I read a blog written by a guy named Dan that also likes Gilmore Girls and lives in Minneapolis, my former home. He recently wrote about the items he would rescue from his burning home. ATC breached a similar topic this evening, interviewing a Mississippi resident who couldn't save anything from her home (including her husband's journals, which he had written EVERY DAY since he was a child) before it was destroyed by the hurricane.
It's a topic I've thought about often, dating back to my dorm days in college - the fire alarm there was set off every other week or so, depending on when the rowdy kids decided to set the trash chutes ablaze. In those days, I'd grab my wallet and checkbook, put on a pair of jeans, socks, and shoes before leaving the room.
By the time I was in Minneapolis, the procedure became more complex. This was an apartment building that had honest-to-God fires, not just silly, nuisance pranks. Every time the fire alarm - and old-school, loud-as-hell bell - went off, I really had to rush outside.
I messed up the first time. I took my laptop, wallet, and because it was right in front of me, sitting on the coffee table, my autographed copy of Dave Eggers' You Shall Know Our Velocity.
By the next time the alarm rang, I had decided to save some photos, too. Laptop, wallet, my small photo album...and the autographed book. Hey, it's a good book.
I haven't thought about what to save since I moved into this house and surrounded myself with more possessions. Clearly, I don't have to save this piece of shit laptop anymore, because its new hard drive is blank. I guess I need to get one of those fireproof lockboxes, and throw all my backup disks in there. Do you get the feeling I'm just posting my to-do lists on the internet now? Do you get the feeling I should have saved this as a draft and not posted it? Do you ever wonder why you keep coming back to this website? Or any website? What are you looking for, anyway? Do you think I'm going to have something witty to say? Do you think I'm going to reveal something? Do you hate yourself? Do I hate myself? What am I doing with my life?
I guess I have to save the unique things. The autographed book is unique. My photos are unique - I have two albums now I need to save. There's an assload of notes from old girlfriends in a shoebox in my room, but I'm not going out of my way to save those, just like I'm not going out of my way to get rid of them.
Is that it? I own 3 things that can't be replaced?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Casting Crowe's
I'm a Cameron Crowe fan. How can you not be? He's goofy looking, he's married to one of the chicks from Heart, and he makes great films, from Say Anything to Almost Famous...quality stuff. His latest, Elizabethtown, will be out soon, and I'm worried.
(Quick tangent - "Only in theaters"? Really, Paramount Pictures? We still need to remind the moviegoing public that this film will NOT be a straight to DVD release? It's not an off-broadway show that's making its way across the country on the state fair circuit?)
OK. I've only seen the trailer, and there isn't much to be gleaned from it. Orlando Bloom's father dies, he goes home for the funeral, and meets flight attendant Kirsten Dunst in the process.
Now, I'm not the most frequent flyer around, but I have seen my fair share of flight attendants. Sometimes, when my aircraft isn't being serviced by gay males, the job is done by nice ladies. I can say without hesitation that none have been, or will ever be, confused with Kirsten Dunst.
[Dunst photo taken from Use My Computer]
Has it been so long since you've flown coach, Mr. Crowe? It has? Oh, right, the successful filmmaking and the corresponding income. Right. Fair play. Well, I hope the new movie is good. I'm just saying - Ione Skye was a little more believeable.
(Quick tangent - "Only in theaters"? Really, Paramount Pictures? We still need to remind the moviegoing public that this film will NOT be a straight to DVD release? It's not an off-broadway show that's making its way across the country on the state fair circuit?)
OK. I've only seen the trailer, and there isn't much to be gleaned from it. Orlando Bloom's father dies, he goes home for the funeral, and meets flight attendant Kirsten Dunst in the process.
Now, I'm not the most frequent flyer around, but I have seen my fair share of flight attendants. Sometimes, when my aircraft isn't being serviced by gay males, the job is done by nice ladies. I can say without hesitation that none have been, or will ever be, confused with Kirsten Dunst.
[Dunst photo taken from Use My Computer]
Has it been so long since you've flown coach, Mr. Crowe? It has? Oh, right, the successful filmmaking and the corresponding income. Right. Fair play. Well, I hope the new movie is good. I'm just saying - Ione Skye was a little more believeable.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
The Wedding Party
Two parties last night - one was a theme party. An "ordained minister" (she entered her email address into a website) was on hand to "marry" couples every 30 minutes...or at least that's what was supposed to happen. In the end, it was just a party. Most people didn't dress the part, and I only saw about 3 vows exchanged. Pure chaos over at the housing cooperative. Great idea, though.
By the end of the night, back at party #1, we were discussing sex. With sandwiches.
ME: "If you were going to have sex with a sandwich, what sandwich would you choose?"
NICK: "If it's got carmelized onions, I'm going to screw it."
By the end of the night, back at party #1, we were discussing sex. With sandwiches.
ME: "If you were going to have sex with a sandwich, what sandwich would you choose?"
NICK: "If it's got carmelized onions, I'm going to screw it."
Thursday, August 25, 2005
My Life In Song: Fiona Apple - Tidal
[I couldn't sleep last night. Before I finally made it to dreamland (dream: rain had caused the ground around my house to shift around, and my dad was there, saying we should move the dirt one way, and I wanted to do it a different way, and Ali was going to take a job in Chicago, and I was hosting some sort of family reunion...), I had a thought. What if I connected every song to a memory? Like Nick Hornby's Songbook, but different. How long would that take? Even if it's possible, would that suck? I decided to give it a shot, starting with the first slot on my alphabetically arranged CD tower.]
Fiona Apple - Tidal
*Fiona Apple in general*
When I think of Fiona, I think about an article I read in Spin magazine. She was raped when she was young, and she altered her memory of it - in her mind, the rapist was Jimi Hendrix.
*The album as a whole*
In my sophomore year of college, as I was making out with Jenny in my dorm room, I became very aware of the silence. I can't recall why I was concerned about it. Either I was didn't want others on the floor to hear us, or I didn't want to hear them. Especially Ross. "Bennett! That's money, dude! Money!" he'd say. I decided to play Tidal in my Aiwa three-disc stereo system.
*Sleep to Dream*
Dad always planted potatoes. Or, more exactly, wanted potatoes planted. My brother and I helped, hoed the rows as they grew, and finally dug them up in the summer. One summer, my brother and I were again assigned the task of harvesting the potatoes.
At that time in his life, my brother's routine was:
1:00 p.m. - Wake up, walk upstairs.
1:30 p.m. - Lay towel on living room floor, a few yards from the TV. Place lunch plate on towel. Eat while lying on stomach.
2:00 p.m. - Shower.
2:30 - 5:00 p.m. - Watch TV, read, other low-impact activities.
5:15 p.m. - Leave the house before Dad got home from work.
3:00 a.m. or so - Return home, retreat to basement, sleep.
As you can clearly see, potatoes were not his thing. Even if I was able to convince him to help me bring in the crop, he wasn't available until the scorching heat of mid-afternoon. I chose to dig potatoes myself, in the morning, alone. For several consecutive mornings, I clipped my Memorex personal cassette player to my waist and listened to Tidal play through the headphones. I was careful not to push the shovel too near the plant, keeping the number of accidentally injured potatoes to a minimum. After the initial plunge into the earth, I pushed down on the shovel's handle slightly, then plunged again, then lifted it all out of the ground. Grasping the stem with one hand, I shook it to remove the large clumps of dirt still attached. The individual potatoes were then plucked from the roots, brushed briefly by hand, and tossed into a cardboard box. When I was young, separate bushel baskets were used for small, medium, and large sized potatoes. Working alone, by my own rules, every potato met the same fate, red or white, big or small.
*Sullen Girl*
Shawn and I were roommates for our first semester of college. His CD player loaded from the top, and we had to place a book over the lid to keep it shut. Sometimes, we listened to soft music as we fell asleep (I had the bottom bunk). When we'd choose Fiona, we had to program the CD player to only play the soothing songs. As a result, "Sullen Girl" would play first.
*Shadowboxer*
Shawn's high school girlfriend Lori loved this song. I think.
*Criminal*
Any connection I had to "Criminal" was immediately and forever replaced when I saw the video on MTV. I didn't have MTV at the time, so my first glimpse was at Brian's house one afternoon. I'll bet I haven't seen this video from start to finish more than three times in my life; from the way it's etched in my memory, it may as well be the Zapruder film.
*Never is a Promise*
One night in 1998, I tricked Anastasia into liking this song. She liked the song - she hated Fiona, and was devastated to find to two were linked. She studied in Prague years later, and I put "Never is a Promise" on her bon voyage CD. In a letter home, she admitted to skipping over the "Fiona Crapple" song.
Fiona Apple - Tidal
*Fiona Apple in general*
When I think of Fiona, I think about an article I read in Spin magazine. She was raped when she was young, and she altered her memory of it - in her mind, the rapist was Jimi Hendrix.
*The album as a whole*
In my sophomore year of college, as I was making out with Jenny in my dorm room, I became very aware of the silence. I can't recall why I was concerned about it. Either I was didn't want others on the floor to hear us, or I didn't want to hear them. Especially Ross. "Bennett! That's money, dude! Money!" he'd say. I decided to play Tidal in my Aiwa three-disc stereo system.
*Sleep to Dream*
Dad always planted potatoes. Or, more exactly, wanted potatoes planted. My brother and I helped, hoed the rows as they grew, and finally dug them up in the summer. One summer, my brother and I were again assigned the task of harvesting the potatoes.
At that time in his life, my brother's routine was:
1:00 p.m. - Wake up, walk upstairs.
1:30 p.m. - Lay towel on living room floor, a few yards from the TV. Place lunch plate on towel. Eat while lying on stomach.
2:00 p.m. - Shower.
2:30 - 5:00 p.m. - Watch TV, read, other low-impact activities.
5:15 p.m. - Leave the house before Dad got home from work.
3:00 a.m. or so - Return home, retreat to basement, sleep.
As you can clearly see, potatoes were not his thing. Even if I was able to convince him to help me bring in the crop, he wasn't available until the scorching heat of mid-afternoon. I chose to dig potatoes myself, in the morning, alone. For several consecutive mornings, I clipped my Memorex personal cassette player to my waist and listened to Tidal play through the headphones. I was careful not to push the shovel too near the plant, keeping the number of accidentally injured potatoes to a minimum. After the initial plunge into the earth, I pushed down on the shovel's handle slightly, then plunged again, then lifted it all out of the ground. Grasping the stem with one hand, I shook it to remove the large clumps of dirt still attached. The individual potatoes were then plucked from the roots, brushed briefly by hand, and tossed into a cardboard box. When I was young, separate bushel baskets were used for small, medium, and large sized potatoes. Working alone, by my own rules, every potato met the same fate, red or white, big or small.
*Sullen Girl*
Shawn and I were roommates for our first semester of college. His CD player loaded from the top, and we had to place a book over the lid to keep it shut. Sometimes, we listened to soft music as we fell asleep (I had the bottom bunk). When we'd choose Fiona, we had to program the CD player to only play the soothing songs. As a result, "Sullen Girl" would play first.
*Shadowboxer*
Shawn's high school girlfriend Lori loved this song. I think.
*Criminal*
Any connection I had to "Criminal" was immediately and forever replaced when I saw the video on MTV. I didn't have MTV at the time, so my first glimpse was at Brian's house one afternoon. I'll bet I haven't seen this video from start to finish more than three times in my life; from the way it's etched in my memory, it may as well be the Zapruder film.
*Never is a Promise*
One night in 1998, I tricked Anastasia into liking this song. She liked the song - she hated Fiona, and was devastated to find to two were linked. She studied in Prague years later, and I put "Never is a Promise" on her bon voyage CD. In a letter home, she admitted to skipping over the "Fiona Crapple" song.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Ice Cream and Oatmeal
We've just finished our lunch. The topic of conversation is the strawberry jam Deb used on her rye toast. The diner waitress is explaining a unique breakfast dish she sometimes enjoys - it's not on the menu.
"It's a scoop of ice cream, oatmeal, and strawberry jam."
"Is this cooked oatmeal?" I ask, imagining some kind of granola/yogurt pairing.
"No," she laughs, "That's a man question! It's okay, my husband doesn't cook, either."
"Yeah, I guess I'm the freak here. Silly me, trying to clarify your receipe for a rare, ungodly breakfast trifecta (breakfesta?). You're old. Just die already," I don't retort, leaving her tip behind as I walk to the register, pay, and exit.
"It's a scoop of ice cream, oatmeal, and strawberry jam."
"Is this cooked oatmeal?" I ask, imagining some kind of granola/yogurt pairing.
"No," she laughs, "That's a man question! It's okay, my husband doesn't cook, either."
"Yeah, I guess I'm the freak here. Silly me, trying to clarify your receipe for a rare, ungodly breakfast trifecta (breakfesta?). You're old. Just die already," I don't retort, leaving her tip behind as I walk to the register, pay, and exit.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Keyed Up
Whenever I'm on a sidewalk and walk by/over a grate, I think, "Uh oh. My keys could fall in there."
Even if they're in my pocket, safe.
Even if they're in my pocket, safe.
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