Old Punks Never Die (They Just Sell Out)

I first heard of Debbie Harry and Blondie in the 7th grade. Being too young to know about any type of music that was outside of mainstream radio, like Punk, I didn't know about Blondie until their 1979 punk-disco crossover hit "Heart of Glass" climbed the charts and received major national radio airplay. At the time, I was kind of intimidated by Debbie Harry. She looked so tough. She was junkie-thin, and wore those Candies high-heeled slides that my mother wouldn't let me have. Her black roots revealed that her peroxide-blonde hair was a dye job, and what's more, she didn't give a shit! And most intimidating of all was that she sang the word "ass" in the song (cuz it rhymes with "Glass"). I heard it, once or twice, before radio stations replaced it with the censored version. But as scared as I was of Debbie (remember, I was only 12, growing up on Long Island in a conservative suburb of New York City), I did like "Heart of Glass." And when Blondie released their next single, "One Way or Another," I put aside my fears and bought the 45 rpm single at my local Record World. It shared Top 40 space with disco holdouts like Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" and last-ditch efforts at '70s mellow music like Poco's "Crazy Love." But while disco ultimately died, and mellow music gave way to the New Wave and Heavy Metal noise of the '80s, Blondie was well on their way to becoming a hallowed musical institution.

Fast forward twenty-eight years. "One Way or Another" is now used in a Swiffer dry mop commercial. "Call Me," Blondie's theme song from the 1980 film American Gigolo, has been grossly misappropriated by a Massachusetts used-car dealership. And this week, I was shocked to see a commercial for NBC's game show The Singing Bee touting the fact that this Friday Debbie Harry would be joining rock and roll legend Little Richard, and the show's host Joey Fatone (of N'Sync fame) as the musical guest. Huh?

With the Hollywood writer's strike in its seventh week or so, network television is scrambling to come up with reality shows to fill the void left by the scripted dramas and sitcoms whose production has been halted by the strike. The commercial for The Singing Bee proudly heralds the show's "return." Translation: the show was pulled due to low ratings, but is back on the air because of the writer's strike. So why is Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-inductee Debbie Harry appearing on a tacky mid-season replacement game show that includes the likes of Fatone, and which has its own dancers, The Honey Bees (hey, wasn't that the name of the Beatle-esque pop group that Ginger, Maryann and Mrs. Howell formed on Gilligan's Island?). Does she really need the money? Of course, she is in her sixties by now. And in the grander scheme of things, one could argue that there really aren't all that many old punks, as many of them died in their prime, either by OD (Sid Vicious, or Malcolm Owen of The Ruts) or by suicide (Ian Curtis of Joy Division). So maybe selling the rights to songs and appearing on television shows is the punk rock star equivalent of Social Security. And punk itself doesn't evoke the same emotions as it used to. In 1976, punk scared the crap out of The Establishment. Over thirty years later, punk, like disco, is considered a farcical music and fashion movement of a past decade, as evidenced by a chocolate chip cookie commercial featuring claymation punkers singing "Chunky Chips Ahoy, oi, oi, oi!" I bet the kids watching that cookie commercial today wouldn't even know the origins of Oi (the Cockney Rejects' single "Flares and Slippers," FYI). But for someone who once sang "Die Young, Stay Pretty," Debbie looks pretty darn good for her age.

I for one will not watch Debbie Harry on The Singing Bee. I prefer to remember the Debbie Harry of the good old days of "Atomic" and "Rapture", ringing in 1980 on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve, and of course, her Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans commercial (didn't she seem really stoned in that one?). We'll always have "Rip Her To Shreds."

No No No to Ho Ho Ho?

I'm all for political correctness, but this is taking it too far. Some department stores are now having their Rent-a-Santas say "Ha Ha Ha" instead of "Ho Ho Ho." Why, you ask? Because the word "Ho" now has certain derrogatory connotations. How ridiculous. Do we really think Santa is calling our children an urban euphamism for prostitutes? "Ho Ho Ho" is merry in nature, reminiscent of Santa in Clement C. Moore's classic holiday poem "The Night Before Christmas." It positively evokes Santa laughing so hard that his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. "Ha Ha Ha," on the other hand, sounds like someone is laughing at you. Witness Nelson Muntz from "The Simpsons," with his trademark "Ha Ha" (and, in one Christmas episode, when laughing at Ned Flanders, "Ha Ha - you're sad at Christmas.") Is Santa laughing at you? Could it be because you were foolish enough to stand outside of Kohl's to be first in line when they opened at 4 am the day after Thanksgiving to buy the new Tickle Me Elmo, only to discover that it was pulled from the shelves because it sounds like it's saying something obscene (but apparently not as obscene as the word Ho, which is why Santa can't use it anymore)?



That Nelson cracks me up.

Kinda Bumming Today

Forgive me if I'm not my usual cheery, irreverant self today, but I just learned that one of my neighbors died this week. It was sudden - no one had seen her all of last weekend, and then her daughter found her in her apartment on Monday. It makes me realize how you never know what will happen. I just saw her last week. She was in her car driving out of our apartment complex as I was walking in. We waved to each other. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the last time I would see her.

Usually I try not to get too chummy with my neighbors, in case they turn out to be kind of weird, or want to start coming over to visit all the time. I know, it's sort of anti-social of me, but I do like to keep to myself a lot of the time. But this lady was one of the few neighbors that I am friendly with. She was eldery, a widow who lived alone, although her children and grandchildren lived nearby. But she was fiercely independent. She once told me that, until very recently, she used to keep a loaded gun in her apartment and so she never locked her door at night ("If anyone got in, they'd never get out."). Her late husband was a police officer, so I guess she learned how to handle a gun from him. But that's the kind of spunky woman she was. And passing away suddenly in your own home beats dying in a nursing home, sick and feeble, sometimes for years, hands down.

It's especially sad for her family that she died around Christmastime. I lost my father ten years ago this month, just two weeks before Christmas, so I know how it can affect one's holidays for the rest of one's life. I still think about my father more at Christmas. But in a strange way, I derive a little comfort from the fact that he passed away around Christmas. When I go to church every year on the anniversary of his death to light a candle in his memory, I am comforted by the pointsettias and the Christmas decorations that adorn the church. And if I'm lucky, I'm treated to a rehearsal of the organist or the choir practicing Christmas music. In fact, on the first anniversary of his death, in a beautiful cathedral on the Upper East Side in New York City (near where I worked at the time), the organist started practicing while I was there. I was crying a little bit, and the first song that the organist played was my favorite Christmas carol, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." It's pretty, yet kind of mournful, medieval and monastic in sound. I felt that it wasn't a coincidence -- that it was a gift to me that day, a sign that my father knew I was there, and that he was at peace. Sounds crazy, I know, but it made me feel better to think that. And maybe in time my neighbor's family will find the same comfort that I do during the holiday season.

Why Am I Such a Misfit?

Christmastime is here again. Time to put up the tree, hang the mistletoe, and take out those DVDs of the classic holiday television specials you enjoyed as a child. I'm talking about chestnuts like How the Grinch Stole Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and, of course, anything by Rankin Bass. So last night I waxed nostalgic and watched my DVD of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And last night, like every year, a thought occurred to me, as I'm sure it's occurred to everyone who's seen the program - a nagging question that, for the past forty-plus years that this program has been in existence, has never been fully explored nor satisfactorily answered: What exactly is wrong with the Misfit Doll?

You all know the Misfit Toys: Charlie in the Box, a cowboy on an ostrich, a train with square wheels. Sure, it's obvious what their problems are. But what's wrong with the little doll? She looks perfectly normal in her red gingham dress and pigtails. So why is she a misfit, banished to a life in limbo on the Island of Misfit Toys? I posed this question to a co-worker once, and he replied that she's a misfit because she cries a lot. I countered that she cries a lot because she's a misfit. Is this a vicious cycle? Watching it again last night, however, I realized that she only cried once, on Christmas Eve, when the fog became so thick that it looked like Santa wouldn't make it to the Island of Misfit Toys to pick them all up and bring them to new homes. Who wouldn't cry at this massive disappointment?

But maybe my co-worker had a point. An article on tvparty.com suggests that the Misfit Doll's problems could, perhaps, be more psychological in nature. Personally, I think she was a Misfit because she had red hair! As a redhead myself, I know how she would be ostracized - called names like Carrot Top, Freckle Face, or Pippi Longstocking. But if she's a misfit because she has red hair, then dammit, so am I! I think there's a lesson to be learned from the Misfit Doll, and indeed, from all of the Misfit Toys: Be Yourself. To remind myself of this valuable lesson, I've got the Misfit Doll action figure (part of a two-pack with Rudolph) gracing my computer table year-round as a reminder to embrace my individuality. I'm a Misfit and proud of it.

Just don't get me started about my theory that Hermie's desire to be a dentist is actually a veiled reference to coming out of the closet.

The Million-Dollar Question

Anyone? Anyone?

My guess would be that they both fight crime. Batman took an extremely proactive approach, while Jesus used more preventative measures (the 10 commandments, thou shalt not steal, etc.).

Another One Bites the Dust

courtesy Salem News

It's November 2nd, and Salem is slowly returning to normal after yet another Halloween season. Thank God Halloween fell on a Wednesday, which was my day off, so I didn't have to make my way downtown to go to work. I headed out of town to a nearby mall instead, where, despite some sales staff and a few kids being in costume, it felt like any other day. But at work on the Saturday before Halloween, we dressed up in Halloween costumes at the shop. I wore a school uniform with a Gryffindor patch on my sweater. I was supposed to be Ginny Weasley, because I have red hair, but everyone just assumed I was Hermione.


courtesy Salem News

Sure enough, as I predicted in my previous post about Halloween in Salem, there were a few "incidents." This year, there were two stabbings and a shooting on Halloween during the revelry, although they occurred late at night after the official celebration had ended. And local officials are calling it an "overall success" - "better than last year"! Yikes! In all there were 14 arrests, mostly for drunk or disorderly conduct. But perhaps the most notable arrest was that of a controversial homosexual-hating preacher for disturbing the peace by accosting people with a bullhorn and arguing with them (above). After his arrest in Salem, this preacher chose to go to trial rather than dismiss his case if he paid $100 in court fees. These religious fanatics have been coming to Salem at Halloween time for several years now, preaching and passing out flyers in an attempt to get people to repent - because we all know trick-or-treating is just one step away from devil worship. Apparently they were so busy trying to get slight sinners to repent that they failed to notice Satan himself walking past them (below).


courtesy Salem News

Despite these incidents, overall the season seemed a bit less frantic than past years, possibly because we had 80+ degree weather for much of October, so maybe fewer tourists came because it didn't seem like autumn in New England. But today was a more seasonal 45 degrees. That's what usually happens. Fall is my favorite season, but it gets shorter and shorter every year. The weather stays warmer longer, and then as soon as November begins, it gets cold and turns to winter, so we really don't get the crisp, refreshing autumns I remember as a child. I blame global warming.

I loved that "autumn" smell in the air while I went trick-or-treating as a kid- a mix of cold air and fireplace smoke, as the leaves crunched beneath my feet. As as little kid in the Seventies, every year I got one of those Halloween costumes that came in a box, with those masks that you couldn't breathe in because they only had a tiny slit for a mouth. I always got too hot and ended up pushing it on top of my head so I could breathe. Completing the ensemble was a one-piece pajama-type suit printed with whatever design corresponded to your mask - whether it was Spider Man, Wonder Woman, Cinderella, Scooby Doo, etc. Not that you could see what it was because my mom made me wear my cardigan sweater over them anyway because it was cold out. But I still remember how excited I'd get when the local five-and-ten put the costumes out on display, officially kicking off the Halloween season. I couldn't wait to pick out my costume from the piles of square boxes stacked on top of each other. Of course, those costumes were probably not flame-retardant, but what's Halloween without living on the edge, right?



Last year there were about 40 arrests in Salem on Halloween night, compared to the 14 this year, so yeah, I suppose this year was better than last year (two thumbs up!). Although I don't recall anyone getting shot last year. I guess if there's anything crazier than downtown Salem on Halloween night, it's the emergency room at Salem Hospital.



courtesy Salem News

Go Sox!!!

Save The Doctor, Save the World

I'm such a geek. Last week I purchased the Series Three Dr. Who and Martha Jones action figures. It looks as though the manufacturers cheaped out this time around, as the figures don't come with any accessories like those in Series One and Two. The Doctor doesn't even come with a sonic screwdriver this time, even though one of his hands is shaped to hold it because they used the same mold for this action figure as they did with the other two series. See what a geek I am that I can differentiate between the series of action figures? Next thing you know I'll be comparing the paint jobs on the faces before buying them to get the "best ones," and I'll be afraid to take my action figures out of their original packaging because MIB doesn't increase in value as much as NRFB. I like how they made the David Tennant-as-Dr. Who action figure wear glasses this time because, in the words of David Tennant himself, "The world need a speccy hero." As one who is cursed with appallingly bad eyesight and can't see two inches in front of my face without corrective lenses, I say Amen!

Tonight was the American premiere of the last episode of the most recent season of "Dr. Who," wherein Dr. Who is imprisoned by his nemesis The Master, and it's up to Martha Jones to save all of humanity, and indeed, the entire universe, from utter chaos and destruction. But we all knew she would, didn't we? What I didn't expect was the kiss-off Martha gave to the Doctor at the end when he asked her to continue to accompany him on his trips through space and time. After initially being secretive with her about who he really was, and ignoring the fact that she was in love with him - at times to the point of being insensitive - did he really expect that she would continue to risk her life traveling in a shabby old police call box to uncertain danger and life-threatening encounters with species from other universes, just because he doesn't want to be alone? Boo hoo! Hell, even The Master blew him off, choosing to kill himself rather than spend the rest of his life traveling with the Doctor (albeit as his prisoner). But Girlfriend took the Doctor to task, possibly being the only person to make the Doctor feel ashamed of himself. And I'm guessing this is the first time the Doctor ever got dumped. I like the fact that this new series of Dr. Who doesn't paint the Doctor as the perfect, infallible superhero. He has faults. He makes mistakes. And for once, someone called him out on it. You go Martha Jones!

Of course, Martha's exit paves the way for next season's new companion, comedienne Catherine Tate. She will be reprising her role as the annoying Donna Noble from last year's Christmas special. I can't wait! But don't worry, we haven't seen the last of Martha Jones. I hear she gets a job at Torchwood, the Dr. Who spin-off show that I've also become addicted to. Torchwood heroine Gwen Cooper kicks butt too, but that's probably going to be another post for another time. And if the rumor of Torchwood action figures turns out to be true, I'll have to get a Gwen action figure too. And I will take it out of its original packaging.

Where Have All the Tourists Gone? Everybody's Askin'

Despite my previous post about how Salem gets crazy busy in October, this season is off to a slow start. There are tourists in town, but it doesn't seem as crowded as past years. And these past two weeks have been excrutiatingly slow at the tea shop. Today I made a total of 60 cents in tips - not even enough for bus fare home. Last year there were lines out the door for hot apple cider and hot chocolate. It's only the first week of October, though, so hopefully things will pick up. Tonight is the Haunted Happenings parade through town. It officially kicks off the Halloween season. It goes right past the tea shop, but I decided to go right home after work because I didn't want to deal with the crowds and the re-routed traffic, which might have affected my bus ride home if I left later. The fact that it's early October and it was 85 degrees out today doesn't help to make it feel like autumn in New England.

And speaking of autumn, it's time for the new fall season of television shows. Last night I watched "Pushing Daisies" on ABC. I don't watch any of the shows on the ABC network except for "Dancing with the Stars" (and don't even get me started about how they pre-empted last week's dance episode until 1:45 am because of football, which means I missed it and didn't realize it until I tuned in for what I thought was the dance episode but was in fact the results show). But now I will have to make an exception. "Pushing Daisies" is about a man who has the ability to bring the dead back to life if he touches them, but only for a minute, because if he doesn't touch them again, which makes them dead permanently, then a sort of cosmic equalization takes place and someone else dies. So he uses his ability to re-animate murder victims, asks them who killed them, touches them again, and then collects the reward money. But when one of those victims is his childhood sweetheart, he can't bring himself to touch her again to make her die permanently. The show is full of black humor, and is very quirky and charming. It has a magical Dr. Seuss-meets-Tim Burton quality that makes it unique from most of the shows out there, right down to the use of a narrator (British actor Jim Dale), which gives it the feel of a strange yet fascinating fairy tale for grown-ups being read aloud. British actress Anna Friel is absolutely adorable as the protagonist's dead childhood sweetheart. She has a gamine quality that makes her a modern-day Audrey Hepburn. And it's great to see Ellen Greene and Swoosie Kurtz again - two veterans of stage and screen in roles so quirky and eccentric that only they could play them.



Next week, ABC continues its new fall season of quirky shows with a program about a woman who's lost her memory, called "Sarah Who" - not to be confused with "Dr. Who."

Halloweentown

Salem in October is insane.

Since I live in Salem, Massachusetts (not Salem, New Hampshire; or Salem, Oregon), you could say that I do in fact live in Halloweentown. Now that it's mid-September, the summer tourists are giving way to the autumn crowds which come here to enjoy the Halloween festivities. It's early yet, but many stores are already decorated for Halloween in anticipation of the throngs of visitors to this fair city. During the month of October, the population of Salem swells to twice the usual number due to all the of out-of-town visitors. Streets are packed with pedestrians, many of whom wear oversized witch hats with feathered brims or ceramic devil horns tied around their heads, waving around magic wands or pirate swords. And I'm talking about the adults, people. And the fairies! Don't even get me started about the fairies.

I do enjoy all the Halloween-related events leading up to October 31st, such as the Bizarre Bazaar, a two-day craft fair held on the pedestrian walkway, as well as the special events some of the stores or local organizations hold, such as psychic fairs, or the children's and pets' costume parades. But as much as I love living in Salem, I don't want to go anywhere near downtown Salem on Halloween day itself. An eight minute drive home can turn into forty-five minutes or more when many drivers display a blatant disregard for traffic rules, ignoring red lights and continuing to go through intersections, thus leaving those who have the right of way unable to proceed. And taking the bus to avoid the hassle of driving through town doesn't help, either. The buses are re-routed on Halloween day, but the city doesn't publicize it. On my first Halloween in Salem, I waited over an hour for my bus, and when it didn't come, I started walking, only to learn halfway through my walk that the bus took an alternate route. By the time I got on the bus, I was so close to my apartment that I should have just walked the rest of the way home.

When I first visited Salem as a tourist, I loved taking part in the Halloween festivities. Now I find them to be a pain in the ass. I still love Halloween as much as I always did, but now, as a resident, I find the hordes of tourists converging on my city to be a major inconvenience, preventing me from going about my business as usual. I can't get a parking space. I can't get a table in a restaurant. There are long lines to the ladies' room in the Visitor's Center (because sometimes I can't wait until I get home). Add to the influx of tourists the charletan "psychics" who don't live or work here but who come into town to compete with the established Salem psychics for the tourist dollars. It got so bad that the city now requires psychics to have a fortune-telling license, which led to "witch wars" in town, as a couple of local "witches" left dead racoon carcasses in front of the shops of a few of the established psychics in town. Yes, my friends, Wiccans can get downright nasty where money is concerned.

My sanctuary from all the craziness of Salem at Halloween is Salem Common. Although it is right next to the Witch Museum, which is arguably the most popular witch attraction in town, most tourists bypass it. I guess it's not exciting enough for them. Thus, even in the middle of October, the Common is still mostly filled with residents, people who continue their normal routine amid the chaos to take a walk, jog, ride their bikes, walk their dogs, push their baby carriages, or just sit on a bench and read. I can take a walk around the Common and feel like I'm a part of this city, and not remotely connected to the swarms of people taking up valuable walking space on the sidewalks.

At night on Halloween, I prefer to just stay home, because Halloween night in Salem is the craziest time of all. Each year I can't wait to read the local paper the day after Halloween to see a) who got drunk, b) who got stabbed, c) who got into a fight, or d) who got arrested. Not that it's really that bad, but honestly, there are a lot of drunken idiots walking around downtown on the busiest night of the year in Halloweentown. Which reminds me, it's the time of year to watch "Nightmare Before Christmas" again.



image courtesy of halloweentown.org

Well I'll Be Googled (Part Two): Quite Literally

Do you ever Google yourself? Sure, we all do! After all, we have to make sure no one is posting any malicious rumors about us, don't we? (thank God my name isn't Britney Spears or Paris Hilton). So imagine my surprise one day when, with a lot of time on my hands during my longer-than-expected period of unemployment, a Google result of my own name turned up a listing for an old 7" vinyl 45 rpm single by an artist with the exact same name as me. I'm talking first and last name (although I've obscured the last name in the photo above to protect my identity, as well as the name of the song to prevent searches for it, sort of like a blogger protection program - not that I don't trust you guys). Even the spelling of my first name is the same, spelled with one "n" rather than two, which is unusual, but it's spelled that way because it's my nickname. It's really weird looking at the record label and seeing my own name on it. So of course I had to buy it from the online vintage record site on which I found it. The single dates from the very early Sixties. I did a search for "Dot Records" and came up with some information about the label. It was started in Gallatin, TN in 1950 and moved to Hollywood, CA in 1956, where it continued to release records in many genres, including gospel, soul, R&B, country, pop, and early rock and roll, until it was discontinued in 1977 (maybe disco killed it?). Dot recording artists included Pat Boone, Gale Storm, Liberace, Leonard Nimoy, Lawrence Welk, the Andrew Sisters, Donna Fargo, Barbara Mandrell, and Roy Clark (of "Hee Haw" fame), as well as this person with the same name as me that nobody had ever heard of before or since.

The site from which I bought the single featured a short MP3 sample of the song, and upon listening to it, I could discern through the many crackles and pops of the old vinyl record that this Lyn was an African-American man, and not a white girl originally from Long Island, NY. Weird, huh?

What's even weirder is that I found another single on another vintage vinyl website by an artist with the exact same name as my sister, and using her nickname too. What are the odds? Needless to say I've got to get my hands on that one too. Maybe I'll make retro-looking shadow boxes, or buy those 12" album frames from Restoration Hardware and put vintage fabrics and postcards in with the singles to make some funky art for our apartment. After all, how many people could boast of owning a record with their name on it (unless their name happens to be John Lennon, or Barry White, or Diana Ross, or...well, I guess a lot of people could, actually).

So add to the many disappointments in my life my failed career as an African-American male soul/R&B artist of the early Sixties. But that's okay. Good thing I turned to blogging.

Who do you share a name with?

Well I'll Be Googled

I know everyone who has a blog has done this - viewing their site stats to see what Google Searches have brought people to their blog. But it sounded like fun, so I thought I'd try it. Here are some of the searches that turned up my blog in the results.

Okie Dokie Pig in a Pokie - I get this one a lot. They must have been looking for information on the British tv show The League of Gentlemen, as this is a quote from one of the characters. Unless they really were searching for pigs in jail.

Girl Pig - Hmm, that's odd. No relation to the League of Gentlemen. Maybe it's related to the search for pigs in jail?

Girl Desktoppers – I have no idea what this means, but it sounds kind of obscene.

Fairys Houes - Is this even English? Or perhaps they're dyslexic.

I had car accident and I saw one doctor in the first place can I see this doctor again for me - And were you on crack when you had this accident?

I would like to see the newest in Life is Good shirts - Are you over the age of 50, by any chance? (see previous post).

Life is Good - I Guess

What is it about those Life is Good (R) t-shirts and the Baby Boomer generation? Yesterday my sister and I went to Rockport for the day, and I saw at least 5 people of advancing age wearing Life is Good t-shirts. It got so bad that at one point I said to my sister "If I see one more person over the age of fifty wearing a Life is Good t-shirt, I'm going to scream." Not ten minutes later we passed another older American wearing a shirt emblazoned with one of those ubiquitous stick people grinning maniacally whilst engaged in a variety of positive activities, determined to enjoy life to the fullest. My sister reminded me that I had promised to scream, but, alas, I didn't.

Then today at work, my boss came in on her day off to get some work done in her office. She, too, was dressed in a Life is Good t-shirt, casually tucked into the elasticized waistband of her Mom Jeans. I don't get it. Are older people who wear Life is Good t-shirts trying to recapture their youth, or perhaps trying to connect with the younger generations? Or is it that, in their infinite wisdom that comes from being on this earth longer than most of us, they know something that younger people can only take at face value: that Life is, indeed, Good? And can optimism, like glitter eyeshadow or denim miniskirts, ever be age-inappropriate?

At least the people at Life is Good, Inc. realize that, sometimes, the glass is half empty. In response to their Life is Good apparel, they've started a line of more pessimistic t-shirts called Life is Crap. The Life is Crap shirts feature those same stick figure people having a bad day, such as going to the dentist, or being hit in the groin with a soccer ball.



The Life is Crap logo features a stick figure person with a seagull flying over him, pooping on his head. With the popularity of the Life is Good line of apparel leading to the establishment of Life is Good stores, such as the one on Newbury Street in Boston, can a Life is Crap store be far behind?



So I guess the moral of this story is, that as good as life is, sometimes life can also be, quite literally, crap.

Too Pooped to Post

I think this is the longest I've gone so far without posting. I've been so busy with my new job that I haven't been online in ten days. I'm so tired when I come home that I have no energy to blog.

The job is going fine so far except for one thing: I've hurt my back. Nothing serious, but with all the bending and lifting that I do, I've pulled a muscle in my lower back. And the smaller movements seem to set it off more than large ones. Like I can bend down to pick something up off the floor if I do it slowly, but if I laugh, sneeze, yawn, or even shift my weight, I get a twinge of pain in my lower back that feels like it goes right through to my front. Dang. I think my body is telling me that I'm too old to return to retail after a 15-year hiatus. I'm going to see my doctor on Wednesday to see what he tells me. In the meantime, I've been popping Advils like they're M&Ms. And unlike M&Ms, Advils do melt in your hand.

I've finished reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." I'm satisfied with the outcome. That's all I'll say, so as not to spoil anything for those of you who haven't read it yet. Now I think I have to re-read all the Harry Potter books from the beginning, now that the series is complete. I've forgotten so many little facts over the years that the books came out, so it will be great to be able to read them all in succession.

Three Days and Counting

Actually, it's 2 days, 4 hours and 20 minutes until midnight of Saturday, July 21st. That's when "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" will be released. My local independent bookstore is having a day-long series of Potter-related events on Friday, ending with the release of the book at midnight. And being the nerd girl that I am, I've pre-purchased a copy and will be picking it up at 12:01 am Saturday morning, along with many other Harry Potter fans. Of course, I'm not completely geeky -- I could show up dressed as a character in the book -- but I won't. That would just be weird, although I could very easily make a Hogwarts school uniform out of the grey flannel J. Crew mini-kilt, grey cardigan sweater, and white button-down shirt that happen to be a part of my wardrobe anyway. And I do own a magic wand (it was a gift, okay?). The British edition of the book is expected to be 608 pages, while the American edition is 784 pages. Why is that? It's the same book, after all. Does the American edition have bigger type? Is the eyesight of American children collectively that much worse than that of British kids? (I blame video games). I love the American editions if only for the wonderful illustrations by Mary GrandPre (see above) used by Scholastic, the American publisher of the Harry Potter books. They're charming, and they appeal to both the children and adults who read the book. The British publishers release two versions of each book, one for children, and one for adults with a less juvenile-looking cover.

I saw "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" last Thursday. I enjoyed it, but I left the theater feeling that something was missing. I was a bit disappointed that some of my favorite scenes from the book were cut from the movie. Oh well. That's not going to stop me from seeing it again this Sunday. Then again, maybe I should just stay home all day Sunday and start reading "Deathly Hollows." Now I'm conflicted.

Tea Lady

I got the job at the tea shop. I start tomorrow. I had a one-hour-and-fifteen-minute interview on Friday, during which time a vicious thunder-and-lightning storm came through, all while we were safe inside. By the time my interview ended, the sun had come out again. How deliciously metaphorical.

I was really nervous about accepting this job, only because my confidence is a bit worse for wear after my last job. But as I look back on my employment history, it appears that my gut instinct is lousy. I seem to have made decisions that were the exact opposite of what I should have done. I've accepted jobs I shouldn't have, and turned down jobs I shouldn't have. And when I had interviewed for my last job, I came away from it really, really wanting it. I thought the people were great and it would be a fantastic job. Boy was I wrong on that one. So I should take a page from Seinfeld's George Constanza's book and do the opposite: "It all became very clear to me sitting out there today, that every decision I've ever made in my entire life has been wrong. My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every instinct I have in every aspect of life, be it something to wear, something to eat... It's often wrong."

It's frightening that George Costanza has become my unemployment idol.

And when I'm plagued by self doubt, I just repeat the mantra of Saturday Night Live's fictional self-help guru Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." Truer words have never been spoken.



Two Dubious Role Models: George Costanza and Stuart Smalley

Doctor Woo-Hoo!

Tomorrow night is the much anticipated (by me, anyway) American television premiere of the third season of Dr. Who. I must stress that I am not usually a Dr. Who fan, but ever since they brought it back, and especially when David Tennant took over the role from Christopher Eccleston, I have become addicted. But I bet Dr. Who has many new fans of the female persuasion because of David Tennant. Of course, the entire third season has already been shown in Britain, which means that I sort of know what happens in the end because I've been reading blogs of British fans like Project 76 and Struggling Author. But that's okay. As long as I get to watch David Tennant for an hour, I'm happy.

Tomorrow's debut is a double feature. It starts with last year's Christmas special, The Runaway Bride. I haven't even seen it yet and recent Dr. Who news in Britain is already revealing that this year's Christmas special's guest star is Kylie Minogue. Will Kylie and the Doctor fall in love? She should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky.... But I can't wait to see The Runaway Bride. I've been waiting since last Christmas, when I followed the official Dr. Who BBC website and downloaded photos of the dishy doctor and comedienne Catherine Tate. It's nice to see a (fellow) big-boned, redheaded woman as the Doctor's companion, albeit temporary. The double feature continues with the first proper episode of the season, "Smith and Jones," where the Doctor meets his newest companion, Martha Jones. Martha looks cooler than the Doctor's previous companion, Rose Tyler. Not that I didn't like Rose, Martha just looks like she could kick more ass.

It will be nice to have this distraction tomorrow night, as I have a job interview tomorrow afternoon, and I'll need something to relax and unwind to in the evening. I've got an interview for the manager position of the local tea shop in town. I love going there as a customer, and it would be like a little bit of heaven to have a short commute to a job I genuinely enjoy. So fingers crossed.

Hmm, Dr. Who and Tea, two uniquely British things. Maybe these two worlds colliding on the same day could be a good omen of a successful interview?

Breakin' The Law

As of this past Saturday, I am in violation of the newly enacted state law that requires all residents of Massachusetts to have health insurance. I had insurance when I was working, but now that I'm unemployed I can't afford it. I am entitled to continue my health insurance through my former employer through COBRA, but the payments would be $300 a month. And I just can't swing that on unemployment, as having health insurance would mean that I would be $300 short for rent each month. Let's see, which do I choose: health insurance or rent? Sorry, rent wins. Rent always wins. But if I don't purchase health insurance I'll have to pay a penalty in my 2008 state income taxes.

The growing costs of health care has always been a problem in America. While many industrialized nations offer nationalized health care to its citizens, the American government has always been wary of it because they feel it smacks of socialism, which in their eyes is one step away from Communism. (It's for this reason that our railways aren't nationalized either, and thus why Amtrak is always in financial crisis). And these nations with nationalized health care do tax their citizens to cover the cost. But I feel for a state to require all residents to have health insurance is penalizing many innocent people for the trangressions of a few who abuse the system. There are a lot of people who can't afford even low-cost health insurance, or people like me who are unemployed. And today I've started seeing commercials for new companies that are popping up, offering "affordable" health insurance in the same way that companies like Geicko or Amica offer low-cost car insurance. They seem kind of suspect to me. It's as if this new law is opening the door to many fly-by-night companies. All they need now is a humorous spokesperson or anthropomorphized mascot in a witty 30-second commercial. Maybe if the Ditech.com cavemen aren't busy they could break a leg or get into a car accident and appear in a health insurance ad. But do I really want to put my health in the hands of these people?

This new law doesn't do anything to try to reform the health care industry. I'm skeptical that it will lead to the establishment of new companies that really do offer quality affordable health insurance. This law protects the health care industry, at least in Massachusetts, by making sure that it doesn't lose money. I know it's a problem for them, but the skyrocketing costs of healthcare, and the overwhelming costs that can accrue if someone is sick or in an accident, can literally bankrupt people. My mother is in tears on an almost daily basis because, as a retired widow on a fixed income, she is overwhelmed by bills for her breast cancer treatments, including biopsies, a life-saving lumpectomy, and radiation treatments. Medicare only pays a small portion, and doesn't cover the cost of the radiation pills she'll have to take for the next three to five years. In fact, Medicare doesn't cover the cost of prescription medications, and many elderly people take multiple prescription medications.

Coincidentally, Michael Moore's new documentary "Sicko" opened in limited release this weekend. It deals with this very issue of unaffordable health care for Americans. Being in my current predicament, I would normally applaud this effort, but I don't like Michael Moore. His documentaries are always one-sided, and it appears that he manipulates them through what he chooses to show or, conversely, not to show, in order to sway the viewer to accept his subjective viewpoint as fact. In fact, I saw an interview with him on CNN today, and the anchorman asked Moore why he didn't have any representatives of the health care industry defending their side in"Sicko." Moore's answer? I'm paraphrasing, but basically he said that he didn't need to because Americans already know what the health care industry is doing to them. In other words, he really didn't justify his ommission of opposing viewpoints. To be fair, I haven't seen "Sicko" and I don't plan on seeing it, so I could be wrong about it. But I doubt it.

I'll get off my soapbox now. I just hope I don't fall off of it and injure myself before I get insurance again.

Karmic Graffitti

I got back on Saturday from visiting my mom last week. She was still a bit upset in the beginning of the week, but having one of her children home for a week seemed to help. We went out several times during the week, including the mall, our favorite Chinese buffet restaurant, and our favorite pizza place that we'd been going to for over twenty years. I went with her to her radiation treatments at the hospital. Everyone there was really nice and I know they're taking good care of her. She only has about three weeks to go, and I think once her radiation treatments are over she'll feel like she can get on with things, like selling her house and moving up here to be with her children.



This is a section of sidewalk in Salem. The graffitti reads "Be Happy Please," which is an odd thing for a person to write in wet cement. Usually you see things like "NG Was Here" or "NG ♥ DW." I've never seen a request in wet cement before. The word "please" makes it particularly poignant, as if it is a plea and not merely a "Don't Worry Be Happy" brand of optimistic sentiment. I first saw this seven years ago on my first visit to Salem as a tourist. I was in a major funk at the time, and even though I was thoroughly enjoying my vacation, I found myself sitting at a sidewalk cafe with a cup of coffee and crying for no reason. A few minutes later I walked along this sidewalk and found this message in cement. I had a friend in college who was really into psychic phenomena, and she believed that if she saw something like a motto on a billboard, or on the side of a truck, for example, and it was relevant to her situation, she took it as a sign. I couldn't help feeling that this message in cement was a sign to me. Being that I was in what is arguably the psychic capital of America made it seem even more significant. This message is still there, seven years later. When I first saw it, I would never have imagined that someday I'd be living in Salem. But here I am. My funk is long gone now, but this graffitti in cement still serves as a message of hope every time I walk past it.

Go Greyhound

I'm leaving for my mom's house in Connecticut tomorrow. I'll be gone for most of the week. I hadn't planned on it, but my mom has been going through a lot in the past few months and it's really getting to her. The family dog died a couple of months ago at the ripe old age of 17. Since my siblings and I all moved away from home years ago, the dog was my mom's constant companion. Then she was diagnosed with breast cancer around the same time that the dog died. Luckily, it was in the early stages, it hadn't spread, and they were able to remove it all. As far as a cancer diagnosis goes, it was the best possible scenario. But just as a precaution, she has to undergo radiation treatments five days a week for seven weeks. This had delayed her plans to sell her house and move to Massachusetts, where all of her children reside. She had wanted to be up here already. But she did put her house on the market last week, and on the first day of the Open House, received an offer. Unfortunately, the house didn't pass inspection because of rising damp in the basement, which had flooded years ago and which was never properly fixed (which she didn't realize until the inspection). So the potential buyers withdrew their offer. When I called to talk to her today, like I do every Sunday, she sounded upset. When I asked her what was wrong, she completely lost it and started crying. She said it's a combination of the sale of the house not going through, plus the radiation treatments and the pills they have her on. She sounded so depressed that it scared me. So I told her I could come home for a week and stay with her. After all, I'm not working right now, so I have all the time in the world. The conversation went like this:

Mom: No, don't come down, you can't afford it.
Nowhere Girl: Yes, I can. I have money.
M: No, you're not working right now.
NG: It's alright, I can take the bus.
M: No, you need to save your money.
NG: I'M COMING DOWN ANYWAY.

My mom always puts her kids first. Here she's scaring the hell out of me because she's so depressed right now, and she's worrying about me not having money. But I know my mom. As much as she protests, she really does want me to come visit. So I told her I was coming, no ifs, ands, or buts. Once I did, she acquiesced. I knew she would. So tomorrow, I will be on a Greyhound bus bound for Connecticut for five and a half hours, possibly more if there's traffic (which there usually is).

I like taking the Greyhound bus. It sounds crazy, but I'm perfectly happy to sit on a bus (those comfy tourist kinds, with the plush seats) with my iPod so that my 9-hour Best of the Eighties playlist serves as a soundtrack to the motion picture that is the passing scenery outside my window. Unless I can't get a window seat. I really have to have a window seat. A female friend of mine once told me that if I ever took a Greyhound bus, to sit up front near the driver and not talk to anybody. She said every time she takes it, it's full of strange men traveling alone. I've never had any problems. Keeping the iPod earbuds plugged in my ears the entire time helps, as it intimidates potential traveling companions from trying to talk to me. But my friend does have a point about strange men on interstate buses. You always hear about convicts, just released from prison, who are given a new suit of clothes and a bus ticket - or do they not do that anymore? And whenever there's a cross-country dragnet for a wanted criminal or escaped convict, nine times out of ten they're apprehended at a Greyhound bus terminal, attempting to flee the state. The other option is the Chinatown Express, those inexpensive buses that travel between New York and Boston for $10 each way. I took the Fung Wah bus once and had no problems whatsoever, but that was before the Asian gangs got involved. The gang wars led to the stabbings of Chinatown Express bus drivers and the sabotage of the buses. Not that the mobsters need to set fire to the Chinatown Express buses, mind you. They seem to catch fire by themselves with alarming regularity, usually while speeding along the Mass Turnpike at 85 miles per hour.

It's sad to think that this trip home will probably be one of the last times I visit that town before my mom moves away forever. I'll miss things that I used to take for granted, like the mall that my sister and I used to trawl practically every weekend for twenty years, starting when we were teenagers. But what I'll miss most about that place was its proximity to New York City. New York is 45 minutes away by train from where my mom lives. I always thought that, no matter where I lived, I'd always maintain my connection to New York City because my mother still lived just outside of it. I could always stay with her and take a commuter train into Manhattan. Until I moved to Massachusetts, I had spent my entire life living in the New York Metropolitan area. Now, if I go back, it will be as if I'm not from New York. I'll have to take Amtrak, and pay for a hotel room. In short, I'll be a tourist in the city that I was born in. That makes me sad.

Right, I'm off to take a Lunesta now so that I can battle my chronic insomnia and get a good night's sleep. I'm not used to getting up before noon since I've been unemployed, and I've got to leave the house early tomorrow.

Yahoo Answers! = SPAM

Don't ever ask, or for that matter, answer, a question on Yahoo Answers! It only leads to lots of spam in your mailbox.

I asked a question once using my Yahoo email account. I figured it would be alright, since you really have to have a Yahoo account to ask a question. I thought it would be fairly secure. I only used this email account to sign into things that are associated with Yahoo and which force you to get a Yahoo account, like Geocities and Flickr. I don't use it for personal correspondence, and I don't use it to sign guestbooks on people's websites (which I never do anyway, but if I did, I wouldn't put down my email address). I was very selective with this email. I used it for mailorder, and certainly, I received email newsletters from vendors that I already made purchases from, which is ok. But one day, a few spam emails popped up on this account, that, theoretically, no one should know about unless it was a vendor or website that I've already been in contact with. Not coincidentally, the date these spam emails started appearing was less than a week after the date of the email from Yahoo Answers, telling me that I've successfully asked a question (plus the follow-up emails informing me of the answers I've received to my question). I guess spammers are trolling Yahoo Answers! for email addresses. Of course, it's not hard to do. They just look at the username and add "@yahoo.com" to the end of it. Now my inbox is filled with spam, and I've had to abandon this particular account.

Word to the wise: If you need to ask Yahoo Answers! a question, set up a new Yahoo account - one which you don't care will soon be overrun with spam.

Pick a Card

I had a tarot reading today at one of Salem's many psychic/new age stores. Ordinarily I'd be highly skeptical of tarot readers and self-proclaimed psychics, but there are certain places around town that have been in operation for years. They have good reputations, are active in community events, and are proponents of requiring licenses for anybody who wants to set up shop as a psychic in Salem. If you live in Salem, you have to get a reading at least once. At the very least, "for entertainment purposes only."

The tarot card reader started off by telling me about work. He said there is a new opportunity that will present itself no later than the end of September, and that it will be a positive thing. That's good news. I was beginning to get worried. Then he asked me if I had recently changed things around in my home. I had moved some furniture between the living room and my bedroom a few months ago. He said that was a good thing, that I changed the flow of my home. Okay. Oh yeah, he also said I would be going to Florida. Since I have absolutely no desire to go to Florida, it will be interesting to see if this comes true.

Then he moved on to relationships. He said he sees a strong-willed man (i.e. jerk?) in my future, coming into my life around the same time as my new job and thus, possibly related to the job. He said we really wouldn't be compatible for the long-term. This is kind of scary, because another psychic who did a tarot card reading for me last October as part of the many Halloween festivities in Salem said the same thing - that a man who is all wrong for me will come into my life, and I shouldn't go out with him. Incidentally, the woman who read my cards in October also warned me to get regular checkups for certain cancers that only women get, and one month later a routine mammogram revealed what turned out to be a benign lump. She also told me that I was a writer. How would she know that?! Maybe I should take this as a sign of things to come?

As skeptical as I can be about these things, I know why I got a tarot card reading today. I was anxious to get some sort of validation that a new job will soon be forthcoming. So this reading was quite possibly a temporary panacea to put my mind at ease about being unemployed. Sure, I wasted $20 that would have been better spent on coffee and toilet paper (the two things I most hate to run out of), but if it gives me a little more hope that everything will work out for the best, it was worth it. At least until I run out of toilet paper again.

Rockport Happiness

Today my sister and I went to Rockport, a small seaside town on Cape Ann, on the North Shore of Massachusetts. We first visited Rockport seven years ago when we lived in Connecticut. Back then it was a four-and-a-half hour drive, a major road trip. We'd stay at a Bed and Breakfast for a few days and take day trips to other towns like Salem and Marblehead. Rockport is the reason why my sister and I moved to the North Shore of Massachusetts. Before we moved to Massachusetts, whenever we felt the urge to visit Rockport again, we'd say we needed some "Rockport Happiness." It was our escape, a mental as well as a physical break, from the everyday stresses of work and life. Now we can be in Rockport in half an hour and come back home at the end of the day.

We did the usual stuff that we love doing in Rockport. We ate at the hot dog place (their onion bricks are awesome), walked on the beach and looked for pottery shards (I found three), and walked up to the pedestrian shopping area, called Bearskin Neck. It's a mix of galleries, souvenir shops, ice cream, candy, and coffee shops; and cute little boutiques. It's always fun to buy a few cheap souvenirs, get something to drink, have some ice cream, and window shop. The top of Bearskin Neck is a cul-de-sac overlooking the ocean. There are a few stone benches, and a large rock wall that you can sit on and look out over the water. I love to sit there on a bench while staring at the sea. Hmm. Staring at the Sea. Wasn't that the name of The Cure's greatest hits album?



We were fortunate that we chose today to go to Rockport because, unbeknownst to us, Rockport was hosting the second annual Fairies, Gnomes and Mermaids Festival ("A Celebration of Enchantment"). We saw quite a few fairies in town today (no jokes, please!) But no gnomes or mermaids, though. We checked out the "festival," and there was no celebration of any kind going on, let alone of enchantment. Just a couple of empty vendor tents and a bunch of hippies sitting cross-legged on the grass eating their lunch. Maybe the festival hadn't started up yet. It was surprising that Rockport was hosting this "festival," as Rockport is not a new-agey place at all. Salem would have made more sense.

In Rockport I suddenly had the urge to buy an ankle bracelet. Keep in mind, I am not the ankle bracelet type at all. Ankle bracelets remind me of "Working Girl"-type secretaries a la Melanie Griffith, with bad perms and tacky gold ankle bracelets worn underneath pantyhose. But I was at the beach, wearing flip-flops and capris, and I wanted to adorn my ankle. What's next, a toe ring? I bought a simple, understated silver ankle bracelet. It's funky, not tacky. And I will definitely reserve it for weekends or trips to seaside resorts only.



We went into one shop and the proprietor inquired as to whether we were tourists or lived nearby, so that we could come back to take advantage of a sale. When she asked me "Are you local?" it reminded me of Edward and Tubbs from the British sketch comedy show The League of Gentlemen. I had mental images of me going missing, the police coming to look for me, and the proprietor exclaiming "We didn't burn her!"



It felt good to be in Rockport today. While I am currently unemployed, and, this week, overdrawn at the bank (oops!), I was able to forget my worries for the day. If I can eat some fried seafood, buy some fudge, and stick my feet in the Atlantic Ocean, then I'm happy. Even though I now live only a half hour away from Rockport, I still feel like I'm on vacation when I go there. I come back feeling rejuventated. Today, I got my Rockport Happiness, and only mildly sunburned.

I ♥ Salem

Today was the first sunny day all week, so I walked downtown to get out of the house. I walked around Salem Common for an hour to get some much-needed exercise. I love Salem Common. Not only is it an important part of the history of the city (Revolutionary War militias practiced shooting on the Common), but it is a vital part of the community of Salem today. Tour buses line the outside of the Common, waiting for those stragglers who inevitably hold everybody else up and prevent the bus from leaving on time. Other than that, not many tourists venture into the Common, because they tend to overlook it in favor of the nearby Salem Witch Museum. But the lack of tourists in the Common is why I like it so much. I stroll around it on weekends, or like today, when I just want to get out of the house and feel like I'm a part of the community. And I do. I see the same people walking their dogs, riding their bikes with their kids, jogging, etc. Passing the same people, and giving or getting that nod of recognition, if not an actual "hello" (and for a native New Yorker, it took me by surprise at first how many strangers say Hello when they pass me), it makes me feel like I'm part of the Salem community. In fact, I ran into someone on the Common today who mistook me for my sister. Validation!



Training Day on the Common, 1808 (Courtesy Peabody Essex Museum)

Today I saw an interesting thing on the Common. In addition to the usual Common-dwellers, I saw a guy in a bear costume. Or rather, the head was from a bear costume, and the body was a gorilla suit. I don't know why this guy was wearing this costume, but he was walking through the Common with a group of friends. When I walked around the Common on one of my rounds, I saw this bearilla swinging on the swingset. I so wanted to take a picture of him with the camera in my cell phone, but it would have looked obvious if I took out the phone in front of him. So I walked around again, and took out my phone with enough time to spare so that when I passed him again, it would look like I was talking on my cell phone. Then I could inconspicuously snap his picture. Unfortunately, when I came around to the swings again, he was gone. I saw him and his friends walking out of the Common. Given that it was 75 degrees today, he must have been very hot in his costume. Upon seeing him I said to myself the thing I always find myself saying as a resident of this city: "Only in Salem."

Other than the rare bearilla sighting, downtown Salem was the usual mix of tourists, residents, professional people, a few wiccans, the emo kids hanging out in groups downtown just to be seen (sometimes until 8 or 9 at night - don't they have homes to go to?), and the goth girls in full "Ruby Gloom" regalia, complete with parasols to protect their gothly pallor. I bought a bubble tea, which I can see becoming a bad habit this summer. As I was drinking it, forcing the tapioca bubbles up through the giant straw, it occurred to me that, the law of physics being what it is, it's possible to force the tapioca bubbles out of the straw too. I immediately had images of bubble tea fights, with tapioca bubbles being shot out of straws like spitballs. I wonder how much damage they could inflict? I'd imagine tapioca bubbles would simply bounce off of someone's forehead, whereas spitballs would stick to it.

Whenever I go downtown, it makes me realize how happy I am living here. Apart from the large tourist industry generated by the city's turbulent past as the home of the infamous witch trials, Salem has a lot to offer: an interesting maritime history, a world-class museum, coffee and tea cafes, an independent bookstore, a local movie theater, lots of interesting boutiques, and great places to eat. While I struggle with what to do with myself in terms of a job, I feel like I've gotten part of the equation right. I love where I live.

Tomorrow my sister and I are going to go to Rockport for the day. It's a seaside town with a beach and lots of interesting little shops. Every time I go there I feel like I'm on vacation. I haven't been there since last summer, so I'm really looking forward to going.

But I'm a Cheerleader

Yesterday's post about my friends from ESL got me thinking about other friends of mine from the ESL class. In particular, it reminded me of Shari and Pari. They were sisters from Iran. Shari was a year older than I was, and Pari was a few years younger. Pari was in junior high when I was in high school, and she seemed so little and cute! A curly-haired little moptop. Her sister Shari was beautiful. Long black hair and eyelashes to match. Shari and I decided one year to try out for the varsity badminton team. Not being the athletic type, I nonetheless thought myself good enough at badminton to make the team. My family had a dime-store badminton set, and every summer we'd set up the badminton net in our backyard. So I'd played the game before. Besides, I reasoned, how hard could it be to make the badminton team? It wasn't one of the "cool" sports, like track, or field hockey, or tennis, right? Who else would be interested?

On the morning of the tryouts, I got up at 5:00 am. My mom and I drove to Shari's house to pick her up so that we could get to school at 6:00 am for the tryouts. Yes, we would make the badminton team, we thought. Until we got there. To our surprise, all of the other girls at tryouts were cheerleaders. Needless to say, neither Shari nor I made the team. We were like two misfits who should have known better than to attempt a foray into the world of the popular, athletic, prom-queen types. The badminton team turned out to be, in effect, the cheerleading squad during the off-season. In the fall, they were cheerleaders. In the spring, they were the badminton team.

After being rejected from the badminton team, I ended up joining the varsity archery team instead (yes, there was such a thing). It didn't have a cute little uniform like the badminton team did, but I enjoyed it. And I didn't have to try out for it. Unlike the badminton team, the archery team was accepting of everybody. Why can't society as a whole be like that? I was no Geena Davis, but I had fun. There was no sense of cut-throat competition like you find with other sports. Sure, each team wanted to win. But each target had members of both teams on it during the game. And there was no hostility between them. In fact, it was very sociable. And being a member of a varsity team meant that I received a varsity letter. Yes, someday my as-yet-unborn future children will think their mother was a high school jock!

My Life is in My Hands

I saw an episode of Seinfeld tonight where George Costanza, who was in between jobs and deciding what to do for a living, said the above pearls of wisdom.

When I was in high school, I made friends with the ESL students, (English as a Second Language). They were students whose families came to America from foreign countries. They had to take the ESL class, in addition to their regular classes, to improve their English. There were a few kids from Japan, Korea, and Hong Kong, and maybe one from Europe. But the largest number of ESL students were those who came to America to escape the turbulence in their home countries. There were several Iranian students whose families had fled Iran because of the revolution a few years previously. When asked where they were from, they would say "France," because that's where they had originally settled after leaving Iran (as many Iranians did after the revolution). They were afraid of being perceived as "the enemy" once they came to America. There were also many students from El Salvador because of that country's civil war of the early 1980s. I used to hang out in the ESL classroom during my studyhall periods, helping the students with their reading, and becoming their friend. I learned as much about their cultures as they learned about mine, plus I got to know them for the people they were, not the way perhaps most people in my school saw them: the kids who couldn't speak the language - you never noticed them, and you didn't even know their names.

One of my friends from ESL was from Hong Kong. Her name was Vivian. Although still in high school, she was already a pro at the ancient art of reading palms. One day in the ESL classroom, she read mine. Her predictions for me, based on the lines in my palm, were as follows:

1. I'll have a lot of trouble with my job.
2. I'll get married.
3. I'll have three kids.
4. I'll be rich.
5. I'll live to be very old.



Twenty-three years later, the only prediction that has come true so far is number one. But boy, was Vivian right on the money with that one! At the time, I took her prediction literally, thinking that, my first job out of college, I'd hate my boss or something, but that I'd get another job and everything would be swell. No such luck. Looking back at my work history, I've had a series of jobs that I either wasn't happy at, didn't do well at, wasn't satisfied with, or was simply frustrated by a lack of progress in. And at the moment I am without a job at all. But that's okay. Like George Costanza, I, too, am in a transition phase. And I hold out hope that, because Vivian was so accurate about my employment situation, her other predictions will come true too. Is there still a chance of me getting married and having kids? That sure would make my mom happy. Will I be rich? That'd be awesome. And will I live a long life? I hope so. That means I still have plenty of time to find my niche in this world.

Procrastination

I'm blogging when I should be writing. I did write tonight, for 2 hours. Then I got distracted and went online. That's what happens when the laptop you use to write in also has Internet access. I got four pages done, but they're really only half-pages in that I write some stuff as it should properly appear and then the rest is in note form, so I suppose it doesn't really count. I guess I should get back to writing. Although now I feel like making something to eat.

I have made up my mind that tomorrow I am going to walk downtown and pound the pavement to see if anyone is hiring. I've applied for too many jobs online that have never gotten back to me. I've decided to try the tea shop that came to town a year ago. It's really cute. They serve all kinds of tea, scones, and cookies. They even do a high tea with finger sandwiches. Now with tourist season in full swing, maybe they need more help. I'm also going to try the local independent bookstore. Last week I stopped in to inquire about job openings, but the manager wasn't in, although the bookseller who helped me gave me the manager's card and said I could email my resume to her. So I did. She emailed me back the next day and said that they currently have no openings but they'll keep my resume on file. Of course they all say that. But when I went to the store on Saturday for the bookreading (see previous post), the manager was in. I heard her talking to the really young girl who was also working there and who was obviously a new hire (given the trouble she was having with a customer's special request). The manager was saying something along the lines of "It would be great to keep you on, but you'd have to work every Friday, Saturday and Sunday," and "Of course it's a wonderful opportunity, you should take it." Could this be my big break? So soon? Is the New Girl already flaking out on her boss and quitting? Hire me instead. I'm like, twenty years older than this girl. I have no wonderful opportunities looming. I'm reliable, have previous retail experience, and am just jaded enough to realize that I no longer have the world at my feet. Give me a job that I enjoy and that I can do well, without deadlines or corporate bosses from hell. That's all I ask.

I used to write in my spare time before I moved from New York to Massachusetts. Even when I first moved to where I live now, I was still writing. Not selling anything, mind you, but that's beside the point. The fact that I was writing gave me something to be optimistic about. Like I was doing something. But when I started my most recent job, all that changed. I worked nine-hour days with an hour commute each way. The commute wasn't the problem. I used to commute 90 minutes each way when I worked in New York and I didn't mind it. But back then I was able to do a little writing in the evening after I ate dinner, and managed to go to bed at 11 pm, often treating myself to some television-watching time and stay up until midnight. At my most recent job, I got home at 7:30 and was in bed by 10 pm. I just couldn't stay up any later than that, I was so exhausted mentally and physically. So of course writing went out the window. That job killed my creativity. For two-and-a-half years, I wrote nothing at all. When I got fired, I threw myself back into writing, as well as reading for pleasure (another interest that I sacrificed) to give me something to do. If I can continue to read and write for pleasure, and have a job that I enjoy that's 10 minutes away by bus from my apartment, life would be perfect.

There, I've wasted another twenty minutes writing this post. I really should get back to writing. Or maybe I'll read instead. Although I am still hungry...

Of Books and Bubble Teas

Today I went with my sister to a bookreading and signing at the independent bookstore in my town on the North Shore of Massachusetts. The reading showcased the works of two authors: Townhouse by Tish Cohen, and Promise Not to Tell by Jennifer McMahon. Both are first-time novelists. My sister and I, who are both currently trying to write our first novels, went partly for inspiration, and partly to show support for our town's local bookstore. While very different from each other, both books have ties to New England. Townhouse is a quirky novel set in a Boston townhouse, while Promise Not to Tell is a murder mystery set in a small Vermont farming community.

I don't know if it was due to lack of interest or a lack of promotion, but only eight people showed up for the event. All of them were women. This unfortunately gives the false impression that only women are reading books written by women. The two authors had been to a large bookstore in Boston before coming to my town, and I don't know how the turnout was there. I would imagine the crowds would have been larger and mixed simply because of the demographics of Boston compared to my small city.

Ms. Cohen and Ms. McMahon each read a brief excerpt from their books and then opened the floor to questions. For an hour they happily shared stories of their methods, their failures before achieving success with their first books, and humorous anecdotes about the writing process. The small number of people at today's event made for a more intimate, less intimidating session. We were able to ask questions as if in a one-on-one session with the authors. I came away feeling more inspired to keep on plugging away at my own book (48 pages and counting). Their main message was loud and clear: if you're passionate about writing, don't give up.

The hour flew by, interrupted by a brief moment of levity when one of the authors stopped in mid-sentence and exclaimed "Was that a rabbit?" We all turned to look out the window just in time to see a man walk past the store carrying a very large rabbit on a leash over his shoulder, as if he was taking baby out for some fresh air. Very strange. The ladies ended the reading by signing our copies of their books. They were both extremely nice, and I have a feeling we'll be hearing more from them in the future. Ms. Cohen has already sold the movie rights to Townhouse and has a second novel, The Inside Out Boy, set to be published next year.

My sister and I ended the day at one of our favorite coffee places for coconut bubble teas. We managed to beat the long lines and get our teas before the crowds of tourists who are already clogging our cobblestoned sidewalks discovered our hangout.

Is it Just Me?

Or am I completely out of it when it comes to pop culture and the latest online trends these days? Goldyworld's post last week about emos and the lively discussion that ensued via the Comments section made me realize that, in a cyberworld of MySpace, Your Scene, My Yearbook, etc.,:

1) I am old
2) I am tragically unhip (wasn't that a band from the '80s? -- to wit, see point #1)

Until I read Goldy's post, I had never heard of the term emo. Upon reading the discussion, complete with visual images, I was shocked to discover that I once was what is today referred to as a "prehistoric emo" (again, see point #1).

I really must be behind the times. After all, I only started my blog a month ago, a few years after the blogging phenomen captivated the online community. And while we're on the subject of blogs, what is this meme thingy that I keep reading about on other peoples' blogs? Or is it a MeMe? And what is this blog game of tag that people are playing? AND WHY HASN'T ANYBODY TAGGED ME? I might as well join MySpace, post the most depressing picture of myself that I can find (one where I look completely disaffected, and possibly homicidal), and start sending out messages to other members that read "Nowhere Girl wants to be your friend."

The Liberation of Paris

This just in: Paris Hilton, the hotel heiress and waste of oxygen, has been released from prison after serving only three days of a twenty-three-day sentence for parole violation for driving with a suspended license following her arrest for DUI. She was released due to undisclosed health problems that were psychological in nature -- e.g. she freaked out because she was in jail. Her sentence was originally supposed to be for 45 days, but it was reduced to 23 for good behavior. How can someone get a sentence reduced for good behavior before they've served any time, is what I'd like to know.

Check out Paris's mug shots. Apparently she misunderstood her instructions and thought she was supposed to report for her glamour shots. I wonder if they allow lipstick in jail. Paris's three days in jail consisted of being locked up in her cell for 23 hours of the day. The one hour not spent in her cell was, of course, spent in Hair & Makeup. Which obviously wasn't enough time, as her nose looks a little shiny.

Of course no one expected Paris to get out of jail so soon. Not even Sarah Silverman, who totally dissed Paris at the MTV Movie Awards the night before Paris reported to jail. And Paris was in the audience! (She even had the same sideswept hairstyle seen in her second mug shot). Now that Paris is back on the streets, Sarah Silverman better be looking over her shoulder every time she leaves the house. Now that the crazy byatch is out of jail, it's payback time!

Creepy is the Word (is the Word, is the Word...)

Coming this summer to a theater near you! It's Hairspray! Again! The remake of the 1988 John Waters camp classic stars, of all people, John Travolta as Baltimore housewife Edna Turnbladt, the role Divine made famous almost twenty years ago. It's the latest movie to capitalize on Hollywood's trend of remaking older movies. I don't understand why film companies do this, instead of sourcing new original screenplays. There isn't a dearth of new material out there, that's for sure. But with all the aspiring screenwriters dying to get their stories forever fixed onto celluloid, why do Hollywood execs take the easy way out and remake a hit movie from the past? Or, in Hairspray's case, the remake of a movie based on a play based on a movie.

I was a senior in college in Baltimore when the movie debuted almost twenty years ago. The new wave dance club that I used to go to every Friday night held dance auditions to cast for the movie. A friend of one of my best friends from school landed a role as an extra in the film. She's one of the "special" kids on Tracey Turnbladt's team in the gym class scene. The movie had its world premiere in Baltimore at a theater on York Road, close to my school. My roommates and I could look out of our dorm room window and see the spotlights in the sky from the theater as we watched local television coverage of the premiere on t.v. A week later I saw the movie at that theater. Divine had made a hand imprint in cement in the theater's sidewalk on premiere night, just like they do at Graumann's Chinese Theater. A few weeks later, he was dead. The original movie will forever remind me of my senior year. Good times, good times.

I'm always skeptical of movie remakes. They're usually never as good as the original (who could forget Debbie Harry as Mrs. Von Tussel, asking Divine's Edna Turnbladt "Is your daughter a mulatto?"). And they fill all the roles with the industry's hottest actors, whether they're really suited to the role or not, because they're already planning on having a blockbuster on their hands. In the case of the original Hairspray, its unique charm is derived from the fact that it was a quirky movie, not quite the independent movies of Waters's early career, but it had the same irreverance and non-conformity, while being made within the confines of the established Hollywood industry. It was made because Waters had a vision (and I'm not talking about the vision of dollar signs in his eyes). Hairspray also used more creative casting, including using unknown actors. Nobody had heard of Riki Lake before the original Hairspray. The movie launched her career - a dubious distinction, perhaps, given her subsequent and appallingly trashy talk show of the 1990s. But I try not to think about that when I watch the original movie.

It will be interesting to see how much the city of Baltimore has changed since the original movie was made. 1962 was "only" twenty-five years in the past when Hairspray was filmed. Remnants of the Sixties could still be seen here and there around Baltimore. None more conspicuous than big hair. Baltimore was famous for it, (hence the title of the film, and the attention it gives to hair and various hair-care techniques, such as hairspraying, teasing, ironing, combing, etc.) The old lady who worked at the liquor store where my roommates and I bought our alcohol still had a beehive. "The higher the hair, the closer to God." The city scenes looked convincingly like 1962 because many of the city streets, with the ubiquitous Baltimore rowhouses, remained unchanged architecturally. I wonder if they still are. The original Hairspray was as much a love letter to Baltimore as it was social commentary, mixed with nostalgia.



Until I see the movie myself, I will reserve judgment as to whether John Travolta, who simply oozed testosterone in "Saturday Night Fever" and "Grease," will make a good Edna Turnbladt. It could either be the most brilliant casting decision since Charleton Heston played Moses, or the biggest casting disaster since George Clooney played Batman. And, with "Grease" and "Hairspray," movies named for styling products, what's next for John Travolta? Maybe "Mousse?" - How about "Gel!" Or "Styling Putty," perhaps.

Judging from the photo, Travolta in drag, in a fat suit, looks kind of creepy. And if there's anything creepier than John Travolta as Edna Turnbladt, it's the doll of John Travolta as Edna Turnbladt. Debuting in July to coincide with the movie release, a toy company is launching a line of singing Hairspray dolls. Which begs the question: will there be "other outfits sold separately?" Perhaps some stylish ensembles from Mr. Pinky's Hefty Hideaway?

The Bi Mon Sci Fi Con?

I am not a fan of literature of fantasy. I don't like books about dragons and talking animals, long-lost heirs to the throne, evil wizards, and knights in shining armor. I have no patience for distant planets or medieval alternate universes with silly names. I didn't enjoy the Lord of the Rings trilogy or The Chronicles of Narnia when I read them in school. The only exception to this rule, however, is the Harry Potter series. Even though HP is full of wizards and witches, trolls, gnomes, dragons and mermaids, the story is set not in some fictional kingdom of yore or on another planet, but in present-day England. The characters are ordinary people who just happen to have magical abilities. So the stories seem less, well, fantastic. But long before J.K. Rowling could ever dream of becoming the richest woman in all of Great Britain, there was Terry Pratchett. And I now have another exception to my anti-literature of fantasy rule.

My sister recently exposed me to Pratchett, one of her favorite authors. She is a devout sci-fi and fantasy fan and always has been. She loved Planet of the Apes and Star Trek as a child. When we were kids she had to see Star Wars a second time when it first came out, and I had to go with her because it was the only way our mother would let her go to the movies without being accompanied by a parent or guardian. As an adult, I've gone with her to no less than three Star Trek TNG conventions (that's The Next Generation), but only on the condition that she pay my admission fees, of course. (For the record, I've now seen Stryker, Data, and Troi in person, not that I'd readily admit it, though). My sister has seen every episode of Dr. Who and can name all ten actors who portrayed him. Me, I'm only interested in the current one because David Tennant is only the HOTTEST Dr. Who ever! (Plus, I must admit, the writing and production values are way superior to the previous series).

My sister has about thirteen books by Pratchett. Seeing them all lined up on her bookshelf one day, so many that she started a second row in front of the first, I became curious. I asked her what she would recommend I start with, seeing that I can't really get "into" dragons and wizards and such, unless, as I've mentioned, it's at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She explained the whole premise of Discworld, the land in which all of Pratchett's books take place. Discworld is, like in most literature of fantasy novels, a medieval kind of world. But it's full of modern anachronisms, like neon lights, takeout pizzas and rib joints, and strip clubs. Currency is in dollars and pence. Discworld, in the author's own words, started out as a parody of the fantasy literature boom of the early Eighties (hmm, that might be why I like it!). There are several segments of society within Discworld -- mini-series within the series. Some books deal with the witches of Discworld, some deal with the local law enforcement, etc. My sister recommended I start out with the City Watch books, the ones dealing with law enforcement in Discworld, and lent me "Guards! Guards!" It's the first book in the City Watch series, and I find that I can't put it down.

Pratchett's books, although firmly catagorized as literature of fantasy, are hysterically funny and satirical. They're like Monty Python meets J.R.R. Tolkein. Pratchett has a gift for crafting dialogue that is at once seemingly mundane yet hysterically funny. It's the dialogue that advances the story effortlessly and makes it so enjoyable to read.

The first Discworld book was published in 1983. There are now 33 books in the series. Which means I have a lot of reading to catch up on.

Terry Pratchett's official website is www.terrypratchettbooks.com.