Reunited and It Feels…So…

Bad.  It feels bad, alright?

            As I walked through the aisles of a local mall (an old high school haunt), I heard my name being squealed out above the speaker muzak.  When I looked up, there stood across from me, an old high-school chum that I had only remembered because of a very funny incident which took place eons ago and which has stamped this person into my memory as “The Pencil Girl”.  For the sake of not writing this out more than once, I’ll just refer to this person henceforth in this blog entry as “TPG”. 

            I didn’t get that weird sinking feeling I normally get when I run into a familiar face.  I think that I was genuinely happy to be noticed by someone all these years after graduating (Class of ’91, thank you).  My face must’ve lit up as I walked toward TPG and she seemed to feel the same thing, gushing openly at the recognition.  This relative good feeling would quickly be staunched though.  You see, for some reason, this person decided to do that thing that ANNOYS ME MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.  But more on that in a minute…

            First let me say that I’d forgotten how much I hated high school.  It was small and elitist and had a way of making me feel inadequate for no apparent reason.  As this person initiated a conversation that involved every one of her old clique’s accomplishments (in alphabetical order), I soon remembered.  The cloud descended on my person: starting from my feet, through my limbs, and up to my face which must have reflected a combination of both disgust and irritation.  TPG opened up the can of worms I’d left closed for years.  There was a reason I’d left them closed.  

            Blahbitty, Blah is a lawyer. Yukkity Yuk is a doctor.  The list went on and on. I listened as TPG was good enough to round up the memories of egos past, reciting verbatim all of her friends and their equally brilliant lives.  She was meticulously careful to omit her own, however.  After her first strike flood of nonstop triumphs, I couldn’t take it anymore.  Interrupting her I said finally, “What about you?” What fell from her lips then was pure bullshit—if you’ll pardon the expression.  “Oh, I manage blahbitty, blah, blah in between raising my children.”  She had been careful to omit this fact as well, except for a single instance when TPG mentioned her hatred of angst-ridden teenagers, while pointing at her own.  As I prodded a little, without much effort, I finally got a shred of the truth in light of a recent divorce, two or three (?) children that TPG was “dying to be rid of”, and a host of other less-than-stellar historical notes.  It wasn’t that I relished at her misfortunes, understand.  It was just that I was still confused why a person could still be so ashamed of themselves enough to begin a cover-up of their own life. 

            I’ve never been one to define myself by my friends, but TPG was apparently living vicariously through hers.  The whole experience reminded me of just how silly high school really was.  The notables, throughout our tenure there, were obvious winners just stepping through high school on their way to great careers already.  They were the Captains of the Volleyball Team, the members of the Chess Club, the Head Cheerleaders and Overachievers of America.  It was all good.  So why’d it manage to feel so bad?  Not that I didn’t have my fair share of accomplishments that I was equally proud about, but I didn’t need to give TPG my resume while we stood there.  It wasn’t necessary to explain ourselves.  I was more interested in catching up on ancient history and maybe just laughing out loud with someone who shared that whole experience.  Alas, that was not to be. 

            While some are just more apt at doing and being successes, others have only glimpses or brushes with greatness which suit them just fine.  Complete and utter normalcy, boringly random events.  Oh, and nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Isn’t that grand?  A series of plateaus and rises and falls and satisfactions and disappointments.  Real life.  Not a fairy tale or some obligatory lifestyle to live up to.  Not all people can be President or Oprah.  Sometimes, it’s just great to hear about the everyday stuff, sans fluff.  Ordinariness could well be the next fad.  Maybe.

            Then it dawned on me, as TPG raced through more lists (having a conversation with herself really), that maybe she was filled with regret.  Maybe TPG wanted to justify her life by suggesting that the other alumni were the company she chose to keep in her rolodex of memory.  The Worthies.  The Important People.  The Ones That Matter.  That’s the true reason why high school isn’t where we end up.  It’s just the rite of passage that often decides what type of person we want to be.  Nothing etched in stone.  That’s why The Most Likely To Succeed doesn’t always make it past the yearbook entry.  Yeah, sometimes it’s dead-on, but there is no definitive way of telling who’ll become what.  That’s the beauty and magic behind living.  It’s always a surprise.

            When TPG had finished talking, I was pleased to set off my merry way.  ‘Merry’ because I had been reminded of what I left behind and I was happy to leave it there.  As for her comment on the mall being so small and useless, I pose this question:

            If it were still such a dump, why was she there?

Will The Real Anne Rice Please Stand Up?

Dear Anne, Okay.  I’ve been a fan of all your previous novels.  I have.  Your ability to capture all of the details of my life were as good as Marius’s paintings.  I’ve loved your depiction of our little collaboration on the Vampire Chronicles and of course, our famed
MayFair witches.  Many have caught our newer endeavors on Broadway and we have both earned some devoted readers of all of our works, despite their much doubted “flowery” language (I’m guilty of that perhaps) and occasional disappointments (hello, Pandora?).  But now, after having completed your Christ the Lord, I am completely baffled.  Why, Anne? Why did you opt out of having an editor review the manuscript?  There were grammatical errors and redundancy, Anne.  It was a bit torturous.  Why also did you seemingly omit the more interesting points behind the childhood of The Christ: Jesus of Nazareth?  Surely you have researched the subject extensively, as defended by an impressive Bibliography that doesn’t seem to ignore any texts, be they ancient scrolls or literary commentaries.  Were you just setting up your new audience for the follow-up novel?  I am not just a consumer in an already over-flowing religious market.  You know me much better than that.  Dare I say it was almost heretical and reminded me of that poor soul, Veronica.  Still showing that tattered veil to anyone who’ll care to see it.  Is that why you left your beloved New Orleans to flee to
California?  True that I–and Louis, and Merrick–barely escaped that whole business with the levees breaking… But there is no passion in this literary work.  There is an overwhelming amount of conjecture that is not at all compelling. As old as I am, you would guess that I would have come face to face with some historical evidence that Christ’s existence was in fact, divine.  Unfortunately, I have found all to be the contrary.  I recall the passion you once had questioning the existence of God in your earlier works, Anne.  You and I have only met on occasion, but the debate was certainly one that you were always so eager to engage in.  Now, your natural curiousity has been obliterated by your renewed faith and devotion.  Where’s the flesh and the bone that made you famous, beloved?  Have you lost it?  Did you get lost in the vast array of conflicting information about the Son of God?  Was there too much?  I seriously question whether you truly believed in what you wrote.  There was only a single brief encounter with the dark angel, Anne? Only one?!  If I may paraphrase a little in the modern vernacular, “C’mon, man!”  Please bring the real Anne back.  Not just the religious devotee, but the genuine (pardon the pun) Devil’s Advocate that was not afraid of showing her readers a glimpse at the sensational.  This work is not sensational, Anne.  It’s more of a sensational failure.  I even had Louis review it and he agrees with me, albeit bedgrugingly.  Now that I’ve bought the novel, I want a return.  Bad.Your Loyal Reader,

Lestat.

10/15/06, 2:04am

When Too Much Is Really Too Much

There are too many numbers in the world…

• Account Numbers
• Customer Numbers
• Paint-by-numbers
• Purchase Order Numbers
• Serial Numbers
• Confirmation Numbers
• Phone Numbers
• License Plate Numbers
• Conference Call Numbers
• Invoice Numbers

And too many dates…

• Birthdates
• Service Dates
• Period Dates
• Anniversary Dates
• Play Dates
• Speed Dates
• Meeting Dates

Too many codes…

• Pass Codes
• Access Codes
• Data Codes
• HTML Codes

There’s just much too much of it all. The Information Superhighway has now become a multi-lane traffic jam.  Let’s stop this insanity by going back to the days when we didn’t always need so much security and protection.  We’ve almost put too much importance on the fact that we need so much of it.  The reason we’re overloaded?  Because we actually believe that we need to be “in-the-know” on everything, around the clock, all the time.  Truth is, we don’t need to be so tapped into the void.  Sometimes it’s better to unplug and tune out.  I mean, that’s the only way we can keep our sanity.  We don’t need so much information.  Really.  If we all just stopped listening to all those ads that encourage our greed, maybe we can actually notice the real sunrise and not just as a screensaver. 

The Difference Between an Eskimo Pie & A Burrito:

Today is an unseasonably warm day in a series of unseasonably warm days.  Some years ago, some people actually said that due to the startling changes in the Earth’s atmosphere or something, we were supposedly heading towards the next Ice Age?  When’d that change?  Oh, some polar ice caps melting…right.  But, I guess I’d never put those ideas to mind.  I’d just assumed that if the next Ice Age were to come upon me, then I’d totally be prepared for it.  While heading off to work in the chilly mornings here, I’ve been known to get hit from three winds since the town where I live now is near three separate bodies of water: the Kill Van Kull, New York Harbor (entrance to Hudson River) and Newark Bay.  When the winds converge they get you on all sides–which is why it always feels colder here than in JC.  Then when I get to work, the forever sub-zero temperature of the office is enough to make workers believe that it is winter year-round.  Someone told me it has something to do with the ventilation system and blah, blah, blah.  Or rather brrr, brrr, brrr! It’s cold in there! 

Disney Doesn’t Do Warming:

Just think a moment about the terminology.  The term “Ice Age” sounds so much more interesting than “Global Warming”, doesn’t it?  I guess that’s why those globe-huggers at Disney didn’t think to use that title for a movie.  I mean, Disney’s already tackled desert settings in both The Lion King and Aladdin.  What new characters could frolic in a sun-drenched hell-hole?  Sasha, the sunburned mermaid?  Pito, the perspiring pit-bull?  I think not. 

My Extra Lard Is Ice-Age Friendly:

I think that I’d almost relish in an Ice Age–the big, baggy sweaters, the hot choco, those fuzzy little ski-caps with the pom-poms on the end. Doesn’t that sound better than shorts, sticky armpits, and the drops of constant sweat (that missed your eyebrows) hitting your stinging, watery eyes?  I thought so.  So yeah, winter…bring it on, bitch!  East Coast is so not even prepared for global warming.  Dude, I just go on vacation to the Caribbean and the heat when I get off of the plane is like a slap in the face!  I personally am not even built to handle extended periods of time with no indoor pool or nozzle to cool off with.  For big girls, like myself, the thought of carrying my extra layers of fat in the staggering heat is not at all what I’m ready for.  For a week’s vacation?  Yes.  For a millenia?  No. 

More Popsicles, Please:

Just think what life would be like in a cold world.  For the first time since the Renaissance, women all over the world would be admired and envied for the extra meat on their bones.  Hey, it could happen.  Cosmo and Vogue would be replaced by issues of “Round” and “Eating Well, Lady”.  Men would be falling all over themselves to find a nice, hefty, strong woman who could withstand the next winter freeze.  The price of wood would go up as people shop for more and more homes with chimneys.  Imagine it, people.  A world of plus-size models who eat everything on their plates.  A world of chunky bedonkedonks everywhere…

But alas, it is not to be.  If Gore and all of the world scientists are correct, then global warming is imminent.  So longer days and hideously thin women will prevail.  Figures.  It’s always about figures.

Lemme Tell You Just How Stupid I Am

Today I was supposed to go to work.  Sara, who’s still in high school had the Jewish Holiday off.  I prepared to go to work today by going to bed semi-early.  I thought briefly about what I was going to order for lunch today.  I made sure I had enough change for the train.  But then, this morning…

SOMETHING WENT TOTALLY WRONG.

Perhaps it was stupidity.  Perhaps it was temporary brain loss.  Perhaps I had forgotten the conference call that I had setup for today.  Perhaps I didn’t get enough sleep.  Perhaps it was a true brain-fart.  I dunno.  Anyway, I did call the job and heard a voicemail message that said that the “offices were closed”.  Little did I know, that the message was an automated system message that helped fuel my misunderstanding.

So then I got the call from my Boss that I was mistaken and felt like an idiot.  (Don’t worry, it happens a lot).  So tomorrow I’m just hoping that I don’t have to feel like the idiot I am and be reminded by my co-workers and other people fielding questions like, “Yeah, where were you yesterday?”  and “Are you an idiot?”  because it’s obvious that…Yes.  I am.  OK?! It sort of reminds me of the time (and Eric can vouch for this) that I also made a shamefully similar error that involved a recording at my last job.  It really isn’t a habit.  Not really.  It’s just that as I’ve established earlier, I am an idiot and am prone to stupid, silly retarded mistakes like this one.  Oh yeah.  That is, OH YEAH!!!!!!!!!

So…my public…accept me for all my silly shortcomings, for all my crazy BizarroLand behavior.  I can’t help my contagion.  And will this level of stupidity spread?  Gee, I hope so not.  Because only I can dare the dumbell stuff so that YOU DON’T HAVE TO!  That’s right, I am willing to accept the death-defying risks of job-placement for your bemusement and entertainment.  I am, after all, a human guinea pig.  For you. 

And if you believe that crap, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell ya…

Copper’s Not Just An Element on The Periodic Table:

A penny for your thoughts, gov’nor?  A penny saved is a penny earned?  Anyone who’s heard these old phrases will probably think fondly of their parents.  Or, will cringe.  I hope that it’s the prior.  I hope.  Why?  Because pennies are often the afterthoughts, the under-appreciated denomination in the loose-change department.  We step on them, lose them, and are short of them at the 99 cents store.  C’mon, admit it!  The value is often exceeded by it’s overall worth to me.  I guess worth is measured in varying degrees. 

What could be the real reason behind my seemingly good fortune?  Well, I’ve looked for multiple explanations.  I mean, I pretty much find at least one penny a day.  So is there a reason why I seem to notice what others overlook?  Is it all just chance?  Dumb-luck?  So I went to the sometimes reliable, sometimes ridiculous internet to see if anyone had any similar instances.  Turns out, many did.  That’s right.  The old saying about “pennies from heaven” is the atypical belief to a phenomenon that–if you believe this guy–may be “conjured” into reality.  Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will.  Others feel that the pennies are messages from angels or the dearly departed.  I may not agree that there is some angel at work or that one of my deceased relatives is intentionally dropping pennies just for me to find them, but I can state that I find pennies.  A lot. 

I think that nobody in the world can truly understand how mystifying it is for me to find these treasures.   Good old Abe would probably turn over in his grave to see people discard and plainly ignore the money that bears his likeness.  Think about it: why would anyone discard money?  And yet, we often find these pennies in the gutter like so much trash.  I hold it akin to stepping over the corpses of soldiers on a battlefield.  Why?  Because it’s still money.  Sure, it takes a hundred of ‘em to make a dollar.  Sure, sometimes they’re inconvenient and less popular than those larger-denominations like nickels, dimes and quarters.  But are they any less important I tell you?  Huh??

*ahem*

But the true magic happens when you illustrate just how wonderful the sometimes shiny, sometimes dull-sheen circular objects are.  They can be found in remote areas as well as high-traffic places.  Sometimes they come in handy just when you need them or when you least expect it.  I, myself have made a game out of finding them: walking always with my head lowered to the ground, perusing the surroundings. 

So when next you see a penny in the street, go ahead and pick it up.  With your left hand, okay?  (Don’t EVEN get me started on the Puerto-Rican wive’s tales.  I’ll save that for another post).