Blog Recommendation

Don't miss Lori's latest:
Play In One Act
A truly funny story about some of the joys you experience when you work for PBS.
While you're there, check out some of her other stories.

Lori, you crack me up!

Hidden Agenda REVEALED!

Let me start off this day by confirming that I am a simple person. Most of you who’ve known me long enough and well enough know that this is the truth. I’m very rarely up to anything. Frankly, I’m just not complex enough to come up with any ploys or write up any agendas to hide later. Between you and me, I never get past “I.” on my agenda – I. Come up with a plan. II. Ummm.... see, I. So, you can well imagine how truly baffled I am by people who think I’m doing something other than trying to remember to breathe both in AND out.

Granted, you can’t control the way people perceive you so you’re placed in the predicament where you have to rely on the hope that most folks are rational and sane.

In high school I remembered being told that I had some reputation for being a snob. Me. Me in my beat-up Dr. Scholl’s thumping down the hall in my jeans and ratty t-shirt sporting my barely combed hair. The same hair Ernie tried to comb out in third grade and stuff barrettes in because he’d had enough my bad grooming. If someone had said at that time (or any time), “I think Beth’s a mess” I would have understood, but a snob? I took the bait, “why do they think that?” “Because you’re quiet.” “…” Hey, that’s the beauty of high school logic for you. That was probably my first big taste of people seeing you without actually “seeing” you. (Out of curiosity - Seth, as the only person who knew who I was in high school and who reads my drivel, was “snob” the adjective you’d ascribe to me? Be nice. Well, be reasonably nice. Ok, just don’t say anything that will make me think tickets to Chicago aren’t that expensive.)

Some years later some of my KLRU co-workers were getting married and sent me a lovely wedding invitation. It was beautiful – perfectly crafted for them with stunning photographs and just the right poem expressing their love. I wrote to Jess (the soon-to-be groom) because I knew him slightly better and basically said, “congratulations – this card is lovely – Stacey looks beautiful”. I get back, “Beth, I secretly love you. Jess -- P.S. This is really Stacey” Ok, bizarre and I’m thinking this is a wedding I’m now avoiding like I should have avoided my own marriage. Of course, the whole thing was compounded during a pledge drive while Stacey pawed Jess and whips her head over at me, “Jess has a crush on you.” I smiled and moved away. See, in Bizarro world where I’m a pretty pretty princess and I’m cool that would happen, but this is the real world where Stacey was genuinely a stunning prom queen (she has a regional Emmy award – she’d want you to know that) and Jess was the handsome, moody artsy type. It’s as likely as the football captain asking for my number. Anyway… it was strange and unnerving. (Now Lori, I have to point to you since you saw this particular weirdness go down. Kendra even got to witness it.) It was one of those things where I was left feeling awkward and confused. Why was the crazy woman picking on me? I don’t like attention especially attention I haven’t earned.

Then a few months back I’m having a casual exchange with someone. We’re bantering back and forth in a way that would make my Southern grandmother proud. You know, where you feign interest and ask inane questions in a valiant attempt to be polite and seem interested. We all do it. Don’t you judge me. You throw on a big fake smile and if you’re feeling frisky there might be shoulder patting and hand shaking. After some back and forth I get a “nice try”. My thought bubble popped up, “oh crap, I’m trying something… what am I trying… am I up to something? Did my sub-conscious take over again without sending a memo and filling out the appropriate forms to my conscious?”

So, here’s a “for the record”: While I do “try” things on occasion, they’re usually on my family and very closest circle of friends. I’m not a snob; I’m quiet. I don’t want to play into your psychoses involving your insecurities about your relationship – find someone pretty and deserving. And I’m really not sophisticated enough nor do I care enough to try anything on people who are mere acquaintances or strangers, but I appreciate the flattery – thanks for thinking I’m that smart and cool. That someone actually thinks I’m that capable makes me blush. Let me back up and confess, I did “try” something - when I said several posts back that I wanted an iPod with video capability, I was dead serious and was hoping someone would take up a pool. My birthday is in 3 short months. We’re totally blowing off the annual skate party, so the $5-$10 you save can go towards the iPod. Heck, save $2 on the card to throw in there… see, it’s coming together. Oh, and the other thing I’m “trying” is I’m trying to go to the Renaissance Faire for Pirate weekend; I think that plan may be playing out – my victim is totally unsuspecting. That’s the sum of my schemes at the moment.

The Rest of You

You're all interesting and unique little snowflakes. Bless your hearts.
In other words: no, I'm not writing about you.

Jonathan

Oh good Lord, everyone wants a story!!

Let me tell you why I love Jonathan. Well, I can’t tell you all the reasons because it would go on too long, but I can tell two stories that speak to his character.

There was the time that some kids were picking on another kid in Jonathan’s gym class and started throwing balls at him. Jonathan planted himself between the balls and that kid. Jonathan continues to plant himself in that spot.

Once upon a time, I was ending another of my goofy relationships, the ones Anna would love for me to write about. The guy was bringing his friends along and there was one I truly despised. (I felt he had a big hand in causing the relationship to bust apart.) Jonathan kindly offered to be there and represent my camp along with Anna. (Some simple truths - never invade Russia in the winter and never get on the bad side of Anna and Jonathan when they’re feelin’ squirrelly and are jonesing for an idiot). The little guy who came to help put me in my place never saw it coming and I’d like to imagine he’s still reeling from the abuse unleashed on him by Jonathan and Anna that night. They entered that ring and would tag out so they each had a turn at this kid. I wish I could remember the words that were exchanged, but for starters that would imply the guy got a word in, which he really didn’t. So once again, Jonathan was standing between the bullies and the abused. (Jonathan/Anna, I would love to hear your take on this again.)

Now mind you when I say “Jonathan” you can also replace it with “Anna” unless it’s a very specific story. Although, Jonathan occasionally forgets that he’s supposed to help fan the flames and tries to mediate or help me see someone else’s side of a problem. To him I say, Jonathan they’re wrong, I’m right and it’s not my fault their mammas rejected them as babies – clearly their mammas had insight from the get-go that we’re only witnessing now. If I wanted to see things from another person’s perspective, I would have followed my father’s lead and become a social worker.

I still like Jonathan because he will help fan those flames. I understand it’s out of self-interest just to hear me rant, but at least I’m getting attention and my opinions are being validated (even if that’s not truly the case).

He’s by far the best fiction writer I know. I greatly envy his friend Tim’s birthday stories. He’s also one of the funniest people I know and definitely the one with the quickest wit - you have to stay on your toes if you want to keep up. Oh, and he’s also not for the overly sensitive. If you expose your Achilles tendon, expect to use a wheelchair. (Again, you can easily use Anna’s name there.) One last thing, he’s one of the best emotional babysitters if you’re having a crisis.

… and if he accidentally strangles you in a untried wrestling hold he’ll not only give you a nice Wizard of Oz glass, but he’ll explain to you how he could have killed you.

Does anyone ELSE want a story? SHEESH! Jonathan, as with Toree, I want presents and I demand more quality ranting time. Presents do not include bread crunchies or toasties or whatever that is and no crickets.

Forums

I mention forums and behold, I have forums c/o Anna.

I mention tags and I get no tags. Just some guff about switching to another blog host. Sheesh... that sounds like work.

Anyway, knock yourself out. The link is to the side.

Tori

Written under extreme duress.

Well Tori being Tori has asked for a story about herself. I would remind her about the myth of Narcissus, but she’d have to set the mirror down and really, you don’t want to come between her and that mirror.

I know Tori as Toree and I know Toree exclusively from online. I’ve never seen her and I think I’ve only talked to her on the phone once when she was trying to track down Lynn. Her sister Beth, who is really Tikki in my world, claims Toree looks like she does online, so armed with that description I can tell you that Tori is about 1” tall, she wears her strawberry blonde hair in the fashion of Carrie Fisher before she was molested by Jabba the Hut and her well-rounded ears come to a slight point. She has hairy feet and a penchant for highly ornamented skullcaps. She suffers from a mild case of Tourette’s syndrome and a hint of dyslexia (Toree, it’s “bard” not “brad” sheesh!). If she’s convinced you to dye your armor navy blue and orange, you’ll fall into her “da Bears! Go Bears!” trap all night (and all the next day, and the next week, and the next…). Don’t let her trick you.

I tend to refer to her as a pie filled “h8ling”, which is a play on “halfling”, but the thing I love about Tori (Miss Victoria) is she’s hands down one of my all time favorite story tellers. I don’t tell her that much, because it sends her racing for her mirror. I’m not sure how she came by her natural gift to tell a good story – maybe it’s her Irish Catholic heritage, being the middle child in a gigantic family with so many characters, having a father “Pops” who was a magnificent singer or managing to trooper through so much that life has dealt her, but when she gets going you’ll sit quietly and let her spin her tale.

I’m going to butcher one of her stories in the hopes that she’ll retell it again. So, when you read it and go “huh”, remember it’s bait for Tori. Now, I can’t make it nearly as funny as Tori can, so again look for her comments. I don’t think she can resist (give her time – one handed typing with a mirror is a pain).

One of the great losses in Tori’s life was her sister Yvonne. I wish I could tell you more about Yvonne other than I believe Yvonne liked lighting a flame to her younger sister’s feet while they were asleep. Tori assures me this was hysterical (and makes me glad I don’t have siblings, especially older siblings who like fire). If I’m not mistaken, I believe Yvonne also sang as well as Pops. Anyway, the family is at the funeral looking at the flowers people have sent when they see the arrangement from Yvonne’s husband’s co-workers acknowledging the great loss of “Yvette”. Tori files this away in her head and eventually scoots into the pews with her family to listen to the service. The minister addresses the mourners talking about loss, particularly the loss of the beloved “Yolanda”. Tori, being Tori, leans over and demands loudly, “Who the hell is Yolanda, I thought we were hear for Yvette’s funeral??”

In a nutshell, that’s Tori to me – very funny and very quick even in the face of tragedy. Online she’s the kind of person who can turn a phrase in such a way, the phrase begs for mercy and you laugh until your sides hurt. I’m always blessed when she shares a story and particularly love tales of Pops, Yvonne and her sister-in-law, Becca.

To Toree -- ARE YOU SATISFIED NOW? HAPPY?!?! Presents now, kkthx ~lalala. (Extra presents, since I made people think I like you.)

Guestbook

Many thanks to Anna for setting up a new feature for Big Blue Mess - a guestbook. I've put a link to the side; the actual link isn't dolled up, but it is functional.

Some random thoughts...

I'm going to tell you a little story. Many years ago Lori had this notion that I should write down my stories, apparently I'd given her a chuckle or two on a couple of occasions. She even kindly made up a list of "my favorite Beth stories" so I had stories to practice on - some I've written up already on Big Blue Mess. Now I was flattered, but honestly I'm not a writer. Note, that's present tense. At best, I'm a dabbler. I write like I speak and willingly abuse accepted grammatical rules. I know writers. People who can really tell a story and have vocabularies that hurt my brain; I do not count myself among those elite. Jonathan followed with encouragement, many links to humorous writing and e-mails that read, "with practice, you could write like this." Finally it was Anna who actually tipped the scales with "we can write like this" and "here is your website to practice". It would be a disservice to my other friends not to also acknowledge their encouragement, but these three people stand-out. They're the kind of people who aren't there just to blow wind up your skirt and make you feel good about yourself. Their opinions carry a lot of weight with me. My step-mother was also particulary encouraging and saved my e-mails suggesting I do the same. (I'd kill to have my original e-mail about Lady Bird.)

Anyway, to make a long story longer. Big Blue Mess solely serves as my practice site for my writing with a couple of notable exceptions. It's my place to vomit on a screen and force my friends and family to read the garbage in my addled head. It's nothing more than that. It's not my pulpit to call down the wrath of my political or spiritual beliefs; it's just slice-of-life stories.

The reason I initially hedged on having comments on is because I wanted the stories to stand on their own and not be an unwieldy discussion covering the globe of everyone's spleen. Trust me when I say I mean that in the nicest way possible. I wanted feedback more than quips. Currently, the feedback on my stories I receive that helps me with my writing only comes through private e-mails; I love those. It helps me get a feel for what people like... what my three think works. It helps even if I can't say that I'm getting any better.

That's not to say I haven't really enjoyed some of the comments/discussions, but it makes me think I may need a forum. I love to quip; I can do it all day; it helps me fine tune one of my actual skills - being snide.

So, if you see sometimes that the comments have gone off, it's because I just want the story to stand on its own. Sometimes I want what I write about to be the most important thing on my website - a website designed to help me improve my writing (and I acknowledge that it's not all good). On those days, I want you to actually read what I said and not rush to get your particular thoughts on toe jam thrown up in the comments section. While I am deeply interested in what you have to say, sometimes it's going to have to wait a few days.

Those are my random thoughts on this site...

Big thanks to those of you who've given me feedback on my writing.

Self Discovery

If I had tags, this would be tagged “old story”. If I weren’t lazy, I’d have a link to my working guest book, too. As Kurt Vonnegut says, “So it goes.”

Have you ever wondered how you would react in a specific situation? Would you face down the gunman threatening the room? Would you stand up for the woman being told she had to move to the back of the bus? Beat up the schoolyard bully? Walk up to George Takei and say, “I loved you most right after Scotty and Spock. Hey, number three ain’t bad!” If your mom opened the hotel room door for a stranger who was banging on it at 2am, would you stand by her side or head to the bathroom and lock the door? Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m a natural born coward. I wouldn’t do any of that and I did lock myself in the bathroom. Hey, if Mom wants to take her chances on strangers claiming “it’s Bernard” (like we knew a Bernard) at 2am in the morning, well she’s on her own. For the record, the door in that bathroom was pretty solid, however the window was kind of small; it would have taken some time to wiggle out of there. I think the door would have held which would have bought me precious time if the need to shimmy through it had arisen.

A long time ago I was in Manhattan throwing myself another pity party that required Jerry’s attendance, which meant I crashed at his place and sulked. Jerry had to go to work so he handed me the keys to the place and said, “I don’t want to see you when I get back. Go out into the city. Go explore. Don’t sit here and watch TV all day.” Way to ruin a perfectly good trip, Jers.

I headed towards the subway armed with crib notes. You really shouldn’t walk around with a big map in New York according to the natives. I descended the stairs to the subway and started heading downtown. This was my first hiccup. See, as a Texan one truth is that downtown is where all the big buildings are – it’s where everything is. We don’t have an “uptown”. Uptown is North Austin and I didn’t need to go to North Austin or to Albany for that matter. As the train lurched along I started seeing Bleecker and Canal (ok, Manhattan know-it-alls, if you’re reading that critically and saying “well yeah, if you go from one end to the other and take the L then transfer to the F” I’m giving you the finger). I realized I was heading to China Town and away from the area I needed to get to. I was going “downtown” and I really did need “uptown”. As you know, Manhattan is a few short miles filled with big buildings and one large park.

I finally arrive at the right stop and head to the MoMA. The whole time I’m thinking about all the filming that takes place in New York and wondering if I’d see anything going on. Since I’m me, I was also thinking about how people get discovered on the street. What would I do if I were “discovered”?

I entered the MoMA and prepared to take my big tour. The “Look, See I Can Leave the Apartment” tour to prove to Jerry I was independent. (All of my friends know better.) As I’m milling in the lobby area an older gentleman approaches me. He asks if I’m part of his student film group here to take a tour of the museum. He goes on to tell me that he made documentaries and don’t I have the loveliest cheekbones. He could possibly use me in a movie. My head came plummeting back down out of the clouds. What? Me, in your movie? He handed me his card. Great, I could be in his porn. I bet I have nice cheekbones. Take a look at my mouth while you’re at it, too. He wanted to meet up with me later and asked for my phone number. Of course, being clever I made one up. Yes, off the top of my head I just started spilling out numbers and realized “CRAP! That’s Mom’s number.” That’s when I had to do some damage control and said something clever like, “oh, did I say 2, I meant 3.” I’m so foxy. If Anna had been there she would have rolled her eyes at my lame attempt to correct the number and likely cuffed me in the back of my head. See, I have a disability. I’m incapable of lying in a convincing manner.

After some moments I made a lame excuse and ran. I spent the rest of the exhibit ducking every so often. In fact, except for a Monet, I can’t tell you what I saw. Ok, that’s a lie, I saw a remarkable scribble exhibit. Write a cursive “e” and then repeat it 100 times – in crayola, chalk, pen, paint and then put it on canvas, paper, a chalk board, etc. Who knew how artistic the cursive “e” could be? I didn’t. Still don’t. That’s why nice people don’t take me out to nice things.

Here’s what I learned about myself that day. I’m far too cynical to be discovered. I know deep in my soul that if I were ever “discovered” it wouldn’t be a magical moment – limousines, champagne and hanging out with some guy named Goldwyn. It would be some pervy porn director preying on tourists in a museum on a day I just wanted to sulk in an apartment and watch TV.

My Personal Online Guide

I’ve been online since around 1992. That year I got my first e-mail account, learned how to make use of telnet and determined that UNIX and I were definitely never going to be friends. I’ve talked to a lot of people in that time and in the beginning I bothered to meet them in real life (IRL). At first, I had this romanticized naïve idea that online people could see you for the person you were inside and not judge you for your flaws – whether those flaws were physical or social. I had my own personal reasons for finding this appealing, but we’re not going to delve into those. They typically leave my friends drained and upset – the tired self-esteem vs. self-awareness debate. However, I do still believe that in some cases, for some people, being online can be liberating in a positive way, which is another long discussion.

After being online for so many years, here are some things I’ve come to believe as true (with the qualifier that they’re true for me):

1) You’re the only sane person online. Use that as your mantra and you can face any and all bizarre behavior that you will encounter. You will encounter bizarre behavior.

2) Everything you think is private is being logged, captured and will show up some place that will maximize the embarrassment to you.

A decent example of #2 (appropriately numbered) happened when two folks on a game I participate in decided to get their groove on. The way this particular game is coded, it broadcasts certain actions over a fairly wide area. Now while they were having a Barry White moment, there were at least 20 people in the vicinity who had some very interesting things pop on their screen. A plucky little feller popped by to say hello and thank them for sharing, which is where the logs and screenshots began. What we all got to see posted the next day was a completely naked elf holding an item called a 16 lb. Bass. That kept everyone busy for days. Not only were the logs funny in a 12 year old’s “I just hit puberty” kind of way, but what the heck was the bass about? There was a lot of speculation. Those players quietly left our particular server.

3) That reminds me of #3 – people gossip. Now we all know that gossip isn’t necessarily gospel, but people enjoy it just the same and once it starts to spread, it might as well be gospel. Reputations are ruined this way. I have a GREAT example, but it makes me shudder thinking about it. Let’s just say sharing special web cam time with people other than your significant other don’t mix. Although, hearing the story kept me occupied for a long time last night.

4) People lie a lot, which is up there with….

5) A lot of people need a lot of attention and negative attention still counts. Again, I have a really good example that I even typed out, but re-read it and it just creeped me out again so it had to go away. For my former EQ group, I’m just saying “Zentina”

6) Those hot chick avatars you’re chasing are overweight 40 year old men who like the look of a female avatar. Don’t hit on them. If they're not 40 year old overweight men, they could be my 30 year old boyfriend. Don’t hit on him either, especially around me. It’s freaky. (As I was told one time, when I was picking on Jay’s character in-game by some randy kid “you don’t know her, she’s a lovely, sweet, beautiful girl”. I about choked.)

7) The undead chick is me. I chose her because she is unappealing, has missing flesh, skulks about and looks creepy. Don’t hit on me. I applaud your undead fetish, but come on, it’s indicative of so many other issues. Seek help. (Note: I’ve long passed my cuddly online Carebear years. I don’t pay $14.95 per month to babysit you and I’m not looking for a date; I’ve moved past that. However, I do pay $14.95 to hunt you down. We can hug between well-aimed shots.)

8) Knowing someone online will never take the place of knowing someone in real life in any satisfactory way.

Finally, I’ll leave you with a website from Nick Yee. Nick is a graduate student at Stanford who has put a lot of effort into studying various aspects of online gaming. He actually has some real insight

Photo Phollow-up

One more comment - I'm amazed at what people like, based off the handful of comments I received on Flickr. The picture I personally like the best, of the ones that are posted is: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bigbluemess/222506216/in/set-72157594247858055/
It's a picture of a silverback at Zoo Atlanta. I liked it because of the color and of course, the fact that there was about a 3 ft. fence between me and that gorilla. Well, that's more a fact than a "like". Anyway, when I see the picture, I see him looking at me and I see him thinking "white girl, that flash pops off once while you're outside, in the daylight and I'm leaping this insignificant barrier and pounding you."

What separated us was that fence... all three feet - there wasn't a moat and I was really trying to channel Gorilla's in the Mist. "If he charges, lower your head, tuck down and be passive. Make a fist. He'll eat your fingers otherwise. That looks like a finger eatin' monkey." (As we know all red necks like me think gorillas are monkies.)

The picture the handful of them like the best looks to me like any picture you can find in anyone's photo album on any given day. A throw away shot - not even worth opening up.

House pictures should be going up soon - again, no master pieces or apprentice pieces or journeyman pieces among them - just the stuff you'd find in a photo album. They'll be up so those of you who want to but haven't seen the house yet can take a peek. No, we don't have any paintings yet. However, if you'd like to throw in for any of these: Kathy Womack Gallery - Black Gloves prints. I will say thank you real nice like!

Flickr

I’m always a little bit behind the times - the kid always chasing their older sibling around trying to see what they’re doing because it must be the coolest thing ever. If you were to ask me about any of my interests, more than likely I could point to someone I know and say “that’s who turned me onto this.”

Take photography. My Dad is an amazing photographer and I particularly enjoy his black & whites. I’ve never been spelunking, but I’ve been inside many a cave and seen water slowly drip off a stalactite through his sequence of photos. My stepmother is equally talented; she also happens to be an artist who approaches her subjects with that eye. I love her photos. You should get her to do a scrapbook for you; they’re amazing. My uncle had several of his photos published in national magazines. You’d think I could have picked something up along the way. I wish there was some genetic code that made me a natural photographer, but the only blood relation I mentioned above was Dad, so it’s a bit of an uphill battle.

I’ll fast forward through my semester in high school photojournalism (they made a scheduling mistake, but I did learn how to work in a darkroom), having my 35 mm stolen while a friend borrowed it (he paid me back, but I think I put the money towards rent) and all my many sad attempts at photography. Don’t give me the practice lecture! What I want to talk about is Flickr. (www.flickr.com)

I’m thoroughly addicted to it. I mean seriously addicted. In fact, rather than typing right now I’d rather be Flickr-ing. Last night it was hard beating up 15 year-old boys’ avatars because I wanted to return to Flickr (and I love beating people up online), but I persevered. (Trust me, murdering avatars online helps with the stress.)

I got on there because of Anna. Sure, I’d seen Seth and Lori’s photo streams and enjoyed the occasional one I’d pull up, but it never occurred to me to go online and set-up an account. Now Anna, who is not the least bit bossy, sent me a note “Get on Flickr.” Now I hate having 30 million online accounts and 30 million passwords that I can’t keep up with, so I wasn’t keen, but she promised I could see all the pictures that weren’t public and she knows that a hook for me - seeing things other people couldn’t see – it’s like being in a members only club. It also helped that I already had a Yahoo account, so I didn’t actually have to create a new login. Once I was there, I thought what the heck, Lynn keeps hassling me about posting pictures from Dragon Con and I’ve got the account, I might as well upload something.

I tried doing searches on tags and groups, because I wanted to populate my “Favorites”. (You can see my favorites by going to: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bigbluemess and clicking on “Favorites”.) I found I kept putting up Seth’s pictures (http://www.flickr.com/photos/swanksalot/) and I was feeling a bit creepy and stalky – again like the kid that wouldn’t leave their cooler sibling alone. Then I branched out by looking at Seth’s favorites (ok, ok, it still sounds like I’m stalking Seth, but I was using his favorites as a launching pad). I loved this one guy’s pictures – Michael DaKidd (http://www.flickr.com/photos/commortis/). I posted a comment on one of his pictures. The next thing I knew, I was Mr. DaKidd’s newest contact, which made me want to hide all of my pictures; they just don’t come close to comparing. He was kind enough to recommend one of my pictures to a group (I still don’t get the group thing). Trust me when I say, it doesn’t belong among all of those great pictures but it was flattering as hell. It was a bit like having William Faulkner say “good story, kid”. Still I got it accepted and it sits there like the ugly kid at the beauty pageant. (I really need to start using analogies like – the airhead at the tech convention, but you get the point.)

I’m having an easier time populating my favorites now that I’ve started looking at other photographer’s work. If they take the time to comment on a picture, I make sure to drop by their area and I’m never disappointed. There are just so many beautiful, wonderful, amazing and outstanding pictures out there. I wish I could bundle them up in some gigantic coffee table book and flip through them or have the rest framed and hanging around our house. I wish for one day I could see the world through their eyes – be there when they capture that moment. The computer has pulled me out of this world for a long time, but for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m being pulled back into it – trying to adjust to “real” images instead of pixilated cartoons named Mepwnulolol (roughly translated from d00d l337 speak (dude elite speak) that’s “I’m a mighty warrior haha”).

If I’ve piqued your interest at all, be sure check-out Farl’s photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/colloidfarl/

Now I’m off to discover new interests through Seth’s website (hey, it’s not stalking – he’s got a LOT on that site – keeps me busy for hours www.b12partners.net/mt) plus, I’m always trolling for new hobbies and you never know what I’ll discover.

Seth, thanks to one of your latest entries, Jay is now getting the RC helicopter. His bi-plane crashed on a neighbor’s roof. Whoops! However, there are no rules in the HOA manual about decorating the neighbor’s roofs with toys.

Snobbery

There are days that I don’t like what I do. I think everyone goes through it – those days you wake up and wonder, “How did I get here?” A few of you I know are exactly where you expected to be and despite a few bumps, you enjoy what you’re doing. I applaud you. I’m also absolutely jealous of you, too.

Not too long ago I went from a place with too few rules to return to a place with too many rules. I went from a place where you could scream at the top of your lungs, “I’m going to f*ing kill you.” (true story) to a place where you can be written up for gossip after informing your supervisor about an upcoming blow-up in the office. (true story). I went from a place of creativity to a place where creativity/individuality is strongly discouraged and frowned upon (so I had my hair dyed a lovely eggplant and was told that it wasn’t a “natural” color – they’re slow, but they eventually catch on). I’m in a place now where you don’t twitch without getting approval from the lowest bidder to make sure it’s the most inefficient and cheapest way to twitch.

It’s mostly ok and the one saving grace that keeps my mind engaged are the overheard conversations – the break between my NPR in the morning and NPR on the way home. Take yesterday, I learned something new from Red Neck Mandy and Michael who were tackling the lofty debate of evolution versus creation. Mandy took up evolution while Michael, a minister, of course went for creation. The upshot of it was that your appendix, despite some people claiming it served no function, does have a purpose. The argument for a useful appendix went, if it can kill you after rupturing then it is doing something and it therefore has a purpose. See, this is why I’d be bad at debate. I couldn’t make those kinds of connections. I also learned that your tailbone is also useful because it supports your entire spine. Fascinating stuff.

Michael a few weeks earlier had asked what A.M. and P.M. stood for. Now, I wouldn’t fault anyone that doesn’t know. Honestly, I wasn’t certain – I got the “M” right and I personally believe you should never look down on someone who is earnestly trying to seek knowledge. Since he asked, I just popped open a dictionary and gave him the definition. Michael was excited and I was for him because he was armed with new information and it was making him very happy. Then I got to listen for the next 5-10 minutes about how brilliant the question was – I mean sure, it was a fine question I suppose as fine as any question can be, but this question was getting a ticker tape parade and had a marching band. I didn’t think it was quite that fine of a question. He continued on with, “I’m not sure why I thought to ask that question? But it was good, wasn’t it?” (true story)

I’ll wrap up my discourse on how arrogant I am with last week’s excitement in the office. Lisa, another office mate, was giddy. “Beth, guess what? My friend’s dog is a woman now.” “What?” “Yes, she’s in heat. I’m so excited for her. Aren’t you excited?” She continued giggling and called up friends to announce the good news. Hooray, doggy reproduction. Is there a Hallmark card that shows how much I care? (I’m sure there is – that’s the disgusting part.)

Does anyone need an assistant?

Memory Lane

The one truly great thing about having friends over a long period of time is that you get to serve as a living record for every embarrassing moment you’ve ever shared together. Thankfully, I’m quite skilled at this game and can usually outdo my friends who use the brains for more useful information (no Anna, this is not a challenge). I was very kind to Angie during our visit and managed not to remind her of the 50 PLUS PLASTIC FRAKING HORSES that I’m not still bitter about. I even managed not to mention the excruciating horse trial. Instead, I pulled out our 7th and 8th grade yearbooks – ripe material.

We had fun looking at the old pictures of people you barely remember. The bad hair, the bad clothes, the bad teachers, etc. You can tell when Angie had more influence on the yearbook staff our 8th grade year because pictures of me started popping up. I swear she’s the reason I got an A on a report. One picture showed me playing my viola for a class (one of those painful autobiography lessons for English). Mind you I was part of a trio but you wouldn’t know it thanks to Angie’s clever cropping. The caption beneath the picture mentioned my grade – an A. I think out of embarrassment, my teacher raised my grade a tad so it would look better in print. Hey, I’ll suffer through a bad picture for an A.

Of course, the best parts of the yearbooks were the autographs at the back. We laughed at Angie’s remarks which seemed to be decorated with lots of hearts surrounding her initials and the + attached to various guy’s names. “Beth, who was L.S.?” “Luke Skywalker”. She turned bright red and laughed. “Ok, who was F.G?” I didn’t have a clue and suggested the name Frank. Angie gasped, “Oh, that’s my cousin Frank!” “Cousin? Cousin lovin’ freak!” She protested, “but he wasn’t a blood relation…” Mmm hmmm. For the record, Texas is very close to Arkansas although not quite so close to West Virginia.

I showed her the pictures from the 20 Year Reunion pointing out the people she would have known. “Here is Paula.” “Why am I having a bad reaction to that face and name?” “Well, she kind of bit you in a struggle for your notebook in 7th grade.” Sometimes, I hate the useless information I keep stored in my head. Why can’t I remember basic laws of physics instead of junior high hallway fights? Why can’t there be a job for grudge holders like me? a legal job – one that won’t involve prison time and a tattooed love muffin named Bertha?

We finished this trip down memory lane by reading some of the great autographs – from the bad alliteration “Be careful because big boys bring big babies. Mark” I didn’t date, so I would have been happy with any boy at that point. To the “Dear Beth, a girl who hated me but now is a cool friend. Shannon” That must have been a temporary truce because I honestly couldn’t recall a time that I liked Shannon. An aside, I reminded Angie that she dated Shannon, which got, “FOR A DAY!!! FOR A DAY!!! I told him it wasn’t working out by the time school was out.” And all the goofy acronyms like “TTYL”. Angie looked at hers one final time, “Beth, what is LYLAS?” “Love you like a sister.” Angie beamed, “I do!” Aww… then there was hugging and if I were a hugger, this would be a sweet cheesy way to end the story but we’ll end it with what I thought in that moment, “OMG! GET OFF OF ME!!!!! NO HUGGING! CHRIST!”

Angie

There are few people that have made a distinct impression on me the first time I met them. My friend Ernie was responsible for helping me find my day care van the first day I attended school in Austin. I remember Jonathan as the very serious soon-to-be new RA at our dorm when we were huddled around receiving instructions for monitoring balconies. A parade went underneath our dorm and the residents had a nasty habit of unloading whatever they could grab on the parade goers (liquids, pickles, a full keg...). Everyone else I know is more a blur – no beginning to the friendship; it just always was.

Tonight I have my first overnight houseguest. She’s someone I haven’t seen in 16 years and for various reasons I’m nervous and anxious. Angie is also one of those people I distinctly remember meeting.

In 6th grade our teacher, Mrs. Craig, announced we were getting a new student – a girl who had been advanced a grade named Angie. Immediately, I didn’t like her. I didn’t have to know her to know that I didn’t want some sassy overachiever elementary school kid near me. We had 6th grade centers back then and I’d legitimately exited mine, unlike some kids named Angie. When she entered our classroom she completely lived up to my expectations. She flaunted her advanced vocabulary, plagued the teacher with tons of questions about Algebra (mind you, we were just at the stage where we were doing advanced multiplication and division in our public school system) and challenged the teacher’s knowledge on various subjects. Needless to say, the girl caused me to roll my eyes so many times I’m sure people thought they were white.

Karma is constantly biting me in the butt, so that meant Angie road our bus. This was actually a bad time for Angie because she was separated from the teachers who recognized her for her intelligence. In the classroom, she was special. On the bus, she was a target. Here she was with kids who didn’t particularly like new kids and didn’t like new kids who thought they were so smart they could go around skipping grades. I remember the day she stepped off the bus and the two bus brutes (girls, of all things) stepped off after her. I watched in a very satisfied manner thinking, “yeah, that new girl has it coming.”

When our teacher finally separated Angie from another group because their talking had become an issue, she had it in mind to place her next to me. “Beth, you won’t talk to Angie will you?” GOD NO! First, as I’ve mentioned before I gave up talking after 3rd grade and 2nd, it was Angie. I’m not talking to the new kid. That first day Angie bounded in with a huge smile, plopped down and said in her very characteristic and cheery way “Hi! I’m Angie!”

I struggled from that moment forward. I didn’t want to like her but she was kind of nice, I suppose and funny and very chatty. Mom remembers a time we ran into at the corner store and said to me, “that little girl really likes you, Beth.” I shrugged. Good for her.

The first time Angie called my house, she gave me a 100 question quiz she had concocted. Basically, Angie felt most people our age were rather ignorant and this was a way to measure intelligence. 100 questions is a lot of questions when you’re in 6th grade and would rather be skateboarding or climbing up on your roof. The one that really stood out was, “What is the gestation period of a sheep?” Gestation? Of a sheep? You've got to be kidding me!

The first time I spent the night at her house, I was forced to memorize the names of her 50+ plastic horses. FIFTY PLUS!!!! She wouldn’t let me go to sleep until I knew all of them and to this day I remember a few and I’m bitter about that. Then there was the horse trial – a play featuring several of these plastic equine stars and I got to be the audience of one. Karma. I was in my own special hell.

I learned many things that night. “Beth, don’t eat the brownies?” “Why? … Your parents put WHAT in them?” “Beth, the bathroom may have porn.” “Really?” I’m pretty sure our bathroom never had porn. “Beth, this is ABBA” as a headset was thrown at me. “ABBA?” (Now you know that partial reason that “Dancing Queen” has been my sign-off song at every skating birthday party for the last 10 years. It’s how I get Angie there.) At 8am that morning she finally let me go to sleep.

Angie methodically broke me down and she’s been my friend ever since. One of my saddest days was the day I started high school, terrified because I had heard there were gangs and I had barely gotten over being bullied, and my 9th grade English teacher called her name during roll call. The kid I didn’t want sitting next to me in the beginning wasn’t going to be sitting next to me weathering the storm of high school.

These days she’s out in California practicing as a Veterinarian, something she’s wanted to be since I first met her, living with her husband and their daughter Denali.

Since we get this a lot, I want to say. No, we’re not twins. No, she’s not my sister. We have different mothers. (Ok, that’s my Dad’s line; he thinks it’s funny.) She’s my friend. My beautiful, smart, funny, clever friend and I wish I were more like her. Well, the parts that don't include 50 PLUS PLASTIC FRAKING HORSES! Hate those things. (For the record, she still apologizes for that.)

Reflections

The fifth anniversary of the day the towers fell has come and gone. I had thought about posting my pictures of the towers, but they’re part of my memories and the media has already been saturated with those images. I remember on one of my trips standing next to one of the towers and looking up as far as I could without falling over, craning my neck to take it all in. I remember being in the lobby and taking pictures as Jerry asked, “do you want to take the elevator to the roof?” Oh hell no, I wasn’t about to risk being sucked over the edge, but I quietly admired all the people lined up to do just that. If I’m not mistaken, they sold tickets to go up to the roof; it was a bit like a theme park. The kind of ride Anna would have gotten on without a thought and if they’d had cables long enough, she would have doubtlessly bungeed off the edge.

Almost everyone has a memory of that day; it’s a bit like the phenomenon of the JFK assassination. Where were you on November 22, 1963? Me? On September 11, I was eating a bowl of cereal watching the television and just 9 short hours away from being on vacation. The news showed a plane hit the towers and the world tried to figure out what had happened meanwhile, the second plane hit. By the time I got to work the first tower had fallen. I think that’s the one thing I couldn’t get my mind around. Like the Titanic was “unsinkable”, I didn’t have room in my head to believe a tower could fall. We watched the news for several days straight until late Friday night I couldn’t take it anymore.

Five years later, those towers are still falling, the Pentagon is still burning and a plane is lying in the middle of a field in Pennsylvania. The aftermath on an international level is felt every time you read the news. We weep and we make the world feel our pain. We make them bleed.

I see the loss of innocence. From Jerry who still cringes every time he hears a plane flying too low over Manhattan to our friend’s brother who made it out of the towers but will likely remain in therapy for the rest of his life; finally having to leave New York. I think of our family friend’s son Ben, who’d just arrived in New York for a fresh start, had an interview that morning and got caught in the debris storm that rolled down the streets. Ben had to pull a woman to safety after the dark cloud that enveloped her blinded her. The two of them felt their way along the edge of a building until they reached a door.

Manhattan was always my escape for those times that I was feeling low and could scrape the money together. It was my safe haven; it’s still my safe haven – the place I’d rather be. And I believe in the call of these words and their promise:

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."
… and I feel tired and lost and sad.

Shameless BSG Plug

On the SciFi network's website there are now new "webisodes" of BSG that are being released every Tuesday and Thursday at midnight up until the new season begins.

If you are not caught up on the show, restrain yourself from going there; too much is given away in a single shot and the latest "webisode" launches immediately when you hit their site. The good news is that Season 2.5 comes out next week (Tuesday, I believe) so it's your chance.

Miscellaneous:
I submitted a story to NPR's "This I Believe" mostly because I crack myself up and I love rejection. It's up there with the time I sent a story to Newsweek for "My Turn". I either have "pluck" or I like a good kick in the teeth. Personally, I'm going with the latter.

In nerd news - the new DVD's of the Star Wars Trilogy are also coming out next week. You can watch them without all of Lucas' "enhancements". Any nerd that stands by "Han shot first" should get these. I've only found them listed on the Sci Fi site and can't nail them down on Amazon.

I'll try to finish off my roll of film this weekend and get all of it to a photo lab. Leave it to me to get a roll of 36 and take 5 pictures before leaving Atlanta. Of course, I'm the one that left a roll of film behind and grabbed up an empty cannister.

Yesterday wiped the humor out of me... maybe next week.

Deadwood

Several of you are Deadwood fans who also happen to be writers. So, being that I'm having "a day" that defies all humor, I'm throwing out my big pressing Deadwood question:

What was the purpose/role of the acting troupe in this last season?

I'm Back!

We’re back from our trip and let me be one of the many to say that home is one of the nicest places to travel to. Thanks to an exchange of “the last season of Deadwood for babysitting our cats” I came home to two happy, fluffy, indifferent bundles of “oh, it’s you people.” April, thanks for watching the cats and hope you enjoyed the last season of Deadwood. It’s good to have friends that will barter in television and movies. I’ll drop off my film in the next couple of days and then post some of the pictures up on Flikr.

About the convention - let me start by quoting Lynn “spandex is a privilege, not a right”. I think some of those same attendees felt that deodorant was really the privilege. Nothing like seeing Wonder Woman while your nose tries to crawl into your face and signals are shooting through your body saying “close down the sinus cavities, Beth needs to be a mouth breather for awhile” as tears began to form to create a protective layer around my eyes.

One of the first things we did was hit the Walk of Fame. Jay described it as part freak show/zoo where you had all the celebrities lined up along tables hoping you’d stop by and say something or at least show some signs that you recognized them. I saw, over several trips, George Takei, Alan Tudyk, Summer Glau, Nathan Brendan, The Happy Days gang (well… the Happy Days extras), Lee Merriweather, Mickey Rooney, Rip Taylor, James Callis, Adrienne Barbeau, Richard Hatch (not THAT Richard Hatch – Apollo/Tom Zarek) and Chief Tyrol, Helo and Mrs. Tigh. (IMDB and I aren’t friends at the moment, so I’m not going to dig up their real names. Plus, it’s not like you’re going to recognize the names either.) I kept missing Tracy Lords whose write up in the Dragon Con book didn’t mention anything about her porn career. Jay says she’s trying to leave that behind and be a serious actress. I’m just waiting for Ron Jeremy to do the same.

I only pestered a few of them – notably Mickey Rooney (cross your fingers the picture came out – we had shutter speed issues) where I got an autograph for Mom. Then I went over to the Ghost Hunters table to pick up a shirt. Jay shoved me forward because I was having such a fan girl reaction to them and said “you’re going to get your picture taken with them.” Jay said he knew I’d regret it if I hadn’t and I would have.

Before I get off into how I made an ass out of myself, let me tell you about Ghost Hunters or TAPS (http://www.the-atlantic-paranormal-society.com/) The Atlantic Paranormal Society. These guys go out and help people with their paranormal problems, but one reason I really appreciate them is they mostly go out and debunk. They approach their cases with a lot of skepticism while leaving room for the possibility that something paranormal (beyond normal) could be occurring. Ultimately though, they’re there to help clients and I appreciate how careful they are with the clients beliefs. Plus, these guys are two plumbers from Rhode Island who are incredibly approachable. In fact, a few minutes before they were scheduled to speak when we to see them at an event, they raced to the stage with cameras and began shooting pictures of the crowd while saying “WOW!” then they raced off. They were very genuine and in awe of the number of people who knew who they were and enjoyed what they did.

So, there I am armed with my one t-shirt from the convention, my Ghost Hunters “Dude, Run” shirt (a quote from one of their assistants when he and the camera man got seriously spooked and then that phrase was later used to mock him). Jay pushes me forward and I’m standing in front of them. I managed to shake both their hands and thank them for the work they do and get out, “can we take your picture?” Jason grabs up Grant and beckons me over with a “don’t you want to be in it, too?” Well, of course I do! The picture was snapped and now I feel like talking. This is always bad. I don’t talk. I really need to carry around a write off board and just write out what I want to say to avoid what inevitably happens… stammering. Yes, I was so excited to talk to them that I started stammering and trying to get out my big question about their website. I had worked it up in my head a day before – something about recognizing they were respectful of their client’s rights to privacy, but was there any chance they’d expand their website to include more of their personal stories on their investigations. One of their demonologists, a former priest, has several creepy stories on the site already - http://www.the-atlantic-paranormal-society.com/fireside.html

What I asked was... oh hell, I can’t even remember how I phrased it, but Grant blinked at me repeatedly and made his concerned face. The one that says, “poor girl needs her medication – I should be kind to the mentally challenged – maybe I’ll donate to the Special Olympics this year.” He was trying to be patient and understand me while signals raced through my brain saying “shut-up, you’re making an ass out of yourself” distracting me from my big question. I think I got out words like “website” and “Keith” and “stories” but not in any way that would make sense to people who didn’t grunt and walk on their knuckles. Grant finally said, “we’re always working on trying to improve our site…” I thanked him again, tucked my head down and said “Jay, I’m an asshole” then spent the rest of the day reliving my big moment. It’s hard to be me.

For the record, I logically don’t believe in ghosts or the paranormal, but I don’t want any ghosts, poltergeists, energy fields, orbs or what not hanging around my house.

Anyway, we had a good time and as I have pictures available I’ll try to some more of the highlights. There were some incredible costumes, several I didn’t get a chance to stop the people and take, so I’m hoping someone did and made them available (notably Indiana Jones, the Nazis carrying an incredible replica of the Ark of the Covenant and the priest).