, that would basically mean I'd become one of those people who doesn't do anything except work and go to the gym. Seriously igh. Still, this sedentary lifestyle is making me feel more than a little bit like a lazy slob. Mind you - I know that I'm not a lazy slob. Since I'm technically working upwards of 10-12 hours a day and I do an immense amount of writing on the train, I'm probably accomplishing more than a good 70% or 80% of the general population. Knowing, however, doesn't really help when I realize I'm getting a bit soft around the midsection. I suppose I could restrict myself to cardio for now, which is a little less time-consuming than the weights regime that I usually aim for, but...I dunno - I'd like to pack some muscle onto my frame before attempting to get cut.
Somehow, in the course of debating all this, it ends up being that the only thing I can readily sacrifice is sleep.
At least I've more or less managed to cut World of Warcraft out of my life for the time being. There's a time-consuming addiction if there ever was one.
Friday, May 09, 2008
On springing eternal, as always
Psst...can I tell you a secret, oh online blog? And it will be a secret, because nobody knows about you. None of my friends are aware that you exist. Only the faceless crowds who browse the community might stumble across you, and I don't care if they know. Will you be my hole in the ground? Will you hear my little secret?
I like a boy. He's sweet, adorable, witty, and hilarious. We've only gone on one date, but I like him. I like him a lot.
Keep this to yourself. Let milkweeds and bluegrass and stalks of fennel grow over the earth with which I bury this secret. Let them whisper it into the winds, if they like, and let that wind carry it like dandelion fluff around the world. I don't mind, because by then, I'll have either let him know just how much I like him, hoping he feels the same way, or I'll have once again found myself in the position of the fool.
And I'm okay with that.
I like a boy. He's sweet, adorable, witty, and hilarious. We've only gone on one date, but I like him. I like him a lot.
Keep this to yourself. Let milkweeds and bluegrass and stalks of fennel grow over the earth with which I bury this secret. Let them whisper it into the winds, if they like, and let that wind carry it like dandelion fluff around the world. I don't mind, because by then, I'll have either let him know just how much I like him, hoping he feels the same way, or I'll have once again found myself in the position of the fool.
And I'm okay with that.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
On the inanity of online journals
It occurs to me that half the reason I don't post more on online journals is that I don't really consider the day-to-day details of my life really much worth mentioning. I mean, would I really care, years later, whether I had pizza or salmon for lunch today, or whether I had to fence yet another phone call from someone with too much money and too few manners?
I have a pair of journals from when I was somewhere in the vicinity of 7 or 8 years old. They were required writing when we first got into class...and although I'm glad I kept them, I wonder a bit what the hell the point was. To make us write? We had English assignments for that. Maybe they were meant to make us more introspective, more...hmmm...thoughtful, maybe. Or however thoughtful you can be at 7 years old. I'm looking at an entry right now, and it reads: "Describe how your life might chang if there were no t.v. It will chang a little then I'll have to work every day your friend Yingzhi"
Yes. Very thought-provoking. I'm a little astounded that, even though I was only 7 and relatively new to the US, I wasn't able to come up with something a little more interesting in half a bloody hour. Come on, younger me! You're embarrassing me! I'm also mildly disturbed that we were encouraged to befriend an inanimate object. Isn't that like saying, "Here, since you're so socially inept you can't seem to get along with the other kids, why don't you try talking to this bundle of notebook paper instead! It'll be great for your self esteem!"
Or is that cynical of me? *GRIN*
I probably shouldn't make fun of it. I might not have fallen in love with writing if it weren't for those strangely nerve-wracking half-hours every morning. And truthfully, I'm pretty glad I have this little window into my much younger days. I'm not sure there are that many people who can say the same.
I have a pair of journals from when I was somewhere in the vicinity of 7 or 8 years old. They were required writing when we first got into class...and although I'm glad I kept them, I wonder a bit what the hell the point was. To make us write? We had English assignments for that. Maybe they were meant to make us more introspective, more...hmmm...thoughtful, maybe. Or however thoughtful you can be at 7 years old. I'm looking at an entry right now, and it reads: "Describe how your life might chang if there were no t.v. It will chang a little then I'll have to work every day your friend Yingzhi"
Yes. Very thought-provoking. I'm a little astounded that, even though I was only 7 and relatively new to the US, I wasn't able to come up with something a little more interesting in half a bloody hour. Come on, younger me! You're embarrassing me! I'm also mildly disturbed that we were encouraged to befriend an inanimate object. Isn't that like saying, "Here, since you're so socially inept you can't seem to get along with the other kids, why don't you try talking to this bundle of notebook paper instead! It'll be great for your self esteem!"
Or is that cynical of me? *GRIN*
I probably shouldn't make fun of it. I might not have fallen in love with writing if it weren't for those strangely nerve-wracking half-hours every morning. And truthfully, I'm pretty glad I have this little window into my much younger days. I'm not sure there are that many people who can say the same.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
On money shots (or lack thereof)
I'm of a mind to start talking about space fish and tropical pink dolphins and boxes that talk and an evening sky in which alien stars peer down and offer differing opinions about which team will win the World Cup.
But I'm not going to talk those things today.
I have been thinking about various stories that have been swirling around in my head since time immemorial, or maybe just time that I'd prefer to be immemorial. My neurosis won't allow me to physically work on more than one story at any given time, so while I'm wrangling with Homecoming the rest of these ideas are floating around in a sort of metaphysical pease porridge. I'm sort of hoping the simile won't extend too far into the realm of truth, and that I won't have to throw out the entire foul concoction after nine days (or years, as it may be).
It is, in fact, possible to think too much about a story. You can outline yourself to death (or, in this case, boredom, which may as well be death). I actually have monolithic towers composed entirely of binders organizing my notes and character profiles and histories and worlds and systems of magic and dead gods, and I suspect by sheer press of imagination they're on the verge of attaining sentience. I spent so much time trying to sort out all these little details and to make sure everything was not only coherent, but novel and interesting and possibly even pertinent that in the end, I got cold feet when it came to actually writing those stories. I keep thinking I'll get back to them someday...and who knows, maybe I will. For now, however, I'm coming to adopt a much less...premeditated...method of writing.
You know, after all meandering I do in these posts, you'd think I'd eventually come to some sort of grand, majestic, life-affirming point. But really, I kind of just dribble off and go nowhere. It's like a poorly shot porno that ends before the money shot.
But I'm not going to talk those things today.
I have been thinking about various stories that have been swirling around in my head since time immemorial, or maybe just time that I'd prefer to be immemorial. My neurosis won't allow me to physically work on more than one story at any given time, so while I'm wrangling with Homecoming the rest of these ideas are floating around in a sort of metaphysical pease porridge. I'm sort of hoping the simile won't extend too far into the realm of truth, and that I won't have to throw out the entire foul concoction after nine days (or years, as it may be).
It is, in fact, possible to think too much about a story. You can outline yourself to death (or, in this case, boredom, which may as well be death). I actually have monolithic towers composed entirely of binders organizing my notes and character profiles and histories and worlds and systems of magic and dead gods, and I suspect by sheer press of imagination they're on the verge of attaining sentience. I spent so much time trying to sort out all these little details and to make sure everything was not only coherent, but novel and interesting and possibly even pertinent that in the end, I got cold feet when it came to actually writing those stories. I keep thinking I'll get back to them someday...and who knows, maybe I will. For now, however, I'm coming to adopt a much less...premeditated...method of writing.
You know, after all meandering I do in these posts, you'd think I'd eventually come to some sort of grand, majestic, life-affirming point. But really, I kind of just dribble off and go nowhere. It's like a poorly shot porno that ends before the money shot.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
On dues
My coworkers are easily among the most patient people alive, because I am an incredibly difficult person to work with. This is not because I am myself difficult, stubborn, stupid, or incompetent...but because more often than not I am WAY too chipper for any given work day, enjoy singing completely random songs while I work (today's selection, "Poor Unfortunate Souls" brought to you by Walt Disney's "The Little Mermaid"!), am a nosy git and have a habit of looking over people's shoulders when they work. They also suffer the brunt of my angst whenever I'm in the throes of yet another crush on yet another cute, delightful, marvelous, and utterly uninterested boy. I love my coworkers (except when Jess is in a mood, which she's occasionally in. She's delightful when she's had enough sleep and isn't being stressed by a hundred batty old rich women.)
Although I am surprised one of them hasn't just stood up and bitch-slapped me at some point in the past. After being on the receiving end of endless questions from the coworker I mentioned in an earlier post about why, exactly, she shouldn't date this divorcing man, I've gotten a certain appreciation for how annoying an infatuated person can be. I blame it on my sparkling personality and charming demeanor. How could you possibly hit somebody as eloquent and as pleasant as me?
Changing topics, I'm going home to Virginia to help Mom move from her temporary apartment into a new house. I've been meaning to talk with her about certain things that have been occurring in my life, so I expect that by the end of the weekend we will have either grown closer to each other emotionally or be attacking each other with sharp objects and nuclear devices. Maybe both!
Although I am surprised one of them hasn't just stood up and bitch-slapped me at some point in the past. After being on the receiving end of endless questions from the coworker I mentioned in an earlier post about why, exactly, she shouldn't date this divorcing man, I've gotten a certain appreciation for how annoying an infatuated person can be. I blame it on my sparkling personality and charming demeanor. How could you possibly hit somebody as eloquent and as pleasant as me?
Changing topics, I'm going home to Virginia to help Mom move from her temporary apartment into a new house. I've been meaning to talk with her about certain things that have been occurring in my life, so I expect that by the end of the weekend we will have either grown closer to each other emotionally or be attacking each other with sharp objects and nuclear devices. Maybe both!
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