The CMT's were tonight. On my campus.
Luckily, and pay close attention because the next statement is never preceded by the word "Luckily", I had a group meeting at 7am. Because other people recognize the value of sleep, there weren't too many people about when I grabbed a coffee from Bongo and started to skirt around the press staging area. In fact, there was just one: a self important roadie who held his hand up as I passed.
"You need to go around."
I stopped, looked in every direction. There's a man with his dog jogging past, a few CMT staffers talking around a coffee station, and us.
"Seriously?"
"There's a VIP walking in at the moment. You need to go around."
A little backstory. I once sold Faith Hill $1500 worth of clothing, and then asked her what she did for a living. My coworkers had to tell me after she left. I'm not a country gal. I don't like country music. I pose no threat to the privacy and comfort of country music's biggest VIPs. Trust me on this.
"Sir, the walk around is going to turn a five minute walk to my meeting into a 25 minute hike. I'm already late. Is there anyway you can let this slide? I'll even keep my hand at the level of my eyes if you want."
He didn't catch the reference. Instead he crossed his arms over his blazer and tried to look intimidating. It came off as smug. Either way, it annoyed me. I briefly considered bribing him...or flashing him, but my inner feminist screamed that he didn't deserve money. Or breasts.
I tried the cute girl route, "But these heels are killer...c'mon, surely you wouldn't make a poor girl walk all the way around, honey... (cue the big blue eyes) Please?"
No dice. "Look, I'm sorry ma'am, but you'll have to go around."
Sigh. I'm not a ma'am. Stupid award show.
"Fine...." I whined, and trekked off. An unguarded door made the trip a wee bit shorter, but was really just the start of a fantastic day. Up until today, I hadn't realized what "Hannah Montana" means. Apparently it means hundred of middle aged women reliving their childhoods with their preteen daughters on my university's quad, screaming anytime someone said her name and going truly berserk at the sight of her. I mean, really. Early Beatle's, jumping-on-cars-and-crying-berserk.
I managed to skirt the edge of the mania for the day, and by the time I had to leave for my stats class, most of the action was taking place at the event center. Campus looked like a scene out of 1984. Not a single living soul was around as I passed the quad. My only company was the fluttering CMT pamphlets and tattered caution tape scattered on the brick walkways. Distance screaming and sirens were accompanied by flashes and smoke and a droning voice on a loudspeaker near the media tent telling people to "stay in line, food is in the back tent, do not smoke, and do not approach the 'guests'" It was eerily silent to my left, but to my right...chaos.
Tucked safely away in stats class, wishing someone would rescue me, I couldn't help but realize how strange my life has become this year. Largely nonplussed by the fanfare and celebrities, living my life next to the great and powerful "Hannah Montana". It's a completely separate world from the celeb-obsessed dreams of bigger and better I had back home in Illinois. I don't remember the change, really. And yet here I am on the other side, more excited to see a great film than the biggest star in the country. I'd grown up a little, and I'd never noticed.
The show was still going on when I left my class, and as the media pool had been moved to the after parties, I took the chance that I could get past the barricades again. My hopes sank when I saw the same roadie in his yellow Security jacket.
"You've been here all day?" I greet, trying for companionable.
"I took a break this afternoon...you're the girl from this morning! You've been in class all day?"
I nodded, "What are my chances of getting past now, mate?"'
A look of mutual understanding and exhaustion passed silently, and his hand dropped. "Wait a few minutes. Some celeb is leaving, but once he's gone I'll let you through."
"Deal." We stood together, staring past the barricades and press passes and extension cords and stage lights that you never see on E! Entertainment. A few quiet minutes passed before a black stretch limo, bouncing with bass passed by. I followed its taillights as the guard's walkie talkie beeped. Another guard on the far side of barricade was walking towards us, with his own radio held close to his lips. "Snoop Dogg just left. Wanna get some coffee?"
My friend pulled back the barricade and let me through as he and his fellow guardsmen took off. I was left alone to wonder about how we value celebrities, how we see all this as glamourous and exciting, when really all it is is roadblocks and stadium seats. I wondered about all the time I'd spent as a kid, wishing I could be a part of this, never imagining that it's as much as show as the music videos they're in. I wondered about how meaningless it all really is.
But mostly, I wondered: "What the fuck is Snoop Dogg doing at the CMT's?! Country Music Television. COUNTRY! Why is he here!?" My campus, which I have paid good money for, was blocked off for me because SNOOP DOGG was here?!?"
Stupid award show.
Just a quick plug for the band Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. Annoyingly long name aside, this band's second album is going to be my sunny day summer soundtrack for the next few months. I saw them three different times at Champaign's Canopy Club a couple years ago, back when they were a new upstart band from Missouri. I met my (now) ex-boyfriend at one of those concerts. We made out for the first time at another one of those concerts. I have this odd maternal ties to them now, like a true band-aid.
So imagine my delight when I get a hold of a few tracks off their upcoming new album, Pershing and discovered that they had surpassed my expectations. Better quality sounds compared to their debut, catchy melodies and sophisticated lyrics made me so excited I did a little celebratory dance, to the tune, "I think I wanna die" which I think is funny and ironic, don't you?
Anyway, you should check them out before they start showing up on top 40 and the whole thing is ruined.
I'm just saying.
So I originally did this for my family, in a weekly update. I was having a bad week and needed a list of things that make me happy to remind me that life isn't so bad. I sent out my list, and my family sent their's back, and we were all cheered up, even if it was just for a second.
I
have a feeling this week is going necessitate another list. So here is
the expanded/revised version. If you read this, post your own list of
things that make you happy.
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1. The 24 hour Kroger with a cooler next to the checkout filled with gallons of milk, so I don't have to trek to the point furthest from my car, past six aisles of junk food and coffee, just to retrieve one gallon of skim milk.
2. Pretty much all of Georgie James' "Places" album.
3. Mint Mojito Flavored Gum that always reminds me of last summer in Champaign.
4. Creamy Tomato Soup w/ Half of a Chicken Salad Sandwich at Panera during my lunch break.
5. The moment when you put on new glasses and the whole world looks new and different.
6. My power napping CD. Don't knock until you've tried it. This ranks with caffeine on my list of "Things I Could Live Without if I Had to, But it Wouldn't be Pretty if I Did"
7. A new haircut that I love and loves me back.
8. Colored dishes, so when you drop one, you can actually see the shards of glasses and clean them up the first time, instead of sweeping eight times and still managing to step on the machete sized piece you missed six weeks later.
9. Bolthouse Farms C-Boost Smoothie, with 1200% of your daily value of Vitamin C in each serving, which is certainly overkill, I agree. But it's oh so tasty...
10. People who not only reference your favorite TV show, but your favorite episodes of said TV show, which makes you feel like you've really connected with someone in a completely trivial way.
11. The "Big Block of Cheese Day" episodes on "The West Wing".
12. Guinness. No one loves me like you do.
13. Preview for films that I want to see with my dad, not my friends.
14. The man that sits outside the retirement home by campus every morning and waves when I walk past.
15. "Nevermind the Buzzcocks" from the BBC. I'm completely hooked on this show. As is the case with most BBC shows.
16. I quote McSweeney's, "Not showering for a day or two. Sure, you're a bit grungy if you do this one, but after you do shower you realize you've really been taking being clean for granted."
17. Finding the perfect position amongst the perfect arrangement of pillows and blankets that will be ruined if you move even a little, so you just have to go to sleep.
18. Red Pepper Flakes: With the exception of breakfast cereal, these things can make any food better with little to no effort.
19. NPR programming on Sundays: "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me", "Car Talk", "This American Life", "Prairie Home Companion", "Says You!" and "The Thistle and Shamrock". Best ever.
20. Voicemails from Mom that have no specific purpose, just to say hi and what she's up to.
21. That creaking sound old books make when you open them.
22. "Peggle" on Popcap games. Every time you beat a level, there are fireworks and cheers and a choir seeings "Ode to Joy". You don't find that kind of validation just anywhere.
23. The Smiths "Hatful of Hollow."
24. Dancing to Federico Aubele in the morning.
25. Jackets with pockets, really long, really soft scarves, and comfortable boots.
26. Missing out on Illinois weather this winter.
27. Pancakes. Who doesn't love them? They're fried cake with syrup.
28. Lewis Black. I feel no explanation is necessary.
29. The really small group of British actors who show up on each other's projects all the time. Except for Catherine Tate.
30. The smell of used bookstores. The feel of used books. Used books in general.
31. The antique couch in the mystery room at Jane Addams Bookstore.
32. Good writing.
33. WPGU streaming online 24/7 for my listening pleasure.
34. Ranting sessions with Maggie for hours at a time, which always makes me feel better about humanity.
35. Phone calls from Kara, who always keeps me in check before my spaniel heart runs away with itself.
36. Monical's Pizza. I miss you dearly, Monicals.
37. Jeans that look good with heels AND flats.
38. Thursday nights at Chealsea's
39. Awkward sideways smiles.
40. Life. Most of the time. When I remember.
The janitor and his
push
push
push
push
push broom
carry out their affair in the midnight green and blue jeans make
the same noise when crossing and uncrossing legs meet on benches to chat about the
human condition and the throbbing swirls of colour said in a most reverential tone
Usually saved for chapels.
He and the broom don't like the walls at night. Like a school when everyone's gone home but he forgot his homework
home-work
home,work
home and work don't speak much anymore, and so he keeps his eyes on the marble and the push
push
push
push broom
handle, handled, handling the cold, cold stillness of a thousand portraits of people dead and buried who's names don't matter, only their faces, which look funny in the midnight green,
but it's better than the daytime, when they look at him with shame and he knows that his face doesn't matter and neither does his name. No, he and broom don't like the walls at night, but they aren't much better in the day, so he and his broom take to the floor to push
push
push
push each other around in circles until the handled is handling the handle and his head hurts from all the spinning and all the faces and all the words keeping his his brain busy in the sorrow that can only be found in shades of midnight greens and blue jeans crossed on a bench while a man in love and pain and boredom push pushing pushes a broom through a hall that closed at 7 on a Thursday.
No sensible person is on the road at 4 AM on a Sunday morning. Just truck drivers and us, I guessed. When we’d left the club two hours ago, Brandon had promised to stay awake with me while I drove, but all that was left of that promise was his quiet snoring. With nothing but a particularly desolate stretch of farm country to keep myself alert, I welcomed the familiar glow of the 24-hour truck stop on the horizon. As we approached the exit, my tired eyes watched the plan come together: As quickly as possible, run inside and buy the biggest, oldest cup of whatever coffee flavored drink you can. Try not to wake him up.
Extracting myself from the car, I folded my jacket across my waist and headed toward the door, passing the only other car in the lot. A silver Chevy Lumina, identical to the car my dad drove when I was a kid. Except for the bumper stickers. Dad hates bumper stickers because, apparently, they “ruin perfectly good cars trying to be cutesy”. Smirking at memories of my brother and me giggling while my mom rolled her eyes at another one of Dad’s discourses, I took a closer look at the bumper.
On one side, a multi-colored “Jesus is my Roadmap” sticker, a silver icthus, and a bright yellow “Smile! Jesus LOVES you!” On the other end, a “God Hates Gays” sticker and a vinyl cling of Calvin peeing on the Islamic crescent moon and star.
For a moment, I wondered if it was my dad. Continuing on toward the coffee machine by the month old hot dogs, I thought about the argument that’s been taking place in some form at our family gatherings and in cars with no bumper stickers for years. To say that he and I disagree on politics and religion would be a bit of an understatement.
As I paid for my Pumpkin Spice “Latte”, I felt the familiar tightness in my chest and tried to let go with a resigned sigh. I know I’ll never change his mind. The truth is, to borrow a phrase, Jesus is his roadmap. He looks at the world through the pages of a book because the world doesn’t make sense to him without it. I just wish he’d stop reading the book wrong.
On my way out, I passed the driver of the car. He was propped up against his trunk, trying to angle himself so his own shadow didn’t obscure the Illinois map he was trying to read. I asked if he needed help, and he grunted.
“I’ll ask the attendant, thanks.” He rolled his eyes and went back to his map.
I laughed, “Sir, I’m from around here, I can help. What are you looking for?”
“I’d rather not take directions from you.” He pointed over at my car, and I followed his hand. There, illuminated in the lights of the truck stop, was Brandon. He’d woken up and was carefully reapplying his lipstick. The bright red looked brassy and garish in the middle of a plowed corn field, but in the club, in the city, he was a better looking woman than most women I know.
I looked at the man for a long time, quelling my defensive response to anyone who spoke to me or my friends like that. His look of disgust turned smug, waiting for either the tirade that would prove my guilt or my solemn retreat to the car. Too stubborn to be afraid, I took a sip of scalding hot pumpkin spice and glanced down at his bumper stickers before I smiled and said, “Jesus loves him, too, sir. Have a good trip.”
He had all of the directions right there. He was just reading them wrong.
I'm in the middle of finals, but I'll be back soon, when I'm break again. Working on a new poem, too. :) In the meantime, this is the best article on the shooting in Omaha I've seen.  |
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Whenever I get stressed out, I start drawing. In high school, I wanted to be an interior designer, and read all of the design magazines I could get my hands on, memorizing the tips and tricks and tools necessary for being a proper designer. So when I had finals or a paper or a dumb four mintue speech that I now look back on with embarrassment, I would set everything aside and pull out a notebook filled with graphing paper. Instead of stressing out on school, I would design.
I came up with plans for my family and friends. A dream log cabin for my parents that was all on one floor so as to accomodate their arthritis and bad knees. A remodel of my brother's house so as to utilize the greatest amount of space in the first house he bought with his wife. A modern industrial loft with stainless steel and abstract paintings for my best friend. All of these houses were $500,000 plus in cost, all fully furnished, painted, and ready to move into that day. At first I showed my parents the ideas, but they found it so laughable that I instead kept them to myself. Someday, I think, I'll build one for them to pay them back for the substantial love and support they've given me.
When I got bored with their hopes and dreams, I came up with my own. As I grew up, the plans changed. At first I had a monsterous two story villa that would accomdate eight people, with a pool in the basement and a jacuzzi in every room. Then it was a massive ranch house set in Colorado, and a New York loft. When I wanted to move to London, I first came up with a tiny flat with the bedroom in the kitchen and the sink in the closet, but then I made a three story flat that I would share with David Tennant, after he met me and we immediately fell in love. '
But more recently, I've been thinking about my first place. In a couple years I'll be getting a place of my own, paying off college loans and starting a new job, and I wonder: what will it look like? Where will I start out? Who will be my neighbors? Should I rent or own? Do I want a dog right away? A roommate? Should I just get married and be a housewife who's husband worries about this for me?(HAH!)
I drew up the plans for a modest two bedroom, two bathroom home last night. Small, but charming, with open spaces inside and none of the excesses (well: I did put a walk-in closet in the master bedroom...and a jacuzzi...but hey a girl can dream) and I really and starting to love it. Partially because this type of house would suit my future life with my professor, once we get together and live happily ever after as one. :)
But mostly because this house suits me for who I am now. Not who I may be at some point. It's a house that reflects my current tastes and interests. Its a house with room for a dog, eventually, but small enough that I don't have to clean it all the time. It's cozy, but with room enough for a decent party or a good dinner with family. I would fit into my career and social life without too many issues, and it'd be the type of house that I could fiz up slowly over time, and keep with me while I continue to "grow up".
So maybe it's not the house that I love. I don't think so, really. I think that I love the house, because for the first time ever, I'm starting to love who I am, and who I'm becoming, rather than wishing I was someone else. Someone who marries David Tennant and has a massive house in the Upper East Side. For the first time, I'm ok with being a normal poor college graduate who's just starting her life. More than ok. I love it.
Sorry to come back on such a terrible note, but this just can't be passed up.
A man in the UK was found guilty of child abuse and manslaughter after literally torturing a child to death. Read this:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The little girl was systematically abused, tortured and ultimately killed.
"When she died she was found to have 13 fractures to various parts of her body, a cigarette burn, crushing injuries to both her hands and numerous bruises to her head, body and limbs.
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"The doctor who examined her said she would have suffered intense and excruciating pain and significant disability.
"Lois received no medical attention and neither of the defendants did anything to stop her nightmare."
The court heard that during one incident Bishop lifted the little girl's leg onto a red-hot gas hob causing her severe burns to her left foot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The full story is on The BBC website.
What was his punishment? Twelve fucking years. Twelve. For torturing a two year old girl to death. The girl's mother got six for standing idly by. So good to see that justice was served in this case. A little girl DIED. An innocent toddler being treated worse than some war criminals, and the man who does it gets twelve years. He won't even be forty when he gets out. He'll be back out, free to do what he pleases.
My neice is two years old. If someone ever laid a hand on her, I'd break them in two without a second thought. Where were her grandparents? Neighbors? Where were the family friends?
Everyday I try to be optimistic. Everyday I attempt to see the good in people. And every fucking day I read stories like these. God help us.
I'm still crazy busy. Be back soon-ish! :)
The next two weeks are going to be brutal. I have:
4 tests
3 papers
5 misc. homework assignments
work
physical therapy
a bake sale to bake and bag for
a bake sale to run
a 20 min. presentation
job orientation
Amnesty International meetings
plus classes, and any required readings/assignments. And you know, sleeping somewhere in there.
On the bright side, I won't have to worry about my caloric intake. I won't have time to buy groceries.
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