I did this thing. It was for Art+Copy Club of Kansas City (AAFKC).
I can't watch it. Because watching yourself in a video is like being able to hear yourself when you're talking to someone on the phone and the reception is bad, only worse. ("Is that what I sound like?!" PLUS "Is that what I look like?!")
Anyway, I thought I'd share because I have this weird competitive issue where I think it will matter how many views it gets (it won't). And for those of you who read this blog despite having never met me (what's wrong with you?), now you have a better idea of what I'm like in-person...awkward.
Art+Copy Presents BULLETPROOF 2011 // Quinn Katherman from AAF - Kansas City on Vimeo.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Friday, June 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Big News
I got a new job. Please, please—hold your applause until the end.
It all happened so fast. One minute I’m sitting alone in a tiny office, writing fart jokes for greeting cards and—BOOM!—the next thing I know I’m in a fancy downtown agency that has a ping pong table, beer on tap and awards lining the walls, trying to write copy for a major fast-food joint. I wasn’t looking for a new job but this just kind of fell into my lap—I know, I hate people who have that kind of luck too. But remember, it was only a mere 18 months ago when I was drowning in the despair of unemployment, thinking I would never find a writing job and then, just when I was about to give up and start cleaning rich people’s toilets, I found a great job which has since led me to another great job. I’m not going to say anything about the power of a positive attitude or about how the economy is getting better because optimism makes me feel dirty, but I will say that perseverance in the face of total shit does pay off. If it weren’t for this blog and my Twitter addiction, I wouldn’t have gotten this new job. That being said, I still can’t believe there are people out there who are willing to pay me to put words on paper.
I started my new job about six weeks ago and so far I love it. Although I wouldn’t have admitted this a few months ago, I missed the hustle and bustle of the ad world. I missed stressing out about other people’s problems. I missed having to work late because I was needed. I missed powering through a ten-hour workday on three hours of sleep. I missed being challenged and pushed to my limit. I know, I’m a total masochist.
Although I worked in advertising before my stint as a greeting card writer, I never worked in the creative department. Creative departments at advertising agencies are like beehives, we’re all responsible for our own pollinating; yet we’re all dependent on a queen. The queen bee is mostly the client, but can also be a creative director, an account manager, the economy, anything—the point is, even though we have the freedom to fly wherever we want, buzzing and stinging shit, our survival is contingent on a much larger entity, which provides us with the work to do. And if the queen bee dies, the beehive has only a short window of time to replace her before the entire hive is compromised and all of the worker bees die. So, uh...long live the queen! I guess?
Despite my uncanny ability to put people off by acting like a total ass, everyone I’ve met has been extremely nice and welcoming. I get the feeling that my coworkers are trying really hard to not seem too stressed out or pissed off around me, which is adorable and flattering. Apparently I started at a really busy time because at least once a day someone tells me, “I promise, it’s not usually like this.” I haven’t told anyone how much I enjoy being a busy bee. I just smile and nod a lot because 90 percent of the time I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, which makes everyday an exercise in not looking like a total idiot. For instance, it was my second or third day when an email came through regarding a project for a client.
“Can you do a download at 10:30 this morning?” it said.
I sat at my desk, reading and rereading the email. What download? Am I supposed to download something? Am I supposed to download myself? Can you do that now? There was no attachment to the email, no instructions, so I just replied, “Sure,” hoping more information would come to me as a result. I waited 30 minutes and there was no response. It was 10:15. I was running out of time to figure out this whole download thing, so I decided to consult a nearby coworker.
“Hey, uh, Sarah? Can you tell me what this means?” I gestured towards my computer screen as if it was full of hieroglyphics I needed to interpret.
“Sure. What’s up?” she said, rolling her chair over to my desk.
“So, I got this email and it says I need to do a download but it doesn’t say anything about what the download is, where I get it, how I get it, and I’m apparently supposed to do this by 10:30,” I said, trying to disguise the panic in my voice.
“What?” Sarah leaned in to read the email. “Oh! No, no, not like a computer download. It means they’re going to download you on a project, like, they’re going to tell you about it. It’s like a verbal creative brief." My insides turned to stone and I cringed.
“Oh, I see. Well, I feel stupid now.”
“Don’t. It’s industry lingo. You’ll get a hang of it,” she said and rolled back to her desk like it was no big deal I had just spent the last 45 minutes trying to figure out how download some mysterious file for a meeting.
“Cool. I get it, yeah…well, I’m going to go get downloaded now…I’m going to get the down-low, the DL, the—”
“It’s just download, nothing else,” she said.
“Right, I was just—yeah, cool, never mind…okay, I’m going to do that.”
Since then I’ve said and done countless other dumb things. I don’t know enough yet to know how dumb I seem, but that’s what learning is, right? You throw yourself into the unknown, try to fake your way through it until you get a hang of things and then you look back and squirm with embarrassment every time you think of what you were before you became what you are now. It’s hard. It’s tough. It’s stressful. It’s everything I ever wanted, for now.
Friday, March 19, 2010
I'm a Big Damn Deal (in my own mind)
Guess what? I was interviewed by Sue London for her blog's Fresh Voices series. I know, I can't believe someone besides an employer or my dad or the police wanted to interview me either (to be fair, I don't think Sue knew what she was getting into when she asked me). Anyway, I would really like it if you would visit her blog, read my interview and leave compliments—I mean—comments, because I will be quizzing you later (not really...well, maybe).
Here's a little teaser:
5. What most attracts you to the life of a writer?
Absolutely nothing. Do you think I’m a sadist? There’s nothing attractive about the life of a writer, unless you excel at self-loathing, lying and already hate almost everything, which I do...(To continue reading the rest of this amazing answer, just click here.)
Here's a little teaser:
5. What most attracts you to the life of a writer?
Absolutely nothing. Do you think I’m a sadist? There’s nothing attractive about the life of a writer, unless you excel at self-loathing, lying and already hate almost everything, which I do...(To continue reading the rest of this amazing answer, just click here.)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Living With Forgotten Ideas
Like diarrhea, you never know when a good idea is going to hit you. I've found that I often get ideas as I'm drifting off to sleep because this is when my brain decides to work after a long day of faking it. For this reason I started leaving a pen and a notebook on the nightstand (I learned my lesson about not writing anything on my hand or arm after the day I walked around with "sunflower seeds forget elephants" imprinted on my cheek).An idea that comes to me in the middle of the night or as I'm falling asleep always seems like the BEST IDEA I'VE EVER HAD. Of course, this is almost never true. Sometimes I wake up excited the next day because I remember the feeling of a brilliant idea, but that excitement generally fades when I try to make sense of what I wrote down.
For example, I have no idea what "Twins—ugly and pretty—blame each other for face parts" means but I'm sure in my half-awake state it made sense. Here are a few more things I've jotted down in the wee hours and never made sense of:
"Jealousy has big teeth."
"Like salty popsicles - life and freezer burn."
"Big crosses and fancy purses."
“Falling from Tyra’s forehead.”
"Carry-on body."
"You are everyone here – a hate pit."
"Looney Tunes t-shirts."
"Coupon cutting condescension."
"Are you smarter than a Brit?"
“Life-ing my live.”
"Hammered and nails - not drunk."
"Ovaries song - hip thrusts to techno Babies beat."
“A sandwich shop for feelings.”
"Shitting crumbs."
"Unbroken is bad, break the window."
"New area codes—I don't get one."
There’s something about getting paid to be creative that messes with your ability to judge your own ideas. So instead of playing gatekeeper, you just start writing down every half-formed idea you have and thinking, “maybe this will make sense another day,” even though you’re almost sure it never will. But there’s always the chance, the hope for inspiration and that’s why I can’t throw away anything I write, whether scribbled or typed, because maybe one day all of my orphaned ideas will come together and make babies and live happily ever after…or maybe you’ll just see me on "Hoarders."
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party
A Shorter Short Story
"An ugly Christmas sweater party is as original as depression in dentists," I said.
"My dad's a dentist," he said.
"Well, I'd rather go to the dentist than go to that stupid ugly Christmas sweater party," I said.
"My dad's not depressed," he said.
"Whatever," I said. "So can I borrow a sweater from your mom?"
"My mom's dead," he said.
"Well, shit. This is awkward,” I said, because I had real problems. “How am I going to find a Christmas sweater that's ugly enough?"
He pulled out his phone and started kneading out a text message.
"Are you looking up where to find ugly Christmas sweaters?" I asked.
"No," he said without looking up.
"I bet your dad is depressed. I mean, if your mom is dead and everything...and he's a dentist," I said.
He still didn't look up from his phone. It must be important, I thought, even though I couldn't imagine something more important.
"I can't go with you," he said.
"What?”
“Yeah, to the ugly Christmas sweater party. I can’t go anymore,” he said. His voice was calm, nonchalant.
“But…why not? You promised!"
"Sorry, something came up," he said, tapping away again.
"All of a sudden? Like what?"
Before he could answer me his phone started vibrating with an incoming call and a familiar jingle played. Did he really have “Little Drummer Boy” as his ring tone? Registering my disapproval, he looked at me with hard yellow eyes shaped like splinters felt. When he answered his phone he held a stubby index finger up to my face. As I was trying to decipher whether that finger meant shut up or hold on, he walked away from me.
I went to the ugly Christmas sweater party alone. I wore all black, because that's what you do when things die.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Number 69
A Shorter Short Story
“Mark, can you be a dear and tell me what cartridges you’re using?” Eleanor asked, shifting around the perimeter of Mark’s cubical. Eleanor was old, too old to be working, according to Mark.
“What cartridges? You mean printer cartridges?” Mark asked. Eleanor rolled her eyes and jutted out one hip in a way that would have been considered sassy in her time, half a century before Mark’s time.
“Well of course, silly. What else would I be talking about?” she said. Mark wondered if she was flirting with him.
Mark knew what cartridges he was using but he didn’t want to tell Eleanor. It was his second day on the job and he could sense his coworkers listening, their ears straining against the silence and stretching over the tops of their cubicles.
“Uh, well, I—um—I-I’m not sure I need more—I just—” Mark was uncomfortable with his immaturity, that was the problem, he thought—to most people it was just a number.
Eleanor was standing behind him attempting to open his printer. “Here—let me take a look. I’m pretty sure you have 69," she said. "Oh dear, I don’t have my glasses, can you see that? Does it say 69? Without my glasses 9's and 6's always look the same to me!” Eleanor grabbed a pen and a notepad, ready to jot down his answer.
“Yes, 69.” Mark said, his voice squeaking on the nine. He looked away hoping to hide his flushed face.
“Pardon?” Eleanor looked at him, her face was like a map with deep lines leading to a treasure chest of more eager and antagonizing expressions. Mark wondered if this was a joke, a ritualistic hazing all his coworkers had undergone and now it was his turn to endure the awkward moment. Or, maybe, Eleanor really was flirting with him—he thought she had been overly friendly since he started, two days ago.
“I said 69! I’m using 69 printer cartridges!” Mark said in one shrill, anxious breath.
“Okay, good. Thank you. See that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Eleanor patted Mark on the shoulder. “So, you’re doing 69,” she said, writing it on her notepad. “Okay, I’ll let you have 69 for now but you might have to switch to another printer if 69 is on back order. I don’t know why—it’s just the darndest thing—but 69 is popular so it’s hardly ever in stock,” she paused for a moment, staring at her notepad while Mark sank deeper into his chair, willing the image a naked Eleanor out of his head. “Well, I suppose I need to find out if anyone else is doing 69 with you...” Eleanor looked around for a moment as if considering her next victim before walking back to the reception desk.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Afterlife Insurance (Short Story/Fiction)
Woman Causes Fatal Accident – Sweaty Feet To Blame
That was the headline of the article that ran in the newspaper the day after my death.
Yes, I’m dead.
How, then, am I talking to you? I’m not sure. I guess you’ll have to die to find out, but I wouldn’t recommend it because so far, death is boring and unfair.
Now you ask, what happened? I’ll tell you.
It was a normal day and I was walking home from work in the most uncomfortable shoes. Actually, the shoes that caused my death weren’t uncomfortable so much as constricting, and after a full day of sitting in these shoes I realized that my feet were suffocating.
It’s true that Plantar Hyperhidrosis, or sweaty feet disorder, runs in my family; however, I had not been diagnosed mainly because I have dainty, adorable feet which make it impossible to believe that I could ever suffer from such a thing. Besides, my foot sweat always smelled good, kind of like a strange, but delicious combination of nutmeg and dill.
I briefly remember thinking I should remove my shoes and walk barefoot because my feet were slipping and sliding like clumsy fat ladies on ice. What happened is somewhat unclear, because death will do that to you, but the next thing I remember is meeting with a surly insurance representative. Apparently this is the first thing that happens to you when you die—you meet with an insurance rep who tells you the details of your death and confirms your pre-existing conditions before allowing you into the afterlife.
“What-what happened? Where am I?” I asked.
A middle-aged woman in a beige, polyester suit, sitting behind a desk looked up from the newspaper she was reading.
“You’re in the pre-afterlife phase, you won’t even remember this, so that’s all you need to know for now. Let’s see…hold on while I get your file,” the insurance rep said. She was surrounded by overstuffed filing cabinets and stacks of paper covered the surface of her entire desk. “Aha! Here it is…Okay, apparently you were walking on the sidewalk when you bent down to remove your shoes and wipe your feet off in the grass and—Ewww!”
“Ew? Oh! No, no, it sounds grosser than it is. You see, Plantar Hyperhidrosis runs in my family and—”
“Oh really? I see...Please hold while I update your pre-existing conditions chart.”
“My what?” I asked.
The insurance rep pulled some papers out of a manila envelope and held it over the paper so that I couldn’t see whatever she was scribbling down.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I literally have a busload of people coming in for their appointment in about ten minutes. Do you want to know how you died or not?”
“Yes, of course, tell me everything,” I said.
She turned back to my file and rifled through the contents before pulling a newspaper out.
“All right, where was I…okay, it says here you put your sweaty—ugh, god, I’m sorry but that’s just really gross,” she said with an exaggerated gag. “Anyway, you put your sweaty shoes back on and continued walking but you slipped, because of your sweaty feet, and fell into a lane of oncoming traffic.”
“So a car hit me?”
“Um, no, actually, a bus hit you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yep, pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“Look honey, I’m really not supposed to get too far into the details, but you seem sweet, despite your sweaty feet—”
“Excuse me! But you’re being extremely unprofessional here. Please stop talking about my sweaty feet.” I was about to put my feet on her desk so she could smell them and realize they weren’t that gross.
“Right, of course—ha! Where are my manners? Yes, of course, other people were hurt. After the bus driver hit you, he swerved into another lane and a trailer hit him head-on. Everyone on the bus died—not that many, only about six people—but, like I said, they are going to be here any minute now, so…”
“So my sweaty feet killed not only me, but other people too?”
“Yes. Look, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up over it. After you fill out this paperwork you won’t remember any of this and you can go on to whatever your destiny is or wherever your path leads you, your fate, your—ahem, your ‘God’—whatever you believe.”
The insurance rep handed me a stack of paperwork as thick as the Bible.
“So, then, does this mean you’re dead too?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“How did—”
“Cancer.”
“Why are you—”
“Why am I here talking to you about afterlife insurance instead of enjoying some kind of paradise or heaven like they show in the movies? Ha! God lord, you’re all the same…listen, sugar, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to—”
“Ah, stop! How could you possibly have more questions? Go fill out your paperwork. That’s all you’re supposed to do. That takes you to your next step. Usually, if you don’t have too many pre-existing conditions, you move on to your afterlife right away.”
“Well, I don’t think I have any—”
“Let’s see. Whoopsies! Looks like you do have quit a few, actually. Well, you might have a bit of a wait period, but nothing too extreme—not like eternity! Hahaha!” She had a wild laugh, and I imagined that’s what a hyena might sound like, but I can’t be certain because I didn’t live long enough to ever hear a hyena laugh.
“What does it say? I didn’t think I had any pre-existing conditions!”
“The good news is that you had insurance—crappy insurance—but you had insurance, which means your afterlife won’t be spent paying off the debt you acquired like a certain "Man in the Mirror." Yeah, I hope you didn't like his music because I'll tell you right now that you won't be hearing much of it in the afterlife, sham on! Ha-ha!"
"Uh, okay...and the bad news?" I asked.
"What was I saying...oh, right, the bad news, all right. So the bad news is that your pre-existing conditions, like your sweaty foot disease and the fact that you’re a woman, will make it harder for you to start your afterlife right away, and you probably won’t be able to get new insurance…”
“What? New insurance? I’m dead! Why would I need insurance now?”
She looked at me and sighed, as if to say, I’m sorry you’re too stupid to get this but that’s not my problem.
“Oh honey, the private insurance companies have been collecting from the dead since the early nineties when they realized they’d have to deal with health care reform eventually. And now that reform is actually, well, almost happening, they’ve become even more strict about enforcing afterlife insurance.”
“But-but…I don’t have any money, I-I don’t have anything,” I said.
“Hahaha! Oh, you are silly! Of course you don’t have anything, you don’t need anything here—you’re dead, honey! Money doesn’t have meaning in the afterlife, so the insurance companies use time as currency—they take a small fraction of your afterlife, which you haven’t been to yet, as payment for the afterlife insurance. Ugh, you know what? I’ve said too much. Look, sweetheart, it’s complicated, and I don’t have time to explain it all to you now, but basically the dead have to have insurance in order to get to their afterlife, which will happen as soon as you fill out your paperwork and your application is processed. But, this is all explained, in detail, in your paperwork,” she said, slamming my file closed. “I’m sorry, but I really must go because my next appointment is here.”
Suddenly everything was dark, but it didn’t feel dark—it just felt like nothing. There was the sound of a slamming door and when I opened my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, I was in an all white room with the same florescent lighting as the insurance rep’s office. For a moment I thought it was some kind of heaven, but there was a long table with one chair and in the center of the table was my bible of paperwork and two pens.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here but I know it’s been at least several days in the living world. At one point a loud, booming voice from above told me nothing would happen until the paperwork was finished—I thought it was God until I realized there was an intercom system. I’ve been testing things out here. Sometimes I run full speed into a wall, or I pinch myself until I think I can almost feel something but I never really do. I used the pens to draw a picture of mountains on the wall, it reminded me of pictures I've seen of Switzerland. As I was putting the finishing touches on my mural, I turned away for just a second and when I looked back the mural was gone; it just disappeared.
Eventually a newspaper appeared on the table. It was dated November 10, 2009—the day after I died. The front page was splattered with headlines about health care reform, and just when I was feeling grateful for something to read I noticed a tiny Post-It sticking out from the center section of the paper. The Post-It read: This is real. You are dead. Finish your paperwork. Afterlife is waiting. It was stuck on top of my obituary.
They (whoever they are) thought I was in denial but I know I have to be dead because my feet aren’t sweating, and they don’t smell like nutmeg and dill anymore—they smell like nothing like everything else.
I can’t explain why I can’t do the paperwork because I don’t really know. But I do know someone is watching me, waiting for me to hurry up and be done, I feel nothing but the presence of something or someone—I can sense frustration. I suppose I like to think of it as my own personal form of protest, like Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist” only different. By refusing to complete the paperwork I’m denying the process completion, I’m debasing the system. I could be a hero, I think. But then I remember, dead people don’t become heroes.
That was the headline of the article that ran in the newspaper the day after my death.
Yes, I’m dead.
How, then, am I talking to you? I’m not sure. I guess you’ll have to die to find out, but I wouldn’t recommend it because so far, death is boring and unfair.
Now you ask, what happened? I’ll tell you.
It was a normal day and I was walking home from work in the most uncomfortable shoes. Actually, the shoes that caused my death weren’t uncomfortable so much as constricting, and after a full day of sitting in these shoes I realized that my feet were suffocating.
It’s true that Plantar Hyperhidrosis, or sweaty feet disorder, runs in my family; however, I had not been diagnosed mainly because I have dainty, adorable feet which make it impossible to believe that I could ever suffer from such a thing. Besides, my foot sweat always smelled good, kind of like a strange, but delicious combination of nutmeg and dill.
I briefly remember thinking I should remove my shoes and walk barefoot because my feet were slipping and sliding like clumsy fat ladies on ice. What happened is somewhat unclear, because death will do that to you, but the next thing I remember is meeting with a surly insurance representative. Apparently this is the first thing that happens to you when you die—you meet with an insurance rep who tells you the details of your death and confirms your pre-existing conditions before allowing you into the afterlife.
“What-what happened? Where am I?” I asked.
A middle-aged woman in a beige, polyester suit, sitting behind a desk looked up from the newspaper she was reading.
“You’re in the pre-afterlife phase, you won’t even remember this, so that’s all you need to know for now. Let’s see…hold on while I get your file,” the insurance rep said. She was surrounded by overstuffed filing cabinets and stacks of paper covered the surface of her entire desk. “Aha! Here it is…Okay, apparently you were walking on the sidewalk when you bent down to remove your shoes and wipe your feet off in the grass and—Ewww!”
“Ew? Oh! No, no, it sounds grosser than it is. You see, Plantar Hyperhidrosis runs in my family and—”
“Oh really? I see...Please hold while I update your pre-existing conditions chart.”
“My what?” I asked.
The insurance rep pulled some papers out of a manila envelope and held it over the paper so that I couldn’t see whatever she was scribbling down.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I literally have a busload of people coming in for their appointment in about ten minutes. Do you want to know how you died or not?”
“Yes, of course, tell me everything,” I said.
She turned back to my file and rifled through the contents before pulling a newspaper out.
“All right, where was I…okay, it says here you put your sweaty—ugh, god, I’m sorry but that’s just really gross,” she said with an exaggerated gag. “Anyway, you put your sweaty shoes back on and continued walking but you slipped, because of your sweaty feet, and fell into a lane of oncoming traffic.”
“So a car hit me?”
“Um, no, actually, a bus hit you.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yep, pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“Look honey, I’m really not supposed to get too far into the details, but you seem sweet, despite your sweaty feet—”
“Excuse me! But you’re being extremely unprofessional here. Please stop talking about my sweaty feet.” I was about to put my feet on her desk so she could smell them and realize they weren’t that gross.
“Right, of course—ha! Where are my manners? Yes, of course, other people were hurt. After the bus driver hit you, he swerved into another lane and a trailer hit him head-on. Everyone on the bus died—not that many, only about six people—but, like I said, they are going to be here any minute now, so…”
“So my sweaty feet killed not only me, but other people too?”
“Yes. Look, sweetie, don’t beat yourself up over it. After you fill out this paperwork you won’t remember any of this and you can go on to whatever your destiny is or wherever your path leads you, your fate, your—ahem, your ‘God’—whatever you believe.”
The insurance rep handed me a stack of paperwork as thick as the Bible.
“So, then, does this mean you’re dead too?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“How did—”
“Cancer.”
“Why are you—”
“Why am I here talking to you about afterlife insurance instead of enjoying some kind of paradise or heaven like they show in the movies? Ha! God lord, you’re all the same…listen, sugar, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to—”
“Ah, stop! How could you possibly have more questions? Go fill out your paperwork. That’s all you’re supposed to do. That takes you to your next step. Usually, if you don’t have too many pre-existing conditions, you move on to your afterlife right away.”
“Well, I don’t think I have any—”
“Let’s see. Whoopsies! Looks like you do have quit a few, actually. Well, you might have a bit of a wait period, but nothing too extreme—not like eternity! Hahaha!” She had a wild laugh, and I imagined that’s what a hyena might sound like, but I can’t be certain because I didn’t live long enough to ever hear a hyena laugh.
“What does it say? I didn’t think I had any pre-existing conditions!”
“The good news is that you had insurance—crappy insurance—but you had insurance, which means your afterlife won’t be spent paying off the debt you acquired like a certain "Man in the Mirror." Yeah, I hope you didn't like his music because I'll tell you right now that you won't be hearing much of it in the afterlife, sham on! Ha-ha!"
"Uh, okay...and the bad news?" I asked.
"What was I saying...oh, right, the bad news, all right. So the bad news is that your pre-existing conditions, like your sweaty foot disease and the fact that you’re a woman, will make it harder for you to start your afterlife right away, and you probably won’t be able to get new insurance…”
“What? New insurance? I’m dead! Why would I need insurance now?”
She looked at me and sighed, as if to say, I’m sorry you’re too stupid to get this but that’s not my problem.
“Oh honey, the private insurance companies have been collecting from the dead since the early nineties when they realized they’d have to deal with health care reform eventually. And now that reform is actually, well, almost happening, they’ve become even more strict about enforcing afterlife insurance.”
“But-but…I don’t have any money, I-I don’t have anything,” I said.
“Hahaha! Oh, you are silly! Of course you don’t have anything, you don’t need anything here—you’re dead, honey! Money doesn’t have meaning in the afterlife, so the insurance companies use time as currency—they take a small fraction of your afterlife, which you haven’t been to yet, as payment for the afterlife insurance. Ugh, you know what? I’ve said too much. Look, sweetheart, it’s complicated, and I don’t have time to explain it all to you now, but basically the dead have to have insurance in order to get to their afterlife, which will happen as soon as you fill out your paperwork and your application is processed. But, this is all explained, in detail, in your paperwork,” she said, slamming my file closed. “I’m sorry, but I really must go because my next appointment is here.”
Suddenly everything was dark, but it didn’t feel dark—it just felt like nothing. There was the sound of a slamming door and when I opened my eyes, which I didn’t know were closed, I was in an all white room with the same florescent lighting as the insurance rep’s office. For a moment I thought it was some kind of heaven, but there was a long table with one chair and in the center of the table was my bible of paperwork and two pens.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here but I know it’s been at least several days in the living world. At one point a loud, booming voice from above told me nothing would happen until the paperwork was finished—I thought it was God until I realized there was an intercom system. I’ve been testing things out here. Sometimes I run full speed into a wall, or I pinch myself until I think I can almost feel something but I never really do. I used the pens to draw a picture of mountains on the wall, it reminded me of pictures I've seen of Switzerland. As I was putting the finishing touches on my mural, I turned away for just a second and when I looked back the mural was gone; it just disappeared.
Eventually a newspaper appeared on the table. It was dated November 10, 2009—the day after I died. The front page was splattered with headlines about health care reform, and just when I was feeling grateful for something to read I noticed a tiny Post-It sticking out from the center section of the paper. The Post-It read: This is real. You are dead. Finish your paperwork. Afterlife is waiting. It was stuck on top of my obituary.
They (whoever they are) thought I was in denial but I know I have to be dead because my feet aren’t sweating, and they don’t smell like nutmeg and dill anymore—they smell like nothing like everything else.
I can’t explain why I can’t do the paperwork because I don’t really know. But I do know someone is watching me, waiting for me to hurry up and be done, I feel nothing but the presence of something or someone—I can sense frustration. I suppose I like to think of it as my own personal form of protest, like Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist” only different. By refusing to complete the paperwork I’m denying the process completion, I’m debasing the system. I could be a hero, I think. But then I remember, dead people don’t become heroes.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Window Watching
Two years ago I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Plaza. It was my first brush with "city living." My desk was set up in what the leasing office referred to as a "sun room" and it faced out towards Brush Creek. Many days were spent sitting at my desk, watching people and the traffic on Ward Parkway. Below is a brief (revised) excerpt from something I wrote during this time. I’m not sure how to classify it, so let’s just call it true-ish fiction.
Looking out this window is like looking into a glass display case at a department store. You see things you might want, consider needing, but can’t bring yourself to investigate further. Cars race side by side, honking out their frustration. I know they just need to be heard by someone. I hear you, I say. But no one listens. I see possibilities, things I want to know about, but my interest is lost in the effort it takes to get outside.
It is a big bay window, though there isn't a bay to speak of, this being a landlocked state. I do have a river in view but it’s more of a polluted creek. Sometimes I imagine myself gazing out of this window onto a different scene, but I never go to the trouble of envisioning a view. No, I prefer to imagine myself imagining. There's less disappointment that way.
I hear other city noises from this window. Sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars whip through the air and the brief moments of silence are interrupted with blaring car alarms. I don’t mind the noises. I’m curious about the carnage. Once, there was a police car in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. The officer was bent over examining the pavement. I watched the scene unfold as if it was a movie and my window was the screen. The officer picked up a white trash bag that had been abandoned, haphazardly left to rest on the streaming yellow lines. From where I sat, a dark, weighty object appeared to be inside the plastic bag. A lost appendage, suicidal squirrel, contaminated clothing—what was inside? The officer wore gloves that made him look guilty even though I knew it was for a purpose: fingerprints or DNA, or maybe the bag held a toxic material that would burn the skin of anyone who touched it. Holding the plastic bag away from his body, the officer dropped it into his trunk. When he drove away traffic flooded as if nothing ever happened.
There was another time, late at night, when I saw a couple arguing from my window. I turned off all the lights so I wouldn’t be seen, grabbed a bag of chips and pulled up the blinds. It was cold outside and I watched their words freeze in the air until the space between them seemed dense and impenetrable. Even I could see from my window five stories above that she was taller than him by a head. I recognized the man as the guy from the sixth floor who was always sweaty and carrying a gym bag (I called him cranky workout guy), but the woman was unfamiliar to me. I wondered if they were arguing because she was so tall, or maybe it was because he was so short, or maybe it was because they loved each other, once. The man sat on the building's designated bench holding his head in his hands as the woman climbed into a car that seemed too small to carry all of her rage. I kept watching, waiting for the man to move. When I woke up it was morning. They were both gone.
I also like watching bathrobe lady. I don’t know bathrobe lady’s name, but I imagine it to be something like Ethel or Marge. When the weather isn’t bad, she wears a housedress and carries her cats outside like two footballs, one under each arm. She sits on the bench, smoking skinny cigarettes and petting her cats. When she walks through the halls inside, she hums a tune without a melody like she wants to announce her presence to those trying to ignore her. The only interaction I've ever had with bathrobe lady happened as I was standing outside, trying to light a cigarette and she was walking inside. When she saw me struggling she put one cat down, holding it still between her feet and said, "This will kill you when you get old," while cupping her hand around my lighter to help block the wind.
And then there was Gene. I called him Walker Texas Drunkard, which turned out to be a pretty accurate nickname, and I watched from my window as people pitied him and held doors. Gene was the middle-aged drunk with a walker who fumbled his way in and out of the building while yelling obscenities at the cab drivers that took him everywhere he went, which appeared to be mostly bars and liquor stores. We met in the elevator once, he was carrying a heavy white plastic bag; we were both going down. He talked about loneliness nonchalantly and smelled like cauliflower and malt liquor. I was never curious enough to ask why a man his age was using a walker, but as I held his arm and guided him down the stairs he told me a botched surgical procedure, lots of pain pills and too many bottles of Scotch were to blame. He slurred, spit, stumbled and swayed as I tried to steady him in a way his walker couldn’t. We talked briefly about his broadcast career and his glory days. I asked questions to avoid the awkward acknowledgment of his blatant instability and he gave me sad answers with a smile. As I sat Gene down on the bench I asked if he was going to be okay and he looked at me and laughed. I asked again, this time with more purpose, if he was sure he was going to be okay—all I needed was the peace of mind so I could leave him and not feel bad. But he saw right through me; I was just like everyone else. Then he heaved his plastic bag onto his lap and said, “Thank you, Kim. I’ll be just fine right here.”
I know all of the people who live in the building from my window. I know when they go grocery shopping, I know their visitors, I know their parking spots and how often they leave and come back. I developed a story for each of them and I don’t want to spoil it by learning the truth. For the most part I keep my communications to quick head nods and forced smiles to discourage any worthwhile interaction. I go around knowing as much as I want to know. I tell myself it’s better this way as I sit at my window and wait, I'm always waiting now, for something interesting to watch.
Looking out this window is like looking into a glass display case at a department store. You see things you might want, consider needing, but can’t bring yourself to investigate further. Cars race side by side, honking out their frustration. I know they just need to be heard by someone. I hear you, I say. But no one listens. I see possibilities, things I want to know about, but my interest is lost in the effort it takes to get outside.
It is a big bay window, though there isn't a bay to speak of, this being a landlocked state. I do have a river in view but it’s more of a polluted creek. Sometimes I imagine myself gazing out of this window onto a different scene, but I never go to the trouble of envisioning a view. No, I prefer to imagine myself imagining. There's less disappointment that way.
I hear other city noises from this window. Sirens from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars whip through the air and the brief moments of silence are interrupted with blaring car alarms. I don’t mind the noises. I’m curious about the carnage. Once, there was a police car in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. The officer was bent over examining the pavement. I watched the scene unfold as if it was a movie and my window was the screen. The officer picked up a white trash bag that had been abandoned, haphazardly left to rest on the streaming yellow lines. From where I sat, a dark, weighty object appeared to be inside the plastic bag. A lost appendage, suicidal squirrel, contaminated clothing—what was inside? The officer wore gloves that made him look guilty even though I knew it was for a purpose: fingerprints or DNA, or maybe the bag held a toxic material that would burn the skin of anyone who touched it. Holding the plastic bag away from his body, the officer dropped it into his trunk. When he drove away traffic flooded as if nothing ever happened.
There was another time, late at night, when I saw a couple arguing from my window. I turned off all the lights so I wouldn’t be seen, grabbed a bag of chips and pulled up the blinds. It was cold outside and I watched their words freeze in the air until the space between them seemed dense and impenetrable. Even I could see from my window five stories above that she was taller than him by a head. I recognized the man as the guy from the sixth floor who was always sweaty and carrying a gym bag (I called him cranky workout guy), but the woman was unfamiliar to me. I wondered if they were arguing because she was so tall, or maybe it was because he was so short, or maybe it was because they loved each other, once. The man sat on the building's designated bench holding his head in his hands as the woman climbed into a car that seemed too small to carry all of her rage. I kept watching, waiting for the man to move. When I woke up it was morning. They were both gone.
I also like watching bathrobe lady. I don’t know bathrobe lady’s name, but I imagine it to be something like Ethel or Marge. When the weather isn’t bad, she wears a housedress and carries her cats outside like two footballs, one under each arm. She sits on the bench, smoking skinny cigarettes and petting her cats. When she walks through the halls inside, she hums a tune without a melody like she wants to announce her presence to those trying to ignore her. The only interaction I've ever had with bathrobe lady happened as I was standing outside, trying to light a cigarette and she was walking inside. When she saw me struggling she put one cat down, holding it still between her feet and said, "This will kill you when you get old," while cupping her hand around my lighter to help block the wind.
And then there was Gene. I called him Walker Texas Drunkard, which turned out to be a pretty accurate nickname, and I watched from my window as people pitied him and held doors. Gene was the middle-aged drunk with a walker who fumbled his way in and out of the building while yelling obscenities at the cab drivers that took him everywhere he went, which appeared to be mostly bars and liquor stores. We met in the elevator once, he was carrying a heavy white plastic bag; we were both going down. He talked about loneliness nonchalantly and smelled like cauliflower and malt liquor. I was never curious enough to ask why a man his age was using a walker, but as I held his arm and guided him down the stairs he told me a botched surgical procedure, lots of pain pills and too many bottles of Scotch were to blame. He slurred, spit, stumbled and swayed as I tried to steady him in a way his walker couldn’t. We talked briefly about his broadcast career and his glory days. I asked questions to avoid the awkward acknowledgment of his blatant instability and he gave me sad answers with a smile. As I sat Gene down on the bench I asked if he was going to be okay and he looked at me and laughed. I asked again, this time with more purpose, if he was sure he was going to be okay—all I needed was the peace of mind so I could leave him and not feel bad. But he saw right through me; I was just like everyone else. Then he heaved his plastic bag onto his lap and said, “Thank you, Kim. I’ll be just fine right here.”
I know all of the people who live in the building from my window. I know when they go grocery shopping, I know their visitors, I know their parking spots and how often they leave and come back. I developed a story for each of them and I don’t want to spoil it by learning the truth. For the most part I keep my communications to quick head nods and forced smiles to discourage any worthwhile interaction. I go around knowing as much as I want to know. I tell myself it’s better this way as I sit at my window and wait, I'm always waiting now, for something interesting to watch.
Monday, October 26, 2009
I'm Super Busy and Important...
This title is true if it is opposite day, which it is not.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?
3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Creative Advice
If you live and work as a "creative" then you've likely been the recipient of often well-intended but mostly empty and unhelpful advice. This advice usually comes at the expense of yet another creative meltdown where you look at your work and wonder why the hell you keep trying. Well, we all know why we keep trying—because a.) we can't help it, and b.) it feels unnatural to do anything else. It's not because someone once told you to "never give up" or to “try harder.” It's because every time you think about giving up and resigning yourself to a future of desk jobs where you crunch numbers and prepare TPS Reports, you manage to feign a streak of creative inspiration that propels you out of the meltdown and into temporary awesomeness (at least until your next meltdown).
Successful people love to give advice. Hell, I love to give advice and I’m not even successful (but oh boy, I’ve got a few pointers that will really make a difference when you make your next set of macramé pot holders!). We all go through phases in our own lives where “GIVE ME ADVICE” seems to be tattooed on our foreheads. During the time that I was unemployed this year (ahem, most of this year), I heard a lot of advice. Some of the advice I got was helpful like, “if duct tape won’t fix it, it is definitely broken,” and, “don’t bite the hand that feeds you, even if they insist on feeding you shit.” It was the vague, general and ultimately shallow advice that seemed to eat away at my soul everyday—things like, "be yourself - that's enough," or, "you have to believe in yourself, and then your career will take off."
You know what?
Shut the hell up.
I’m not giving up because I’ve already made it this far, I can’t avoid being myself (although sometimes I wish I could), and I believe in myself enough to know that you are full of shit.
So how about that?
What you got now?
Yeah…that’s what I thought—don’t you bring that weak Chicken Soup for the Soul shit ‘round here no more!
(Sorry, my outbursts are unpredictable lately.)
Anyway, being the obviously harsh judge of friendly advice that I am, I came across this golden nugget of Ira Glass advice that made me heave a sigh of relief, and for a moment, allowed me to forgive myself for all of the mediocre work I seem to be vomiting out on an uncomfortably regular basis. I’m sure some of you have seen this before, or heard it, but the message is one we all need to be reminded of while calm and sane (i.e., before the regularly scheduled meltdowns occur).
“It takes a while; it’s going to take you awhile; it’s normal to take awhile. You just have to fight your way through that, okay? You will be fierce. You will be a warrior. And you will make things that aren’t as good as you know in your heart that you want them to be, but you just [have to keep] making one after another…”
Alright, now I'm going to go write a whole bunch of crap that—if I'm lucky—will make me cringe when I look back at it years from now.
Thanks, Ira.
Successful people love to give advice. Hell, I love to give advice and I’m not even successful (but oh boy, I’ve got a few pointers that will really make a difference when you make your next set of macramé pot holders!). We all go through phases in our own lives where “GIVE ME ADVICE” seems to be tattooed on our foreheads. During the time that I was unemployed this year (ahem, most of this year), I heard a lot of advice. Some of the advice I got was helpful like, “if duct tape won’t fix it, it is definitely broken,” and, “don’t bite the hand that feeds you, even if they insist on feeding you shit.” It was the vague, general and ultimately shallow advice that seemed to eat away at my soul everyday—things like, "be yourself - that's enough," or, "you have to believe in yourself, and then your career will take off."
You know what?
Shut the hell up.
I’m not giving up because I’ve already made it this far, I can’t avoid being myself (although sometimes I wish I could), and I believe in myself enough to know that you are full of shit.
So how about that?
What you got now?
Yeah…that’s what I thought—don’t you bring that weak Chicken Soup for the Soul shit ‘round here no more!
(Sorry, my outbursts are unpredictable lately.)
Anyway, being the obviously harsh judge of friendly advice that I am, I came across this golden nugget of Ira Glass advice that made me heave a sigh of relief, and for a moment, allowed me to forgive myself for all of the mediocre work I seem to be vomiting out on an uncomfortably regular basis. I’m sure some of you have seen this before, or heard it, but the message is one we all need to be reminded of while calm and sane (i.e., before the regularly scheduled meltdowns occur).
“It takes a while; it’s going to take you awhile; it’s normal to take awhile. You just have to fight your way through that, okay? You will be fierce. You will be a warrior. And you will make things that aren’t as good as you know in your heart that you want them to be, but you just [have to keep] making one after another…”
Alright, now I'm going to go write a whole bunch of crap that—if I'm lucky—will make me cringe when I look back at it years from now.
Thanks, Ira.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Hate: A Strong Word I Don't Understand
Sometimes I have to roll around in an idea before it seems like something I should talk about. I need to let the juices marinate and wait until the idea is properly saturated with uncertainty, indecision and anxiety before I make anything happen with it. Of course, this should not lead you to believe that I think before I speak, because if I did then I wouldn’t feel constantly embarrassed about my recurrent verbal diarrhea. But despite this rolling around, marinating and saturating process that I’m accustomed to, I’m going to jump into this thought, perhaps prematurely.
This past weekend was a big weekend. It was my last weekend of being unemployed and it was the debut of BareTV, an improvised talk show that I helped write sketches for. This weekend I also relearned that there are some people out there that don’t like me and probably will never like me.
I know, what the hell, right? How can you not find me a.) hilarious, b.) endearing, and 3.) awesome? I realize that my inability to comprehend why someone may not like me makes me sound like I am the most egotistic person alive, but I just have an insatiable urge to please people, and thus have them like me. Needless to say, when I find out that someone does not like me, after extraordinary efforts on my part to appear worthy of their friendship, I am obviously stunned. It’s as if there must be something wrong with the world if someone doesn’t like me, so I go out on a search for the cause of this imbalance that has resulted in someone turning down membership to the Quinn Fan Club. Why do I think like this? Because I’m an insecure narcissist? Absolutely.
During this extremely long, unpaid sabbatical of mine, I have lived in what I like to refer to as a bubble of isolation—others might call it depression. I’m not ashamed to admit that there have been entire days in recent months where I did not leave the house, change out of my pajamas, let alone shower, or have face-to-face communication with a single person. However, now that I have found a job, and most importantly, someone to pay me for this thing I do with words, I have found myself standing outside of my cozy bubble of isolation and feeling somewhat exposed. Ultimately, I think unemployment caused me to digress socially, making me painfully awkward in social situations and oblivious to social cues, especially those that mean shut up. So when I found out this weekend that someone I had tried very hard to…impress (is that the right word?) didn’t like me—in fact, she hates me, and perhaps the only thing that would make her happier is if more people hated me too—I was irrationally devastated because if I had picked up on the cues, which I now realize were plentiful, perhaps I wouldn’t have been as shocked and upset. This person isn’t cruel about it, she’s older than I am so her hatred for me is on a much more mature level, which makes it less obvious to me and makes my reaction to her dislike even more pathetic and childish: “But why? I don’t get it. It’s not fair!”
I wish was brave enough to not care about what people thought of me and whether or not they liked me, but that’s not the case (although I am extremely good at pretending otherwise). I’m sure this all comes down to some inherent need for validation that stems from my childhood and the many times I was the last person picked for kickball, but whatever.
In a general sense, I am willing to accept and understand the fact that not everyone is going to like me. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say that in order to be successful, especially as a writer, pissing people off until they hate you seems to be a popular road to take. But writing words for people to read is different from being in a social situation with someone, bringing you’re A-game and finding out that someone still doesn’t like you.
The most disappointing part was that my reaction to finding out this person truly didn’t like me was to take one too many shots of Rumple Minze and proceed to make a fool out of myself for the rest of the night. Again, I blame unemployment for turning me into a lovable, pitied pariah for whom this type of reaction is expected and forgiven. But the next day, as I nursed the ‘I swear I’ll never drink again’ type of hangover, it made sense why this person might not like me, and also why I shouldn’t care (I know, a moment of unexpected clarity during what was otherwise a day full of agonizing brain fuzziness).
The important part is why I shouldn’t care, since the other part is obvious by now. I shouldn’t care whether or not this person likes me because lots of other people like me, I think. I shouldn’t care if this person dislikes me because their reasons for disliking me are not legitimate. I shouldn’t care because having them like me won’t make a difference at the end of any day ever. But still, I care—with every irrational, self-absorbed bone in my body, I care. And maybe I care because I’m starting a new job on Wednesday and I really want everyone to like me. Maybe I care because life would be easier if they liked me. Maybe I care because maybe I care about a lot of things that don’t matter.
There’s no resolution here, just the fact that there is someone new who openly dislikes me and I care enough to write about hating that I care about it.
On the upside, my self-esteem isn’t as bad as you, or I, thought it was because, as this experience has made clear, I apparently think I’m too awesome to hate.
This past weekend was a big weekend. It was my last weekend of being unemployed and it was the debut of BareTV, an improvised talk show that I helped write sketches for. This weekend I also relearned that there are some people out there that don’t like me and probably will never like me.
I know, what the hell, right? How can you not find me a.) hilarious, b.) endearing, and 3.) awesome? I realize that my inability to comprehend why someone may not like me makes me sound like I am the most egotistic person alive, but I just have an insatiable urge to please people, and thus have them like me. Needless to say, when I find out that someone does not like me, after extraordinary efforts on my part to appear worthy of their friendship, I am obviously stunned. It’s as if there must be something wrong with the world if someone doesn’t like me, so I go out on a search for the cause of this imbalance that has resulted in someone turning down membership to the Quinn Fan Club. Why do I think like this? Because I’m an insecure narcissist? Absolutely.
During this extremely long, unpaid sabbatical of mine, I have lived in what I like to refer to as a bubble of isolation—others might call it depression. I’m not ashamed to admit that there have been entire days in recent months where I did not leave the house, change out of my pajamas, let alone shower, or have face-to-face communication with a single person. However, now that I have found a job, and most importantly, someone to pay me for this thing I do with words, I have found myself standing outside of my cozy bubble of isolation and feeling somewhat exposed. Ultimately, I think unemployment caused me to digress socially, making me painfully awkward in social situations and oblivious to social cues, especially those that mean shut up. So when I found out this weekend that someone I had tried very hard to…impress (is that the right word?) didn’t like me—in fact, she hates me, and perhaps the only thing that would make her happier is if more people hated me too—I was irrationally devastated because if I had picked up on the cues, which I now realize were plentiful, perhaps I wouldn’t have been as shocked and upset. This person isn’t cruel about it, she’s older than I am so her hatred for me is on a much more mature level, which makes it less obvious to me and makes my reaction to her dislike even more pathetic and childish: “But why? I don’t get it. It’s not fair!”
I wish was brave enough to not care about what people thought of me and whether or not they liked me, but that’s not the case (although I am extremely good at pretending otherwise). I’m sure this all comes down to some inherent need for validation that stems from my childhood and the many times I was the last person picked for kickball, but whatever.
In a general sense, I am willing to accept and understand the fact that not everyone is going to like me. In fact, I’ll even go so far as to say that in order to be successful, especially as a writer, pissing people off until they hate you seems to be a popular road to take. But writing words for people to read is different from being in a social situation with someone, bringing you’re A-game and finding out that someone still doesn’t like you.
The most disappointing part was that my reaction to finding out this person truly didn’t like me was to take one too many shots of Rumple Minze and proceed to make a fool out of myself for the rest of the night. Again, I blame unemployment for turning me into a lovable, pitied pariah for whom this type of reaction is expected and forgiven. But the next day, as I nursed the ‘I swear I’ll never drink again’ type of hangover, it made sense why this person might not like me, and also why I shouldn’t care (I know, a moment of unexpected clarity during what was otherwise a day full of agonizing brain fuzziness).
The important part is why I shouldn’t care, since the other part is obvious by now. I shouldn’t care whether or not this person likes me because lots of other people like me, I think. I shouldn’t care if this person dislikes me because their reasons for disliking me are not legitimate. I shouldn’t care because having them like me won’t make a difference at the end of any day ever. But still, I care—with every irrational, self-absorbed bone in my body, I care. And maybe I care because I’m starting a new job on Wednesday and I really want everyone to like me. Maybe I care because life would be easier if they liked me. Maybe I care because maybe I care about a lot of things that don’t matter.
There’s no resolution here, just the fact that there is someone new who openly dislikes me and I care enough to write about hating that I care about it.
On the upside, my self-esteem isn’t as bad as you, or I, thought it was because, as this experience has made clear, I apparently think I’m too awesome to hate.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Posting Status: Mostly Deleted
Maybe you've noticed that I haven't posted in the past seven days. Perhaps you've missed me. Or maybe you stopped reading this blog a long time ago and so it makes no difference to you if the posts are regular or not. Either way, I haven't been posting. It's not because I haven't been writing, or because I've been occupied with more important endeavors. It's because I've been really busy making sure that my 'Delete' button gets a good workout (at least one of us is getting exercise). So, yes, basically, I've been writing a lot of crap.
Here are 20 things I either wrote about or thought about writing about in the past week:
1. Deleted.
2. Sleep talking and walking.
3. Deleted.
4. Rules of Leaving: Part Deux.
5. Deleted.
6. Deleted.
7. Deleted.
8. This quote: “When aspiring writers ask for advice I tell them: ‘Exhaust all other possibilities.’ Then if all you can do is write, never give up.” (-Louise Erdrich)
9. Deleted.
10. Deleted.
11. Oma’s Dampferstamm.
12. The Kathy Griffin Ratio: Women & The Funny.
13. Deleted.
14. How to dissect the world one Golden Girls reference at a time.
15. Bathroom Politics.
16. Deleted.
17. Deleted.
18. Skin tags—can’t you just cut them off?
19. Goldfish and tang.
20. Deleted.
Okay, last week sucked. But I have unreasonably high hopes for the next seven days, so try to stay tuned for some worthwhile interruptions.
Here are 20 things I either wrote about or thought about writing about in the past week:
1. Deleted.
2. Sleep talking and walking.
3. Deleted.
4. Rules of Leaving: Part Deux.
5. Deleted.
6. Deleted.
7. Deleted.
8. This quote: “When aspiring writers ask for advice I tell them: ‘Exhaust all other possibilities.’ Then if all you can do is write, never give up.” (-Louise Erdrich)
9. Deleted.
10. Deleted.
11. Oma’s Dampferstamm.
12. The Kathy Griffin Ratio: Women & The Funny.
13. Deleted.
14. How to dissect the world one Golden Girls reference at a time.
15. Bathroom Politics.
16. Deleted.
17. Deleted.
18. Skin tags—can’t you just cut them off?
19. Goldfish and tang.
20. Deleted.
Okay, last week sucked. But I have unreasonably high hopes for the next seven days, so try to stay tuned for some worthwhile interruptions.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Character Monologue: The First Female Santa
In my Second City Comedy Writing class, one of the things I found so interesting was how we did a lot of exercises that were similar to the way improvisation is done. If you've ever been to an improv show, you know that it generally starts by asking the audience for an object, place or activity which the improvisers will then use as a prompt for creating characters and scenes. The exercise we did in class on the second day was similar to this: Create a character and monologue based on the action verb you were given. I was given the verb “carry.” Below is the first draft of what I came up with.*
Carrie – late thirties meeting with a doctor
*I promise I'll eventually stop geeking-out about my Second City experience, but for now you're just going to have to deal with it. Oh, and when I preface something by saying it's a "first draft" feel free to comment, make suggestions, critique, or whatever.
Carrie – late thirties meeting with a doctor
Hi, I’m Carrie. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, doc. I’m just going to start at the beginning because I think you’ll get a better understanding of my reasonings that way.
I work at the mall during Christmas as Santa’s Little Helper, technically I’m an Elf, but my name tag says, “Carrie: Santa’s Little Helper” so that’s what I have to say I am. This isn't just a gig, it's an important step towards reaching my overall career goal. You see, I’m trying to start at the bottom and work my way up, but eventually, I want to be the first female Santa Claus. I mean, sure, okay, maybe there’s been some other female Santas out there that I haven’t heard about, but I know for a fact that if I were to play Santa, I’d be the first female to do it in the state of Tennessee…well, at least the first in Crockett County. And besides, I want to do this for the sake of feminism, which I'm a big believer in, especially during the holidays. I mean, I’ve got a lot of obstacles trying to keep me from achieving my goal and being a woman is just one of them—for instance, I’m Jewish, but has that stopped me from celebrating Christmas every year and working as Santa’s Little Helper? No, sir-ee! Lots of people think I just want to be a man and that’s why I’m all hung up on this female Santa thing, but it’s not true. I like being a woman just fine, which is why I’m here to see you, doc.
I know I’m paying you for your services, and I know you probably don’t understand why I want to get pregnant right now. But I’m running out of time, and you’re my last hope. You see, if I get pregnant now, I figure I’ll be about eight months along by December—pregnant ladies are generally pretty fat by then, right doc? So, if I have a nice big, round belly by December, it’s really going to improve my chances of getting to play Santa this year. I’ve tried gaining weight, but I just so happen to be naturally thin, and there’s a history of diabetes in my family, so it’s probably not a good idea anyway. And that brings me to why I'm here - I’ve decided to take an alternative route in order to fulfill my dream of becoming Crockett County’s first female Santa. Of course, yes, there are other reasons for me to do IVF. I mean, I’m nearly 40, unmarried, no prospects in sight, and menopause is practically around the corner. But with all those reasons aside—reasons you get other women pregnant for all of the time, mind you—I have even more reasons, dream-fulfilling reasons!
You see, I’ve been to other doctors and they’ve all turned me down, but my friend told me about you and so I thought I’d try to make it happen one more time. I know about what they did for that Suleman woman and she has EIGHT babies now! If I had eight babies, it would be perfect, just think—eight reindeer or elves! Come on, doc. I know it’s March and all, but in the spirit of Christmas, do you think you could shoot me up with some of that baby-making juice and help my dreams come true? I’ll even sweeten the deal by offering you a free permanent spot on the “Nice” List...
So, what do you say, doc—we got a deal?
*I promise I'll eventually stop geeking-out about my Second City experience, but for now you're just going to have to deal with it. Oh, and when I preface something by saying it's a "first draft" feel free to comment, make suggestions, critique, or whatever.
Monday, July 6, 2009
1st Draft: "Rules of Leaving"
So I feel like I've been neglecting this blog since I've been in Chicago. Don't think that this means I haven't been writing, because I have, practically non-stop. But in an effort to feel less guilty, I've decided to share some of my "works in-progress" with you. Below is a snippet of a story that just sort of jumped onto the page when I sat down to write today. I have no idea where it's going, what it's doing, or why these characters won't get out of my head...but here it is. Again, try to keep in mind that this is a first draft, and therefore completely rough and in obvious need of work--uh, so, in other words, don't judge me too harshly.
They had been living in the same place for nearly three months. For Betsy it was too long. She was ready to pick up and go at any moment, at the first mention of opportunity, but this hadn’t happened since they left the place they were for the place they are now. Chuck thought she was staying for him, trying to give him a break, but he also thought that maybe she was staying until she knew he wouldn’t leave with her.
“I feel like we just got here,” Chuck said, packing up an olive green suitcase that lay open on his cot.
“And so it be the time to depart, dearest Charles!” Betsy said. She was sitting on the balcony, which wasn’t a real balcony, according to Betsy, it was an “exaggerated windowsill,” smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“There’s just no sense in it. Why, in the middle of February, would we leave this beach, where it’s warm and sunny, for a place where it’s so cold your snot freezes?” Chuck asked.
“Who told you your snot would freeze? That’s sheer rubbish,” Betsy said. She was taking swigs out of the bottle of Jameson they had found in the nightstand where a Bible should’ve been and slurring between a Scottish and British accent.
“I don’t know, but I get runny noses, like, real easily, and I know it’s cold there—it’s all anyone talks about when you tell them you’re moving to Chicago,” Chuck said.
“Who did you tell?” Betsy suddenly changed her position, throwing her legs over the edge and inside as if she was going to run at Chuck.
“No, no one. I mean, I told Pete, but I had to because he’d get in trouble if the dishes weren’t done and I was gone,” Chuck said. He turned back to his packing, avoiding Betsy’s eyes which were searching him like two florescent lights, lifeless yet blindingly bright.
“You know the deal, Chuckster—don’t tell anyone where we are going or where we plan to go. I mean, what if I’d told that tattoo artist I was seeing in Atlanta that we were headed to Miami…? I’ll tell you what, he’d be beating us for the money we owe him by now,” she said.
They were staying in a hostel after Chuck made an arrangement with the management. The room wasn’t a room they gave to paying customers; it was a room off the kitchen, reserved for workers who couldn’t pay to stay.
“Shitfuck! What are we going to do about Pete? Maybe we shouldn’t go to Chicago now...maybe Nashville instead,” Betsy said, flicking her cigarette into the night.
“What’s Pete going to do? We don’t owe anyone here nothing, do we? Bets…do we?”
“You’re right. We owe nothing. Off we are as planned then!” Betsy was suddenly standing next to Chuck and staring into the tidy suitcase, which was mostly full of underwear tied-up with neon green shoelaces and hotel toiletries.
“Still haven’t learned to travel light, have you? You don’t need half of this crap,” she said.
“You’re the one that stole this shit, and almost had us put in jail for it, now you’re telling me to just leave it?” Chuck asked.
Chuck knew Betsy better than anyone. He knew how she liked her coffee, and that she really liked tea more; he knew the scar lining the crease of her nose was from a wire hanger and not a nose job; he knew her eyes were really grey and not blue; he knew her birthday was October 1st, not January 1st; he knew her hair always smelled like green apples before it always smelled like smoke; he knew that her real name was Dikranouhi before she had it legally changed to Betsy.
Chuck knew Betsy would leave without him next time. They'd been all over the East coast together, but Chuck felt like they spent most of their time leaving, and his baggage was getting heavier, harder to carry.
They sat on the floor of the studio apartment they were renting on a monthly basis in south Chicago, Chuck was leaning against the bed while Betsy sat on the floor with a map spread out between her legs. The place smelled like an ashtray and Mexican food; when the train passed the walls shook and the floor vibrated. That was Betsy’s favorite part, the shaking and vibrating.
“I love that this place never stops moving. It’s metaphorical, right Chuckster?” Betsy asked.
“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Chuck said.
“So. Where’d you get all them books from?” Betsy asked, pointing to a stack of books sitting next to Chuck’s bed. She was speaking with a hint of a New York accent this time and chewing on strands of red licorice.
“Library,” Chuck said.
“You have a library card?”
“Well, yeah, I had to get one to get the books,” Chuck said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice.
“Damnit, Charles! Why not just go buy a condo on the lake while you’re at it,” Betsy said. Her hair was down, engulfing her face in black chaotic curls. Chuck always thought she looked prettiest with her hair down, but it only lasted a few seconds before she was sweeping it back again.
“It’s a library card. Pretty temporary,” Chuck said.
“We’ve been here for a month and you’re acting like we’re settled. It’s a library card now, but you know how it is...one attachment leads to another,” Betsy said, twisting her hair into a braid.
Chuck was never comfortable anywhere they went. Not because it wasn’t home, home wasn’t anywhere, but because he was always trying to keep to Betsy’s plans and rules. Buying a library card was against the rules; anything permanent, anything traceable, anything lasting was against the rules. When they first met, Chuck understood Betsy’s rules to be anything that went against other real rules—rules for living abnormally, he thought. He liked how Betsy, a woman no one would expect to have rules, actually had a list she kept and followed.
1. Don’t stand still
2. Borrowing is not stealing
3. Don’t tell anyone where you're going when you go
4. Don’t buy things that are permanent, traceable or lasting
5. Use what’s wasted
6. Move with other things that move
7. Any open place is a place to rest
8. No phone numbers
9. No extras (people, baggage, obligations, etc.)
10. No missing (people or places)
It was number six that worried Chuck. Since they’d come to Chicago, one or both of them had broken a rule on this list. Chuck was the greatest offender, everyday left him more still. Betsy recognized this in him, but she feared rule number ten more than any other which is why she hadn't really left, yet. But there were times when Chuck would wait all night for Betsy to come back to their shaking, vibrating studio just so that he could see her close her eyes and feel safe again. After the first month in Chicago, she started coming back to him less; several days would pass and Chuck would think she was gone for good, but then she would appear in her neon green shoelaces with a bag of someone's forgotten (stolen) leftovers. She never explained her absences, but she would talk about things Chuck didn't know about in a new accent, like a dog that developed a new bark after coming home from running away.
Once, Chuck asked Betsy if they could make amendments to the rules. It seemed like a reasonable request, all rules should be amendable so that they are continually applicable to the present, he thought. But Betsy told him he could make his own rules if he wanted to change hers. This is when Chuck knew that Betsy's rules were nothing more than rules for leaving, and this is when Betsy left Chuck and didn't come back, for good.
Rules of Leaving
Betsy was always just visiting. Anyone who saw her knew she wasn’t there to stay. She seemed like a perched bird, temporary, on display, and just hanging out until a loud noise made her fly away. She had a heavy bag that draped over her shoulder, carrying most of what must be her life, and her shoes looked like they had been slept in, spit on and dragged through puddles of city slop, but the laces were new and neon green. Betsy spoke with whatever accent was in her ear, this made it so that no one knew her after meeting her, except for maybe Chuck.They had been living in the same place for nearly three months. For Betsy it was too long. She was ready to pick up and go at any moment, at the first mention of opportunity, but this hadn’t happened since they left the place they were for the place they are now. Chuck thought she was staying for him, trying to give him a break, but he also thought that maybe she was staying until she knew he wouldn’t leave with her.
“I feel like we just got here,” Chuck said, packing up an olive green suitcase that lay open on his cot.
“And so it be the time to depart, dearest Charles!” Betsy said. She was sitting on the balcony, which wasn’t a real balcony, according to Betsy, it was an “exaggerated windowsill,” smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“There’s just no sense in it. Why, in the middle of February, would we leave this beach, where it’s warm and sunny, for a place where it’s so cold your snot freezes?” Chuck asked.
“Who told you your snot would freeze? That’s sheer rubbish,” Betsy said. She was taking swigs out of the bottle of Jameson they had found in the nightstand where a Bible should’ve been and slurring between a Scottish and British accent.
“I don’t know, but I get runny noses, like, real easily, and I know it’s cold there—it’s all anyone talks about when you tell them you’re moving to Chicago,” Chuck said.
“Who did you tell?” Betsy suddenly changed her position, throwing her legs over the edge and inside as if she was going to run at Chuck.
“No, no one. I mean, I told Pete, but I had to because he’d get in trouble if the dishes weren’t done and I was gone,” Chuck said. He turned back to his packing, avoiding Betsy’s eyes which were searching him like two florescent lights, lifeless yet blindingly bright.
“You know the deal, Chuckster—don’t tell anyone where we are going or where we plan to go. I mean, what if I’d told that tattoo artist I was seeing in Atlanta that we were headed to Miami…? I’ll tell you what, he’d be beating us for the money we owe him by now,” she said.
They were staying in a hostel after Chuck made an arrangement with the management. The room wasn’t a room they gave to paying customers; it was a room off the kitchen, reserved for workers who couldn’t pay to stay.
“Shitfuck! What are we going to do about Pete? Maybe we shouldn’t go to Chicago now...maybe Nashville instead,” Betsy said, flicking her cigarette into the night.
“What’s Pete going to do? We don’t owe anyone here nothing, do we? Bets…do we?”
“You’re right. We owe nothing. Off we are as planned then!” Betsy was suddenly standing next to Chuck and staring into the tidy suitcase, which was mostly full of underwear tied-up with neon green shoelaces and hotel toiletries.
“Still haven’t learned to travel light, have you? You don’t need half of this crap,” she said.
“You’re the one that stole this shit, and almost had us put in jail for it, now you’re telling me to just leave it?” Chuck asked.
Chuck knew Betsy better than anyone. He knew how she liked her coffee, and that she really liked tea more; he knew the scar lining the crease of her nose was from a wire hanger and not a nose job; he knew her eyes were really grey and not blue; he knew her birthday was October 1st, not January 1st; he knew her hair always smelled like green apples before it always smelled like smoke; he knew that her real name was Dikranouhi before she had it legally changed to Betsy.
Chuck knew Betsy would leave without him next time. They'd been all over the East coast together, but Chuck felt like they spent most of their time leaving, and his baggage was getting heavier, harder to carry.
They sat on the floor of the studio apartment they were renting on a monthly basis in south Chicago, Chuck was leaning against the bed while Betsy sat on the floor with a map spread out between her legs. The place smelled like an ashtray and Mexican food; when the train passed the walls shook and the floor vibrated. That was Betsy’s favorite part, the shaking and vibrating.
“I love that this place never stops moving. It’s metaphorical, right Chuckster?” Betsy asked.
“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Chuck said.
“So. Where’d you get all them books from?” Betsy asked, pointing to a stack of books sitting next to Chuck’s bed. She was speaking with a hint of a New York accent this time and chewing on strands of red licorice.
“Library,” Chuck said.
“You have a library card?”
“Well, yeah, I had to get one to get the books,” Chuck said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice.
“Damnit, Charles! Why not just go buy a condo on the lake while you’re at it,” Betsy said. Her hair was down, engulfing her face in black chaotic curls. Chuck always thought she looked prettiest with her hair down, but it only lasted a few seconds before she was sweeping it back again.
“It’s a library card. Pretty temporary,” Chuck said.
“We’ve been here for a month and you’re acting like we’re settled. It’s a library card now, but you know how it is...one attachment leads to another,” Betsy said, twisting her hair into a braid.
Chuck was never comfortable anywhere they went. Not because it wasn’t home, home wasn’t anywhere, but because he was always trying to keep to Betsy’s plans and rules. Buying a library card was against the rules; anything permanent, anything traceable, anything lasting was against the rules. When they first met, Chuck understood Betsy’s rules to be anything that went against other real rules—rules for living abnormally, he thought. He liked how Betsy, a woman no one would expect to have rules, actually had a list she kept and followed.
1. Don’t stand still
2. Borrowing is not stealing
3. Don’t tell anyone where you're going when you go
4. Don’t buy things that are permanent, traceable or lasting
5. Use what’s wasted
6. Move with other things that move
7. Any open place is a place to rest
8. No phone numbers
9. No extras (people, baggage, obligations, etc.)
10. No missing (people or places)
It was number six that worried Chuck. Since they’d come to Chicago, one or both of them had broken a rule on this list. Chuck was the greatest offender, everyday left him more still. Betsy recognized this in him, but she feared rule number ten more than any other which is why she hadn't really left, yet. But there were times when Chuck would wait all night for Betsy to come back to their shaking, vibrating studio just so that he could see her close her eyes and feel safe again. After the first month in Chicago, she started coming back to him less; several days would pass and Chuck would think she was gone for good, but then she would appear in her neon green shoelaces with a bag of someone's forgotten (stolen) leftovers. She never explained her absences, but she would talk about things Chuck didn't know about in a new accent, like a dog that developed a new bark after coming home from running away.
Once, Chuck asked Betsy if they could make amendments to the rules. It seemed like a reasonable request, all rules should be amendable so that they are continually applicable to the present, he thought. But Betsy told him he could make his own rules if he wanted to change hers. This is when Chuck knew that Betsy's rules were nothing more than rules for leaving, and this is when Betsy left Chuck and didn't come back, for good.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Second City: The First Day
This week I am in the land of Midwest opportunity—Chicago—taking two classes at Second City. A few weeks ago, somewhat on an impulse, I decided to sign up for an Improv and Comedy Writing class, because this is what I should be doing during my required, unpaid sabbatical, right? So I found myself suddenly stunned and propelled to take action upon realizing that this might be the only time in my life when I can reasonably justify such an experience. Whether it was the minimal commitment of one week (as opposed to, oh say, a three-year graduate program), or finally listening to my gut instead of letting my brain get in the way (stupid brain), or maybe it took people telling me that I’m funny to realize that I want to make people laugh (at me or with me, whatever)—either way it felt, with invigorating certainty, like the right thing to do right now.
Yesterday was my first day of classes—three hours of improvisation in the morning and three hours of comedy writing in the afternoon. They call the course an “Immersion,” which sounds like they are going to hold our heads under water until we emerged as amazing talents. Nevertheless, I had a great first day. It was the kind of day I think you spend your naïve professional years dreaming of, where you feel like you are powered by a constant, flowing stream of inspiration, excitement, passion and hope. I know it sounds trite, but I had goose bumps all day, and not just because of the artic temperatures in the building (I learned that the air conditioning is kept at just above frostbite in order to maintain “electronic equipment,” which is, of course, more important than human comfort). Maybe it’s the buzz of the city in the summer, the way you can feel the energy of life and activity pulsating through your body as you walk down the street, but I wasn’t even deterred by the homeless man’s piss I accidentally walked through.
Even though I was terrified of the improv class, having always felt most comfortable scribbling on paper or hiding behind a computer screen, I must say, I enjoyed it more than the writing class. But the writing class did give me a chance to reflect as our teacher walked us through the first exercise, a favorite of mine that I am all too familiar with: “Write for 15 minutes and don’t stop. You won’t have to read what you write out loud, and I don’t care if you write the same sentence over and over again, just write for 15 minutes without stopping,” said Joe, our writing instructor. I love this exercise because it forces you to fight your way out of a block, which can happen every third word. It also helps me be less critical—when you only have 15 minutes and you can’t stop, you have to let go of the word you just wrote, the sentence you put it in, you have to reserve your criticism, avoid the urge to edit as you go and just let the words flow organically. Anyway, I’ll stop geeking-out now, below is what I wrote during this 15-minute free write.
The room we are in is divided, not in terms of people, but by paint. The lower half of the room is a sort of putrid brown, the kind of shit color you’d find in a baby’s diaper, or maybe in your grandparents’ outdated bathroom. There’s a poster on the wall that has the word CHOKING written in big red letters and even though my vision is too poor to know for sure, I assume that there are instructions on what to do when someone is choking and how to perform the hymlic maneuver. The poster is laminated and shiny, which gives it an official presence. The weird part is, I don’t see a candy machine anywhere, small objects, or even food, so it’s not like there’s anything you could even legitimately choke on. It’s as if someone decided to snag it from a doctor’s office to make up for the lack of decoration and poop-colored walls. I mean, I guess if someone chokes on a pen top, or their own saliva—both of which I’ve nearly done myself—then maybe the poster would come in handy, assuming you had time to read the fine print instructions and then apply them before the choker croaked. “Oh, what’s that you say?” [Making the universal choking gesture] “Oh, you’re choking? Okay, well can you hold on just minute while I read up on and practice the hymlic maneuver?” Unless, of course, I’m even blinder than I think and it’s not a choking poster at all…maybe “choking” is an improv thing that I don’t get yet…That’s all I got to in 15 minutes, nothing more than a descriptive rant, which, I’ve learned, tends to be my consistent fallback in the write moment (something I plan to work on while I’m here). I'm off to my next class now and tonight I think I’m going to try to catch a few improv and comedy shows, assuming the public transit system doesn't "trick" me again. As of now, I’m feeling quite confident that what I’ll walk away with after this week will be better than any fame or discovery, instead, I think I’m going to walk away knowing what to do next, which is more than I could have ever hoped for.
The carpet is a drab navy with a weaving of gray thread throughout. The sporadic stains seem to tell stories of past clumsy students, wannabe comedians who spilt their sodas on the famed floors of Second City, not knowing at the time that this would be the only impression they would manage to leave.
The air is blowing directly on me, set to an unreasonably chilly temperature; I can feel myself shivering as I write this. I’m the only one wearing a skirt, which I now realize was a terrible choice because these people are really fond of sitting on the floor in circles. It’s odd how difficult it is to get a group of about 20 adults to stand, or sit, in a shape that even sort of resembles a circle.
The people in these classes are from everywhere. But I find it strangely comforting that at least two of the students aren’t American—one is from England and the other Australia, which must mean that these classes are a big damn deal because their investment in terms of travel is double, even quadruple, compared to everyone else. The instructors keep asking us why we are here, what made us take this class and what we hope to get out of it, but no one actually says the truth: “I’m here to be discovered.” But you hear it every time someone says, “I’m here because I want to broaden my skills” and “I’m here to see what it’s all about.” Lies, ALL LIES! If I think I am here for any other reason than the dimming hope of one day becoming famous for a talent I’m not entirely certain I possess (even as I write that I know it’s not true—I believe I do possess the talent—but perhaps it is the strength, endurance and luck that I lack…?) then I’d be kidding myself. It’s not that my goal is to be famous (that would be a shitty goal) it’s that fame just seems to be the only way success is ever measured in this field. It is validating though, surrounding yourself with people who are just as hungry as you are (seriously, I had no idea that there were people out there more desperate for attention than me).
The cold is getting me again, creeping in from all sides and wrapping around my toes like barbed wire. I wish I had a Snuggie.
I guess it's only been a day, so I should try to keep my expectations reasonable, in the event that it all of a sudden sucks.
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sisterly Love
Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday
Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday
Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday
Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.
Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday
Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday
Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday
Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.
So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.
Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.
Friday, June 5, 2009
From the Other Side of Brevity
I’ve never been good at being brief. I talk too much, interrupting perhaps for the sake of hearing myself talk; I write too much, smashing words into a sentence the same way I smash potato chips into my mouth, stopping only when I feel full, which is almost never. My writing has a style, a tone, a voice, and an attempted depth, none of which would have developed if it weren’t for a blatant disregard for brevity. I don’t have beef with brevity; in fact, many of the writers I admire are those who are famously skilled in the art of brevity. For instance, when Hemingway was challenged to write a story in under ten words, this is what he came up with: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” It’s only six words, but it’s a story with a beginning, middle and end. The same professor who told me this Hemingway tale also told me that I would be a much better writer if I cut every other word I wrote. But this professor didn’t understand that my lack of brevity was something I was born with, much like his lisp, which would require many years of therapy for me to correct.
You see, my gene pool is populated with verbose people; I come from a long line of talkers, the kind that start and don’t stop. Take my grandfather, Pop, for instance, who my dad and grandmother lovingly refer to as “ol’ windbags.” Sure, he’s talkative, but it’s more than that because he likes to hear himself talk, but it’s still more than that because he likes to tell animated stories which he draws out with dramatic pauses, characters and voices all because he just likes to entertain. One could age a decade while listening to him tell a story. Although, this is not to say that Pop’s stories aren’t great, sometimes the first few minutes, or hours, seem to drag on, but no one can deny that the man knows how to close—whether it’s a perfectly timed punch-line or a musical number with jazz hands, Pop knows how to end a story with a bang, so much so that you walk away hardly aware of the two hours it took him to tell the story.
While he isn’t quite ready to admit it, my dad has the same windbag gene as Pop. It’s something he’s been growing into for at least the last 25 years. Usually, it comes out when we get into a philosophical, “this is what life is all about” type of conversation, but other windbag triggers I’ve discovered over recent years include, but are not limited to: golf, Jayhawk basketball, his political beliefs, why he disagrees with my political beliefs, the corrupt government, business practices, the corrupt government affecting his business practices, pool maintenance, vacations he took as a child, a few instances in which I performed well at a sporting event, things Tori and I did or said when we were little, and wine* (*easily substituted with anything that he can feign a truly believable expertise in, such as boating or irrigation). Although he is sensitive about his windbagness, he is willing to admit to being a “talker.” But just like Pop, dad knows how to end a story, or an impossibly long joke, in a way that almost makes you want to hear another.
People who know me know that if you don’t keep me on track during a conversation I digress into a story about a story that leads to another story. I learned early on that I have the windbag gene, which is one of my many genetic gifts among bad knees and high blood pressure. While there are many forms of the windbag gene that do not harm one’s ability to be brief, I believe the windbag gene I have has actually mutated with other genetic “issues” (A.D.H.D.), thus making it the strongest brevity-preventing strand yet.
Nevertheless, I have decided to use this blog as my windbag therapy. Here I will practice, and eventually learn, the art of brevity. I will rise above the windbag gene that has been passed down through so many generations in order to perfect a briefer writing style. So, in true Hemingway fashion, here is my six-word story:
Wanted: Brevity, long posts unread.
(Okay, that’s five words…not that I’m trying to one-up Hemingway, I’m just saying…)
You see, my gene pool is populated with verbose people; I come from a long line of talkers, the kind that start and don’t stop. Take my grandfather, Pop, for instance, who my dad and grandmother lovingly refer to as “ol’ windbags.” Sure, he’s talkative, but it’s more than that because he likes to hear himself talk, but it’s still more than that because he likes to tell animated stories which he draws out with dramatic pauses, characters and voices all because he just likes to entertain. One could age a decade while listening to him tell a story. Although, this is not to say that Pop’s stories aren’t great, sometimes the first few minutes, or hours, seem to drag on, but no one can deny that the man knows how to close—whether it’s a perfectly timed punch-line or a musical number with jazz hands, Pop knows how to end a story with a bang, so much so that you walk away hardly aware of the two hours it took him to tell the story.
While he isn’t quite ready to admit it, my dad has the same windbag gene as Pop. It’s something he’s been growing into for at least the last 25 years. Usually, it comes out when we get into a philosophical, “this is what life is all about” type of conversation, but other windbag triggers I’ve discovered over recent years include, but are not limited to: golf, Jayhawk basketball, his political beliefs, why he disagrees with my political beliefs, the corrupt government, business practices, the corrupt government affecting his business practices, pool maintenance, vacations he took as a child, a few instances in which I performed well at a sporting event, things Tori and I did or said when we were little, and wine* (*easily substituted with anything that he can feign a truly believable expertise in, such as boating or irrigation). Although he is sensitive about his windbagness, he is willing to admit to being a “talker.” But just like Pop, dad knows how to end a story, or an impossibly long joke, in a way that almost makes you want to hear another.
People who know me know that if you don’t keep me on track during a conversation I digress into a story about a story that leads to another story. I learned early on that I have the windbag gene, which is one of my many genetic gifts among bad knees and high blood pressure. While there are many forms of the windbag gene that do not harm one’s ability to be brief, I believe the windbag gene I have has actually mutated with other genetic “issues” (A.D.H.D.), thus making it the strongest brevity-preventing strand yet.
Nevertheless, I have decided to use this blog as my windbag therapy. Here I will practice, and eventually learn, the art of brevity. I will rise above the windbag gene that has been passed down through so many generations in order to perfect a briefer writing style. So, in true Hemingway fashion, here is my six-word story:
Wanted: Brevity, long posts unread.
(Okay, that’s five words…not that I’m trying to one-up Hemingway, I’m just saying…)
Friday, May 22, 2009
“Youth is wasted on the young.”
Little Big Girls: Tori (left) and Quinn
My sister, Tori (aka Torruption), has repeated this George Bernard Shaw quote to me multiple times in the past few months. She mostly uses it to put me in my place when I am complaining and using the term “quarter life crisis” a lot. The first time she whipped out this nugget of wisdom, I made fun of her for being preachy and pretentious, to which she said: “Your middle-aged self is going to hate you for being so stupid and not enjoying your youth and she is going to laugh her ass off at what your current understanding of a crisis is.” The fact that she spoke of my “middle-aged self” as a person entirely separate from who I am now made me feel weird, like maybe I should write this person a letter and introduce myself. And then I made my brain hurt by thinking about how my current notion of crisis would strike me as funny 25 years from now—I hope it’s not funny by crisis-comparison.Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype perfectly, but then she turned fifteen and decided to revolt against me and all my big sisterness by becoming smarter, bossier, prettier and taller. She is only 20 months younger than me, but it always felt like so much more when we were kids. When I say that Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype, I mean that she wanted to do whatever I wanted to do and she would let me boss her around, too. I think I really took those years for granted because now she is the one bossing me around, telling me what to do with my life and usually trying to help me avoid a generally pathetic existence.
Between the ages of four and nine years old, Tori and I were really into two things: Barbies and playing “Big Girls.” While Barbies was more of a collector’s game, Big Girls was like reality TV before there was reality TV.
I took Big Girls seriously. It was a detail-oriented game that required a powerful imagination to create a realistic world. First, we would dig through our trunk full of dress up clothes, which included old Christmas dresses, Princess costumes from past Halloweens, and no longer stylish pieces from our mother and grandmother’s closets. Dressing up was usually the longest and most intense part of Big Girls, and it was occasionally drawn out by the opportunity to do our hair and makeup as well.
Once the preparation for Big Girls was complete, and we looked scarily like adults, we would then devise our stories.
“Well, my name is Sandra and I am a waitress and a singer,” I would say. Dressed in pink leggings, a blouse dominated by giant shoulder pads and a be-dazzled headband, I was in character—this was an adult version of myself that was entirely invented but also somewhat realistic.
“Okay, well my name is going to be Theresa and I am going to be waitress, too,” our friend Sarah would say. Sarah was our shared best friend and Big Girls was never complete without her (mainly because she had a much older sister that left a lot of really cool “Big Girl Stuff” behind when she went to college).
“I want to be a waitress, too!” Tori would chime in.
“Well what’s your name going to be?”
“Um, Star?”
“That’s stupid, Tori. Your name can be Stephanie.”
I directed the details of Big Girls like it was a Broadway production. This was professional make believe and I was the self-proclaimed expert.
The next step of Big Girls was to stage an everyday, work-related scene. So we would round up all of our kid-size tables and chairs and set them up like a restaurant. We would then go around to tables and have conversations with our “customers.” It didn’t take long before I would be bored with the monotony of the actual waitress duties. So we would start fighting with our fake customers and then we would act out the scene of quitting our waitress jobs, which was always dramatic and usually ended with someone crying and vowing to never return (ever again!).
You see, playing Big Girls wasn’t so much about pretending to be something you actually wanted to be; it was about pretending to be something in order to feel older. Now I am officially older, legally an adult and legitimately stressed out, and I wonder why I ever pretended to feel this way when the reality of it was so near. While I am pretty sure Big Girls appealed to me because of the theatrical aspect (because I am a ham), I know that there was always a part of me that couldn’t wait to grow up, and there still is.
In a way I feel like I never really stopped playing Big Girls because everyday is an intense game of make believe where I pretend to be a writer, a professional, a capable adult—I set up the scenes, get bored, add some drama to spice it up and then sometimes I end up running away crying and vowing never to return. Because of this, I decided to write my “middle-aged self” that letter:
Dear Middle-Aged Quinn,
Remember when you were little and spent the days playing Big Girls? Maybe not, that was a REALLY long time ago for you, and your memory might suck now. Well, anyway, back then I thought that the goal was to feel older, now I know it’s inevitable. So if you feel old now, which you probably do because apparently you’ve had 25 years of crisis-worthy experience to wear you out, try to find solace in the fact that even though you’re not as cute as you used to be, at least you’re not as dumb. I hope you don’t have to pretend anymore, but if you do, I understand—I mean, we are really good at it.
Also, you didn’t waste your youth like Tori (or George Bernard Shaw) said—you just pretended your way through a different, slightly more dramatic, version of it.
Peace out!
Love,
Quarter Life Quinn
p.s. – if you’re really gross and wrinkly now, I’m sorry about all those times I never used sunscreen and all those years I smoked and pretended like it wasn’t bad for me. Don’t be mad at me, I am young and stupid now so that you can be wise and smart later…when it really matters, remember?
p.p.s. – if you got plastic surgery, I am going to pretend to be really pissed at you.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Creative Jealousy That Drives Us
My Green Monster of Jealousy
It’s not that I don’t want other people to do well. It’s not that I am a naturally jealous person (wait, is it?). It’s not that I don’t have my own “thang” going for me. But when you are a Creative, and trying to make a living as one, jealousy seems to rear its ugly-ass head in the dumbest, most debilitating ways.
Just the other day I received an incredibly nice, and somewhat undeserved, message from a fellow writer who said she was jealous of my blog. I had to re-read the message five times before my brain was willing to comprehend what she was saying. This writer, a woman I have always admired and felt jealous of since the day I met her, actually said: “I was depressed all weekend because your blog is so much better than mine.” What?! Come again?
I will hold her message to heart for as long as my insecurities plague me (so pretty much forever), not because it validates my mad skillz, but because it validates the green monster of jealousy that I always thought of as my own private weakness. To realize that the people I envy for their talents and creations are also capable of being jealous of me is like finding out that Starburst sells packages full of only the Pink and Red flavors (oh yeah, I’m totally serious, hit up a QuickTrip near you).
Now I realize that jealousy is not just a disease of the unemployed. Although, since I’ve been unemployed, I have had ample time to peruse the online portfolios of the unemployed ad talent out there right now, and it’s enough to make anyone want to throw their portfolio in the trash and cry in a corner. It makes me wish that we could send all of this unemployed talent to an abandoned island and call it “The Lost Land of Advertising Fame;” there they could probably start a war, or at least convince people to join a war, and maybe win a shiny award for a really great Super Bowl ad. But since this is unrealistic, I am forced to compete with these people who ooze creativity from every pore while I sit around, oozing nothing but sweat, fear and envy. Given these circumstances, putting my rinky-dink portfolio out there feels like wearing a bathing suit made of bacon and then going for a swim in shark-infested waters. At this point, I’d have better luck trying to tap-dance my way into a job.
On a positive note, I have found that this type of jealousy and creative combat can be an excellent source of motivation, and thus I have started another blog, which will serve as my resume/portfolio/bio/pseudo-professional site. You’ll find the link in the side bar, and also right here. It’s not much because I haven’t done much (I mean, geeze people, I’m only 24 years old, which is practically 12…if you divide it by two), but if you have feedback, advice, suggestions, or other projects that will help me beef it up, and create seething jealousy among other ad talent, feel free to drop me a line.
In the meantime, I’m going to put on my big girl pants, which means a slightly nicer pair of sweatpants than those I slept in, and keep on truckin’, because I’m a ninja unicorn, damnit!
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