"Tonight you'll be writing a narrative for homework. Who here knows what a narrative is?"

There's a full minute of dead silence, my classmates glancing at each other for the answers, before I bitterly mumble, not removing my forehead from it's crashed, "why me?" position on the desk, "A story."

"That's RIGHT! A story! For next class, I want a narrative paragraph on at least two hundred words."

And that was the whole explanation.

Because my brain hurt so badly from the day's lecture, I didn't think to ask-- does he want a story or a paragraph? Surely a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; most of the time, that constitutes at least three seperate paragraphs.

This isn't something my classmates will worry about-- a single paragraph on the women behind me's gall-bladder operation isn't something that would be prettied-up any by proper structure, and most of the front row doesn't even know what a paragraph is. But for me, it's the princple of the damn thing.

The reason he wanted a "narrative paragraph" is that the College English Syllabus doesn't consider the narrative format important enough to dedicate an essay to, not in Professor Elsewhere's class, at any rate. Still, pick one or the other, genius.

I may be wrong. There may be some instruction in the text book that he referenced about the time I was biting my own arm to distract myself from the pain of hearing him teach. But I'm not about to spend my time looking for it. Not time that could be spent clotting.


I skipped on Tuesday, when it was due, and have, tonight, resigned myself to the following sentiment, as I shared with Jeremey.

MidnightShaman7: Does it even have to be a story?
MidnightShaman7: Or just a narrative?
FieryGwenivere: I honestly don't think it matters.
FieryGwenivere: Professor Elsewhere is gonna be so tired of grading everyone else's drivel that he'll probably have an orgasm just reading a coherent sentence.
FieryGwenivere: Maybe (I'm having trouble writing it because) I just don't want to give him the satisfaction
MidnightShaman7: Good to know your ego has survived the falling out.
FieryGwenivere: It's not thinking I'm great, it's knowing they suck.

That dillemna somewhat behind me, I wrote the following. Who needs an A, anyway? He's enough of one for all of us.

---





I got here an hour ago and already I look at the door and have to will my feet not to run towards it. We're three crew members short today and the lines are long. No one tells you this growing up, and I'm pretty sure it's not in the bible, but if you're thinking fire and brimstone, you're wrong. Hell is all grills and frialators.

There were supposed to be eight of us through lunch. The store manager left early on the count of her lesbian lover getting test results back from some clinic, and the guy working the sandwich board walked out on us, I'm told nobody knows why. Another worker was a no-show altogether, and I walked in at 10:30 to the mixed reception of panic, urgency, and a mild relief that at least someone had come in, something had gone right. It's me and Leah, the cashiers, two different Josh's working three different stations in the back and Laura, the shift manager, running back and forth between us like a hamster in an aquarium, shouting "No tomatoes on that number two!" to the back and "Three Double Cheeses and a number six? Hello? HELLO?" towards the herd of customers, waving their bag of food angrily.

The five of us deal with the infinity of them as best we can, and I'm beginning to resign myself to this, even feel comfortable, when the others start dropping like flies. Josh number one is out at 11:30. Leah at 12. Josh number two is supposed to go at one, but he holds out till 1:15, and leaves during our day's first lull.

And then there were two.

At three o'clock, John is supposed to come in, and I joke to Laura that once he comes in and lunch has ended, things might return to relative normalcy. At 3:05, 3:10, 3:15 and still no sign of him, I start to realize that one should never tempt fate.

"John not showing up is everything we don't need to happen right now." I say to Laura, as I make a sundae and she pours a coffee. "You think we're being punished for something?"

"Yeah." She says. "I never should have told my sister she was adopted when we were little."

"And I never should have run down those orphans with my car." I agree.

It's 3:30 and we're both hoping against hope that John got caught in traffic and he'll make it through that door anytime. We manage through two more rushes, and I begin to silently repent.
They never tell you this, but this is hell. This is where you go if you don't listen to your parents and do your homework. Honor thy Mother and Math Tutor. This is where you go if you shrug off a book report, don't read the chapters assigned, don't apply to a back-up school. This is where you'll end up if you’re a good student turned bad, and listening to the word of God won't get you out of it. You've got to listen to your guidance counselor.

It's four o'clock and Laura's tried to reach John at home. No sign of him. Good riddance. Don't need him. Mary's due in an hour, and lunch is officially over. The lobby is empty and there's no reason for it to get busy anymore. No reason, barring some horrible twist of fate.

That's when I see him, the shape of him in the door, a black silhouette against the brightness of a world that I've come to accept may be something I’ll never experience again. In his hand, I see a piece of paper, the type of paper that a large group of people write their large list of requests on, so that the single person representing them won't leave anything out. The type of list that spells doom .

As he walks toward me, I tremble. The figure walks toward me with the terror-striking gait of an old western sheriff, and with each step I could swear I hear the jingle of his spurs. As he comes into the light, I see his face. He is terrifying. He is evil. He is nine years old.

He looks towards me, then down at the list, then back and me. Pull yourself together, I tell myself. He stares, confused, and I know he's never done this before. He'll stutter and backpedal. It'll take him ten minutes to get through the list of requests, and at the end he'll have forgotten to mention who wants sodas and who wants milkshakes. I feel like I'm going to crack, but I control myself. I swallow hard, and I give him that winning fast-food smile.

"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I do for you, young man?"

That's what comes out of my mouth, but he sees in my eyes what I'm really saying: Go ahead, Punk. Make my day.


---


On with it.

Pit-inspired posting.


I haven't been to Something Awful for years now, but it still seems to rock. Gram, an regular of the second (third? fourth?) generation of Frank's pit (which I will not release the name of) has pointed out a link to a very funny article, entitled Jokes with Realistic Endings.


Frustrated with freeware, I vented a bit on the pit today, and since there is no joy in life quite like quoting one's self, I shall post that post here, verbatim.

--

Mon April 25 23:34:04 EST 2005
SuedeCaramel
And while I'm on it...
FUCKING LIMEWIRE! FUCK YOU!

All this goddamned software out there, offers itself up for free, then spends it's whole life guilting you into paying for it. It's like a martyr-complexed housewife.

I left home to escape this kind of passive-agressive bullshit, not to be pandered to when I'm trying to download The Dresden Dolls.

--




There's another simple boy in my life, not unlike The Fish Guy. Quiet. Uncomplicated. Simple-looking, simple-thinking, simple pleasure. I don't have a cute nickname for this one, yet: his name is Dan and he only looks good wearing a hat.

When I walk through the kitchen, I make a point to ram into him, and he rams back. I flick him, he flicks back. I poke him, he pokes back.

This is the perfect relationship.

I don't want to know a thing about him, I don't want him to know a thing about me. The more I know, the worse it gets-- I found out so far he's a religious Republican who really believes their were Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq.

Ugh.

Still, he's a nice guy, and he looks at me and smiles and says nothing. And I haven't had the best luck with democrats, anyway.




My dog is barking. He doesn't like the Dresden Dolls, but I'm falling in love-- no, I shouldn't use that word. They'd hate that.

"The Perfect Fit" is every bit as good as "Coin Operated Boy", the only song I'd heard before tonight. It may well be better, but the latter is more universal. Doesn't matter. I don't much like sharing my musical feelings.

You wouldn't have guessed, would you have?

On with it.

Just a few scattered thoughts:

Tuesday, while driving to school, I noticed that the Lewiston KFC had the following announcement up on it's sign (the part with the plastic interchangeable numbers):

"Happy 50th
Annv.

McDonald's"

I found this to be extremely endearing coming from a rival fast food restaurant, and had every intention of taking a picture next time I was there, but by Thursday, it was gone.

TBS needs to make more of those TBS 1-800-Funny commercials. Those fucking rocked.

Casey and his peeps, I guess have officially launched -ISM, a "new pluralist political magazine" at (but unaffiliated with) his college. It looks damned nice, very professional, and while knowing it's probably tainted by his crappy attempts at photoshopping takes away from it, I have every faith that it's gonna be a big hit. This, of course, means two things: We should all be congratulating him, and I've got to hurry the hell up to beat him to the "ultimate success in writing or a related field" finish line.

Check his site for the details.

Before the statute of limitations is up on this one, I guess I have to get the obligatory commentary on Sin City out of the way: I've seen it twice so far, once on opening day, and it rocked. There! You got it out of me!

Being mostly comprised of the right age and the right culture to have seen and appreciated Sin City, it seems bloggers feel as though they have some moral duty to report on their opinion of the work, which it's hard to describe without using the word "masterpiece." However, there's nothing I can say that you won't have heard before from anyone you know who's seen it, and if it you haven't seen it by now, you either will, and you'll know, or you won't, and you're an idiot. It's all good, either way.

So. It's done then. This milestone is finished. Now, when my great-grandchildren read my blog, they'll be all like "She saw that in the THEATERS? Awesome."

Right.

On with it.

So I'm at work, and Laura, my 35-year-old lesbian manager, are talking to Josh and Sam, two of my coworkers. I am standing behind Laura giving her moose antlers with my hands, and Josh makes some reference to Laura being a canadian moose. Laura notices me, and I walk away, and they're left in the kitchen talking about what movie the funny Canadian moose are from. They are, of course, referring to Brother Bear, but before they get there, they call it "Big Brother", and then "Big Brother Bear", to which I muse:

"Big Brother Bear, oh yeah. That's the movie where a colony of animated Bears is constantly being monitered by an unseen force."

Laura, not quite comprehending my joke, says "Yes, Linda, we know what it's about. It's that Disney movie. I think it's just called Brother Bear, though."

"No, I was...it was a joke. I was combining the movie Brother Bear with the whole Big Brother thing."

Laura gives me a blank stare in return.

"You do know what Big Brother is, right?"

She gives me an I'm-not-a-complete-moron look and, when I push further, begrudgingly answers "It's that reality show", as if I'm accusing her of failing a really simple test.

"Uh, yeah, but what does that come from. The title 'Big Brother', what does that refer to?"

A blank stare.

"What book does it refer to?"

A blank stare.

I turn to Sam and Josh. "Okay, you guys know what book the phrase 'Big Brother' comes from, don't you?"

Two blank stares.

"What book written in 1948? Nineteen forty-eight?" Wink.

Now they're all glancing at each other, deciding that I'm the crazy one.

"Jesus, people, 1984." As you may expect by now, this does not illicit the appropriate "Oh, yeah. That one." It, in fact, illicits nothing. "Come on you guys, it was one of the 20th century's most important works of literature. Written by George Orwell."

Nothing.

"George Orwell?" I say, pleadingly.

Nothing.

"The guy who wrote Animal Farm!" I say, frustrated.

"You mean Animal House." Laura says, knowingly.

"Ooooh," say the other two, simultaneously. "That was a great movie!"


Motherfucker.


---


Speaking of the failures of education in the English department, my frustation for my College Writing class grows still. Last class, for instance, went like this: First, he collects our homework, the final draft of our first essay and the rough draft of our second. Then, he hands out a "pronouns packet", which is photocopied pages of the convaluted, unclear, archaic textbook he's in the process of writing. We spend the first hour and a fucking half of class doing this while he grades papers, and most of this time he's not even in the room-- this, I assume, is so he doesn't have to grade papers in his free time, which I assume he spends writing even more bullshit for that textbook. Now, I said before we're "doing" this pronouns packet, and what I mean is "failing miserably at it." Even I barely have the slightest idea what's going on when prompted to choose from the objective and subjective pronouns in particple phrases-- it's not that it's hard, exactly; in fact, if he had explained it even in the slightest, I'm sure I, as well as a good half of the class or so, would get it in an instant. Myself, I have enough faith in my ability (my ability to give-a-shit about my test grade, that is) to spend the class drawing angry pictures of the instructor on the packet. It's the others I'm worried about. I see a few of them during break, and they assure me they have no idea what the hell is going on with it. The test is either next class or the class after that, and the only way we will have gone over it by then is to correct the paper in class, wherein he will devote approximately 3 minutes each to some of the many points of confusion, all of which will have settled into my poor classmate's heads so deeply as to be past the point of no return by then.

But this, this only represents the first half of the class, which is the lesser disappointment for someone who's paid over 500 dollars to be there.

The second part of our class, he passes our rough drafts to out to other members of the class, and we are to spend the rest of the class quietly peer editing. This is a nice enough theory, but the problem is such-- there's only been a limited amount of time spent on how to write an essay, certainly not enough to explain it to a room full of people who haven't written anything more than a grocery list in 5-30 years. In fact, the day we were supposed to pass in the rough draft of our first essay, a full fourth of the students came in with some sort of outline or pre-write (these being the one and only things he's gone over in detail, as he seems to think the average students biggest downfall is not being able to come up with ideas to fail horribly in writing an essay about), and it occured to me, but not to him, that he had never explained to these sad people what a rough draft was. He then admonished them for not doing the assignment which they had, in all fairness, done to the best of their ability, and told them to bring it in next class, and they were left asking the other students in class what they were supposed to do. Anyways, he passes our rough drafts back to each other, and effectively, a roomful of people who didn't know what they were doing when they were writing theirs have to critique and edit each other's, and if you're lucky, your paper has been passed to someone who has an idea what they're doing. Michelle, who sits next to me, was critiquing the paper of someone so lost that they had not a five but a seven paragraph essay, four of which were comprised of one sentence each. I had to explain to my peer edit (not in person, but there, in the margins) what a conclusion paragraph was, and there was some talk of a student who had, once again, passed in a outline, although I might have misheard that. Last time we went through this hellish procedure, he at least went through the motions of checking what we had written on each other's papers to see if it was totally off-base or not: that is to say, he collected them, and didn't pass them back until the next class, though my guess is that in that time they were away, they were totally untouched. This time, however, he merely collected the essays and the comments sheets, passed them all back to the original author, and assigned that next class, we should bring in our final copy, which is what we will be graded on.

Oh, the hubris of it. This man is infuriating. On the first day of class, he asked what people had heard about him, and my classmates all chimed in that he was said to be "tough". Having heard nothing of the sort, I assumed that this was just the frustrated undertones of simpletons who had been forced to learn, but I was wrong. These are the moans and cries of a group of students-- middle age, lower income, who are really trying hard, at this point in their lives, to better themselves, to have a decent life or to prove to their children it's never too late to learn-- students who are too confused and too simple to realize that the folly is that they are not being taught. Handing out a packet and leaving is not an education-- not a five-hundred dollar per class one, anyway. These people didn't sign up for a fucking correspondence course, so do your damn job. Christ.

In all fairness, I recognize that eight weeks is a very short period of time to try to cram in all the fundamentals of writing and grammar into the heads of a bunch of frightened and overwhelmed students, but let's not waste any more time running errands and correcting papers, huh? C'mon Professor Elsewhere, why don't you sit in next time?


On with it.

I don't know how long ago blogger added this nifty little "recover post" link, but I am flat-out amazed. Apparently, it retrieves the text of your blog sent in cookie form to your computer. While it doesn't work a hundred percent of the time, it's a real strive towards a world where a lot less of my genius will be floating helplessly around a great big blackhole in cyberspace.

Hooray for google!

Yesterday I got cable internet installed at my house, so posts here should be coming a little more frequently. Not only that, but I have just done my part of controlling the world's population crisis, as a good half of the billions of you who check my blog religiously have probably just keeled over from the excitement. May yee rest in peace.

For those of you who are still alive, I've discovered a neat little link for you, with the help of my new sleek, sexy cable modem and my dashing assistant (/husband-thingy). The Experimental Gameplay Project is the site of a group of college kids from Carnegie Mellon University who's agenda is to create 50 to 100 mini-games in one semester, each of which must be programmed entirely by one student. The site boasts that there will be new games every week, but I don't know how fresh this information is-- the semester may be well over by now. Either way, it's well worth taking a peek, as the games that are offered now are delightful. Zack's favorite is Tower of Goo, a game where you "build a gooey tower higher and higher"-- I think you have to play it to understand...not that I totally understand it yet. Other games we've played include Darwin Hill, a game where you control the evolution of a rapidly growing population of...weird-looking things, in an effort to make a generation of beautiful people (surprisingly difficult to do, I guess I better start cutting god some slack for creating Gary Busey.) and my personal favorite, A Rainy Day, a whimsical and smile-evoking game where you play a surreal tree helping a fleet of paper boats, a fusion of Macromedia and Salvador Dali.

So there's that.

Right now, I am in class, and I am supposed to be writing an illustrative (?) essay about the topic "Obstacles to Coming to College." Obstacle #1: The topics of essays my English Teacher is assigning me are, in themselves, grammatically incorrect. Can obstacles really be "to" something? It just sounds wrong. "Of" or "In" seem more likely canidates, but, for the life of me, I can't figure it out for sure-- maybe it's that a better word would be "going to college", but, because we were technically at college when the work was assigned, he thought that would be inappropriate. All I know is that I don't know anymore-- this man is draining my literary abilities like a drunk on a tap. For the most part, I've taken to fazing out the entire class, offering class participation only when the rest of the class is stuck for an answer, and otherwise watching the construction go on out the window. Sometimes I whisper to Michelle, the friendly but consummately lost 40-something mother of two who sits next to me. She is the first fellow student I've had any amount of interaction with since I started here-- I tend to quietly keep to myself, unwilling to venture into the possibility that I might somehow belong among the rest of the population of this school-- women of varying ages, all of whom are under the impression that the people around them care about the plight of balancing motherhood with getting your specialized associates degree.

Of course, they're right. The people around them do care, because they're all other people in that same predicament. All except me.

Doubtlessly, I would have been better suited for a campus full of young pseudo-intellectuals, and often have a Rory Gilmore fantasy wherein I discuss, with quick and subtle wit, the virtues of Kafka with attractive coeds who burn me CDs of little-known punk bands. But, for better or for worse, I'm glad I chose to wait, and I'm glad I chose a two-year college. My tuition cost is lower, my free time is higher, and I'm doing it my own way-- no more pressure or parental involvement at all. I'll have my degree-- my specialized associate's degree, anyway-- and by the time they've made the final payment on their student loan, I'll be on the fifth year the mortgage to some beautiful house (which I'll be absent from, taking a vacation in Tahiti or Sri Lanka or Prague.) With my charming, medical-assisting husband, I might add.

And more, much more than this: I did it myyyyyyy way!


Another interesting note: Miss Jennifer G. is soon moving into the Linda-Zack household for a undetermined amount of time, so update your address books.


On with it.

I start Aimee Mann's "Wise Up" and hope a post will come to me. I'm coming off a conversation that's made me feel small, and resented. Someone kept their anger in till the last minute, then let it out right before they had to go. Systematically.

"It's not going to stop till you
Wise up."

Anger's the wrong word there. I wish for anger. Lust for anger. Truly and deeply miss anger. "They say that anger's just love disappointed." It was, is, a toe on the line between disgust and disinterest, mixed with a little bit of obligation. The worst state of affairs.

"And it's not going to stop,
So just ,
Give up."

I haven't heard this song in ages-- downloaded it after watching Magnolia with Emily, who I've talked to today, who said "I love you" when she signed off. Like that with Jeremey, hers and mine is one of those relationships that has weathered enough that I've learned to trust it-- our roots, deep beneath the pavement of South street, mingle together, and so they always will.

Some people, you just love.

Jeremey and his girlfriend broke up, by her decision, and while my concern for Jeremey is has grown almost instinctual in the last decade, he didn't call me at any point with the news. I found out when I called on a whim four days after the fact, and I haven't heard from him since. Between that, and a comparison he made to me and some girl who's "like his sister", I've been so hurt by the situation that my instincts have gone astray. All this in the wake of my last post, a tribute to how timeless we are. Heh.

I've been missing people lately, but, with one exception, more as a whole than specifically. Since Petland, I haven't had access to a group of people or regular social outings-- I think, also, about a coworker from iWorx who had meant something to me but whom my relationship was, like my career their, short-lived I doubt it will be remembered. His name, like the Fish Guy, was Chris, and he had beautiful eyes, first of all. Everything else was the antithesis of traditional beauty, without being unnattractive-- he was gruff, tatooed and ex-military, but unexpectedly intelligent in almost any topic I could mention. He had an ego on him the size of Thailand, and day after day we harassed each other one of us-- usually him-- got pissed, but he was kind to me when all was said and done. He'd harangue me about his sales stats against mine, but reassure me whenever I thought about quitting. There are countless pictures of me on his cell phone, all taken by me when I was bored, but I'll probably be forgetting him within a few weeks. Impossibly depressing, really.

After the fourth play of Aimee Mann, I switch to Ben Fold's Five, Brick. When we bought the new computer (probably previously unmentioned), Zack installed a 60 gig hard drive, untouched since the disassembling of a computer I had about two and a half years ago. It's filled with the first MP3's I ever downloaded, conversations with Elorza and the drama surrounding my sophomore-through-senior years of high school. It's like a time capsule, so strange to dig through. These were feelings and thoughts I'd left behind. A coming of age, perserved in words and guitar riffs.

Charlie Parker's version of "Lover Man". "Maneater", by Hall and Oates. "Camera One", by Josh Joplin, which plays now (as I am playing me now.) The lines in it I never got over:

"The sandy-haired sun of hollywood,
Lost his faith in all that's good.
Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock.
Hung his clothes on the shower rod--
But he didn't get undressed."

I remember the first time I realized what those lines mean-- how suddenly I realized what was happening, how clearly I visualized it.

"And no, he didn't seem depressed."

As I get older, I let fewer and fewer people into my feelings. I write fewer and fewer of these kinds of posts. I lose a little more of candid humanity, find a little more reason to stay cold and reserved. (The playlist moves automatically onto Kay's Choice, "I'm not an Addict", a song that sends chills down my spine.)

"Sober now, I'm cold, alone.
I'm just a person on my own.
Nothing means a thing to me.
Nothing means a thing to me."

But nothing's changed. I've breathed out my youthful zest for self-expression and passionate angst, and inhaled the chilling reality: if I am the kind of person I think I am-- that inner-teenager, that sob story-- then, probably, no one needs to know. Probably, no one cares too much.

By the time I get where I'm going, will I seem depressed?

On with it.

"Don't try to make no sense of this scene,
It's just between Carolina and Me,
And we keep changin'
Anyway."
~High, Tabitha's Secret


When I'm done heaving and hawing and being utterly frustrated, for the moment, with something he agrees with me totally on, he sighs, relieved, because I'm just what he needed. He needed me to get riled up and totally insane, he needed me to rant and rave. I can hear his smile over the phone, and I ask him, what?

"I just love you, that's all."

Yeah. That about sums it up.

We talk about music, life, other's people's problems (how no one in the world but the two of us really have any), and we decide that when we've both inevitably screwed up our lives, we'll be together then, we'll deserve each other then, and who else could put up with us? Once I've lost Zack and he's lost his girl (and his sanity), then we'll go back to the way it was in seventh grade-- complete co-dependence and social hermitry. When the world has ended, when the bomb has dropped, when we have nothing.

I'll still have Jeremey.



The great thing about someone who's just really fucked with you over the years, and I mean really screwed you up, is when you've lived through it, you really get a sense of what you can weather for this person. People always thought it was totally naive puppy love that kept me waiting for him all those times he was gone, but it was more than that-- he and I, we have something. It's simple.

And what's simpler is that it's grown with time. There's this incredible comfort of history and sentiment.

We're like the recent seasons of the Simpson's, based almost entirely on references to earlier episodes and self-satirizing remarks. Except, we don't suck.

So when he asked me to update, well, how could I say no?

--

So I told him I'd let him know what songs from Tabitha's Secret he should listen to, what line to look out for, what in each makes them really good-- he'd listened to them years before and never appreciated them, and he's been holding onto the CD's without listening. They're not the easiest band to like, but if you get into it, there are some incredible lines hidden in the some of the less popular tracks, and in certain cases, musicianship (?) that match the skill in any of the MB20 albums.

And if you don't know that Tabitha's Secret was the band most of the members of Matchbox Twenty were in pre-dating Yourself or Someone Like You, well then, I guess you haven't been through very many of my musical lectures.


I'm gonna start with Swing, from Don't Play with Matches, because this is one of the strongest musically. It starts out with just Rob's Voice and the guitar, then the key moments when the other instruments come into the song-- the first island of snare and cymbals bringing just a foreshadowing of energy before it goes back into the accoustic-- then the base starts to bring in strength, and it just builds until it's surrounding you, and Rob's incredible voice is just another instrument in this fusion of sound-- basic, with only the guitar, base, and drums, but overwhelming, a fight and a victory, so subtly that you I almost forbid you to listen without a set of headphones and closed eyes.

The lyrics in this are appropriately understated, at least to me-- there aren't any brilliant lines, there's a lot of repitition, but if it gets to you the way it's supposed to, the words come to you like subliminal messages-- set your balance, keep you head down, watch your anger, boy-- and maybe, if you get to know it and love it the way I do, they come out of your mouth idly, as your whole body is taken over by the beat and the waves of the sound.


Ahhh, it's good. It's difficult to choose, but I think this is my favorite.


Unkind-- Oh, Jeremey, this is very you.

Very different musically-- you can tell, just by the way Rob's singing, that this one is supposed to about the lyrics, and I would say it's maybe a little strained in places, because of this-- some cliches, sort of emo, truth be told. Still-- it's the way the song builds, the mood changes, the feelings emerge-- it goes from sad to accusatory to frustrated, all the great aftermath of a great relationship. This song takes place in a room where two people don't quite know where to go, what they are, what they're supposed to be at this point in their relationship. They're become increasingly different people and struggling with their feelings for each other as they ebb and wane-- come to think of, there's someone other than you, Jeremey, that this one reminds me of a great deal more.

"So bring it on, baby, what you getting into?
I swear that once it was the little things that mattered, but it all seems true to you.
Say the hell with my name, say the hell with my picture.
But swear for the one time you needed me around to be around,
Well, I'm around right now.

And here I'll stand like it matters.
Only once gets through, then gets scattered by the rain.
But pain gives me the right to be unkind."


I think this is one of those songs that really shows off Rob's ability to appeal on a very personal level-- this song is not universal, I don't think, and few people could really love it-- with the exception of the line "Pain gives me the right to be unkind", this is about a very specific situation, or, rather, a hundred very specific situations to a hundred different people. But no two people will really get the same thing out of this.

Come to think about it, this song might not be one you'd like, particularly-- maybe I wrote about this one for me.

The songs I really want to get around to discussing are Paint Me Blue, High, and a few off of the Live Album that I can't locate, though I know This is Not a Love Song is indispensible, though it'd take me a while to locate that-- Give the two I've already talked about and the two I just mentioned a listen, and I'll get around to commentary on those last two later.


And hey to everyone reading this who's not Jeremey! (All two of you)

"I guess I've changed but, yeah, couldn’t you
Given all we've been through? Well,
Heaven knows I've been around, and around."
~TS, And Around

Kotex brand Deodorant Pantiliners smell like Tinker Bell perfume. Unused, anyway.

I've never smelled Tinker Bell perfume-- it is, in fact, some relic of my sister's long past, from before I was born, and, as smells often are, it is the root of a strong memory in the yet unscarred region of her deeply disturbed psyche. The reason I know what it smells like is not because of some strange psychic link between us-- though, at times, I believe one may exist, though faintly, as I have flashes of memories of things that in fact happened to her, rather than me. The reason I know what Tinker Bell perfume smells like is that, my whole life long, anytime something smelled like Tinker Bell perfume, she would announce it, and force me to smell.

Truth be told, I'm not even really sure what it is. I assume it's something my parents bought for her at Disneyland when they lived in California. But I could be way off base.


Emily and I are talking about Max B. (B-L., technically), a guy we used to stalk together-- I am currently downloading ICQ, in attempt to contact him.

FieryGwenivere: I'm downloading ICQ. I'm a loser.
InfiniteAaah: yeeeeah
FieryGwenivere: But my willingness to be one is one of my best character traits!
FieryGwenivere: I, uh, hope.

I've written about Max on here a few times, I believe-- at one time, he was a person whom I attributed, God, a hell of a lot to. For years of my life, whenever anything good happened to me, I'd stop in the moment and silently thank him, as he was the only one who made a point to notice (and get me through, intact) when I was going through one of my earlier suicide phases-- I, perhaps, stopped doing this when I started owing the same debt of gratitude to too many others, or maybe it was about the time I just stopped having gratitude altogether. But I've never stopped thinking of him as a shining example of what I would want to be, if I still had the faith that I could grow to be at all in his league-- this is a sentiment enhanced by the fact, which Emily has just uncovered, that he is working with the Portland Stage Company-- he acted in High School, it's how I met him, and he's acting now. He's one of those people who became what they wanted to become. Let's take a moment for that.

I was in love with Max during a period of my life when I was starving for someone to be in love with, but as I got to know him-- his kindness, his intelligence, his understated grace, well, it wouldn't have mattered. There was speculation that he had feelings for me, but as much as I wanted to believe that, I was fairly sure then and am now that he was just kind. That one deserves a moment, too. Kindness. Christ.

I think almost every blog entry that he's been mentioned in has become an ode to him, towards the end-- once I start writing about him, it moves me to breath a little bit slower, and feel a little bit more nostalgic than normal (which seems hardly possible, given the girl in question), and feel, in equal parts the relief I have just to know there are people like that who exist in this world, and regret for the ramifications that I knew him, personally, somewhat well, and let him drift away. How much different, and inevitably better, would my life have been if he had allowed me to be a bigger part of his life, and would he have? If I'd been in a position in my life to see the value of platonic relationships (like I hypothetically will be in, oh, say twenty more years), perhaps I wouldn't have made such an idiot of myself over an amazing boy, and fallen in love with him, as falling in love is the currency of idiots.

Then again, if there was ever anyone worth making an idiot of oneself over, ever anyone worthy of falling in love with (and in love with again, every time you stop to think of him), then it's him.


I hope you all have someone like that in your life. And I hope every Max out there has someone to write them little odes that they'll never read, but will somehow matter. I hope.

Oh, and I hope you all experience the smell of Tinker Bell perfume, or at least Kotex pantiliners; it's really quite pleasant. On with it.

The stranglehold that a phantom site had on my god-given domain name has seemingly ended-- if I am correct, soon SuedeCaramel.com will once again be mine, and lead you, my good people, here.


So, some thoughts.

While American Express is currently advertising with celebrities like Ellen Degeneres and Robert Deniro (with the creative help of Martin Scorsese and Annie Leibovitz), Discover is contrasting with a line of commercials featuring extremely relatable average people-- have you seen these? Black and white, just the person standing there, talking about their life, saying things so cute and suburban that it just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside-- "I helped put my husband through dental school, and now I get my teeth cleaned for free." (Big smile.) Or "I still open doors for my wife, because she deserves it." These are the "average americans", the decent, traditional people with a strong work ethic and perfect credit.

If these are average Americans, I'm in biiiig trouble.

Discover is trying too hard to show us likable, relatable customers-- as a result, these people are to ethics and decency what Cindy Crawford is to aesthetics and ass. I'll never look like her and I'll never be like them-- let's get realistic, Discover, if that's what you're going for! Let's get people saying *real* everyday things. Replace the lady who says "I still get goosebumps when (my husband) kisses my neck" with "I still get goosebumps when (my lover) pinches my ass and calls me 'Mommy'." And the guy who says "I'd like to use (the cashback bonus awards) for a table saw, but I have a feeling it's going towards a new dishwasher" with "I'd like to use the money towards a new Colt 45, but I have a feeling it's going towards Bail."

This is my America. On with it.

Okay, everyone in the whole world, yes, the whole world, is on my case to update this, (Hi Madonna! Osama! Miuccia Prada!*) Not a whole lot to say in the form of a rant, so I'll go back to the old stand-by: comments on commercials that are currently getting air time.


Mitsubishi
There's this whole line of commercials taking place in Mistubishi dealerships, the one with the guy who's friend is all like "Chick Magnet!", the one with the man who manipulates his wife into buying a SUV by winding her biological clock, and the one who's trying to negotiate a deal on a car he admits is already a great price, then he ends up looking stupid. And in all of these, the common factors are the exact location of the car in the showroom, and a guy in an orange (red?) jumpsuit who's only job seems to be to stand their all day and whisper things to customers, like Mitsubishi's version of the Buckingham Palace Sentry.

So who's up for taking a road trip with me to find out if these Mitsubishi dealerships really *have* those guys?


Adult SwimAdult Swim has recently sold out it's bumps or cards or whatever the hell they're called to advertising for AXE body spray (and one other forgotten product, to a lesser degree- the lesson here, if you're gonna advertise on adult swim, do it often enough so it gets through the thick skulls of the Inuyasha crowd.) I'm not saying, at this point, that there advertising is particularly worthy of cracking jokes about, because thus far, it's been done in strictly respectable adult swim fashion, but they're really walking a tight-rope here. If they slip up on this, a whole mass of disgruntled AS fans will do exactly what our generation has always done in terms of civil disobedience: Absolutely nothing! But with flare.

If they really screw up, who knows. A couple hundred of strategically placed "AXE advertisements SUCK THE COCKZ!" messages on their forums might make them see it our way. Dirty corporate money can't fight with the raw passion and stinging prose of a 1337 haXor.


In other news, this woman is an idiot.

On with it.


*And thanks to Jeremey for helping me find a third celebrity with a name that ends in "ah".