Not even close...

...to the song I wanted to post, but these are two that I never skip.


I grew up in an era without variety shows. I think I missed out on something.

Odds

You know, with all the obsession about vampires out there, has anyone figured out how they defecate? Do they pee? Do they poo? Are they like birds and both kinds of waste at once?

No system is perfectly closed, so there has to be some kind of waste and they're going to have to get rid of it some how. I don't care if vampires have a piece of a demon soul in them, they still have to get rid of the unusable parts.

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I've really like the weather in Northern California the past couple of months. We've gotten a storm every 6-10 days with days in between that are sunny or have patchy clouds. It's been nice to have a real variety in weather. I hope it stays this way the rest of the year.

If this is how climate change is going to effect my life, I'm all for it.

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I know the stuff is just fan fiction, but is it wrong to get upset inside when I read a story where the author doesn't seem to know the word "than" exists (he only ever writes "then" to mean both "then" and "than") and then read a review praising the author's writing ability as the one of the best out there and even complimenting the grammar as being "spot on"?

Seriously, I don't understand. People out there will pick on writers mixing up "its" with "it's" or "there" with "their" and "they're" or "to" with "two" and "too," but do they not even see the "then"s replacing the "than"s? Maybe they just don't care, but if that's true, why do they pick on other grammatical errors?

I suppose, on the plus side, the author constantly makes this mistake. Consistency is a good thing, right?

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For $5 movie Tuesday I went and saw Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

I had to go see it. I like the books: they make me laugh. I liked the movie: it made me laugh.

The director and writers (two of whom were Gabe Sachs and Jeff Judah, which surprised me and made me happy) keep the potty jokes to a minimum and the big one, that I remember, was both well earned and hilarious. (Not that I'm against potty jokes. (Hell I opened this post with a potty joke.) It's that I hate that so many writers and directors out there think it's the only sort of humor that kids like and/or get. Kids ain't that dumb.) The "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" scene was worth the admission price alone, well for me and the mom that brought her son to see it, at least. Also, they animate the art from the book and it's gorgeous.

I just went and checked out the Wikipedia page for the movie and saw the section on the reviews. Rotten Tomatoes says, "Unlike its bestselling source material, Diary of a Wimpy Kid fails to place a likable protagonist at the center of its middle-school humor – and its underlying message is drowned out as a result." Funny thing is, Greg's a jerk in the books, too, it's part of the charm. I found him to be just as likable in the movie as he is in the book. Maybe seeing a real little kid doing the things a cartoon little kid did, not that he does anything horrible.

Bah, I don't need to defend the movie and I don't have to explain myself, but I enjoyed it.

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The CDs I bought with the Amazon gift certificates(? Letters? Emails? They're not cards, so what are they exactly?) I got for my birthday got here yesterday. The one I'm most excited about is the cast recording of "Sunday in the Park with George."

Listened to it twice last night.

If only... Right?

Mixed Up

About two weeks ago, Jazz wrote about how she met her Mr. Jazz. In the comments, one of her regulars said, "We should ask fellow bloggers who wouldn't object to sharing, how they met their significant other and what was it that turned them on."

This morning, Jazz posted a list of stories that other people have written who were inspired by her or inspired by others who were inspired by her, for the most part.

Okay, why am I writing about this here?

I want a story.

Sure, there are a lot of similarities in the tales these people tell (There seem to be two main types: 1. Immediate attraction by the party of the first part. and 2. People were friendly and friendly moved into more than friendly.), but there are all sorts of extra details. There are drawls and concerts and Christmas decorations and aviator jackets and rain and Zeppelin and long queues and boobs and reconnaissance and each of those things are just one little detail out of nine different stories. The uniqueness of the details really makes these sort of stories pop.

So, I want a story. I want weird little details that mean nothing and everything.

I don't want a person, but I'd really like a story. A story that's totally unique to me, but familiar to everyone who's heard or experience a moment of knowing.

"All The Odds Are In My Favor"

I knew this girl who loved Cabaret.

We had a class together in college. It was 20th Century American Drama, which always struck me as silly because before the 20th century, the United States didn't produce much original theater, other than Vaudeville, and that's not exactly fully scripted before the company went on stage. I mean, the US had to discover its own unique sort of prose and poetry before it could move properly into drama, and we didn't find either prose or poetry until the late 1850s and they didn't really blossom until after the Civil War. Hell, the US had to have a critic stand up and ask where the American poets were and who was going to be The Poet to lead the writers of the US out from under the shadow of Europe and into the sun so it could become its own being. Lucky for him, and us, there was a poet who was both conceded enough and good enough to stand up and say, "Hey, I'm over here, brah." But the playwrights took longer even. They had to find places to stage their visions and backers who were willing to produce the plays and actors willing to perform. With all that outside money and influence involved, it's hard to not just write what you know will sell. It happened, though, but not much before the 20th century came to pass I think if there had been a 19th Century American Drama class, it would have lasted three sessions: 1) Introduce class and hand out syllabus. 2) Discuss readings. 3) Turn in final paper and take only test on readings. You probably wouldn't get much interesting insight on the readings, either

Anyway, we had a class together, but that's not where we met. Not really.

We met in the hallway outside the classroom.

I, being me, never knew what to do between classes, especially if I had an hour or more to wait. Other people probably went and bought a snack or met friends or lounged around on some patch of shady grass or Frisbeed the time away, I didn't, though. (I was so popular that I wasn't invited to the New Year's party that was thrown in the house I lived in by a friend I'd know since we were sophomores in high school that included lots of old friends. Yeah, I was that popular.) I'd go to building my next class was in and if there was a class in the room I'd plunk myself down on the floor in the hall across from the door. Usually, I was by myself until ten or so minutes before class started, but the second day of this class, about five minutes after I sat down, a girl sat across from me.

I was reading. I don't know what, exactly. Sometimes I read something for fun. Sometimes I was doing the reading for the class before class. And sometimes I'd read stuff for the class that I just left. She pulled out some big text book that I knew wasn't for the class we shared and started highlighting. I went back to my reading. Eventually, others came and we all headed into class.

The next class I got there first again, but when she got there she pulled out the reading for our class. After a while, she asked me what I thought about some character and I blah-blahed for a bit and then said that something, I don't know what, reminded me of Cliff from Cabaret.

She looked up, and for the first time looked me in the eyes. "You know Cabaret?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "It's a great movie."

"It's my favorite," she said.

"Movie?"

"Anything. I mean, I love Liza, but that show. God." She looked off, sort of above my head and to my right. "The songs. Christ. It's just amazing."

"So, you've seen it?" I asked. "I mean the play? With all the songs? 'Cause I've only seen the movie and I know they cut a lot of 'em."

"I've seen it," she said, looking at me again. "We performed it at our high school."

"Really? In high school?"

"Yeah, we had this great drama teacher."

And we chatted on for the rest of the hour. Not about school, but about a play and a movie that we both enjoyed. When we got into class I sat where I liked to sit and she sat next to a guy who was, and probably still is, much prettier than me. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.

Then next time she got right down to it and asked me my name and major. After I told her I asked her what her major was, as is the proper procedure in this kind of college conversation.

And so, we started talking. Soon the talking turned away from school related stuff and toward other things. I probably learned more about her than she did about me. I often listened more than I spoke; it's just the way that I am. I learned why she choose her major and what she'd rather have been doing. What kind of men she liked. Her drinking habits. Her occasional job. Her current job. About the guy she was sort of/not quite dating, but they stayed up one night to watch the sun rise and he both tortured and titillated her. Where she wanted to be five years after graduation. Where she expected to be five years after graduations. And there was more.

It's not like she did all the talking. She listened to me talk about my family and friends. I told her about what I hoped to do after college. She's the only person who knew the beats of the novel I wanted to write. And other things that I didn't often speak easily about to anyone. It was okay with her. Safe.

After a few weeks, I understood why she liked Cabaret so much. She wanted to be Sally Bowles. She wanted the freedom that Sally appears to have. She wanted the ability to shut out everything that didn't have to do with her immediate wants. She wanted to be away from all the things that bothered her and be surrounded by pretty things and pretty people. Her problem was that she couldn't ignore the world around her like Sally could. She noticed changes in the world and took many of them to heart.

Some days, another girl from the class would show up and sit across from me, next to the one who liked Cabaret. When that happened, we didn't talk anymore. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.

One day, she talked a lot about her job. She was a waitress at a cafe where all the waiters and waitresses sang for the diners, mostly stuff from musicals because that's what the diners knew. She told me that the head piano player, who was also the guy in charge of all the music, tapped her to sing "Maybe This Time." There a light in her eyes that I'd never seen before in the weeks since we'd met. It was the first time I'd seen her truly excited over anything. It made her beautiful.

Six sessions from the end of the classes, I decided to ask her out to go for coffee or a movie or even a drink, which I didn't do. Five sessions from the end, I chickened out. Four sessions from the end, I caught her after class to ask her, but before I could, she let me know how much she appreciated me and in what way, and while she meant it as a compliment, a nice thing, it didn't feel that way to me, though. It still doesn't. I didn't ask. And for the last three sessions, I spent my hour elsewhere.

After the final, the next time I saw her was six or seven weeks into the next quarter. She spotted me as I crossed from the quad to the sidewalk by the library and called out. I walked up to her. She told me about the day the piano player turned to her, smiled, and nodded and she first sang "Maybe This Time" in front of an audience. She succeeded beyond her own expectations and I was excited for her. We stood on the corner blocking foot traffic for forty-five minutes, just talking. In the end, I gave her my phone number because she said we should get together and just talk some more.

She never called. It's okay, though. It's not like we were ever really friends.

Grown Apart

People who need something from each other come together.

Eventually, something changes -- a job is found, a hobby is pursued, a move is made, a fight is had, a new person is discovered -- and that need isn't there anymore.

Some try to hold onto what they had. They visit when they can. They call and talk on the phone. They e-mail back and forth. They try to recapture what they once had.

In time, the visiting stops and there are less phone calls and less e-mails. The calls and letters that do happen become more terse. The conversations stay on the surface. Questions that attempt to delve are pushed aside with a joke, or are just ignored. Both do this, not to be cruel, but because they're not where they were and don't feel the connection they once did.

Then one doesn't return a phone call or answer an e-mail in a timely manner. The other waits, waits for a while before calling or writing again and the other hopes for an answer. When the answer comes, it's a sentence about being busy and a vague promise to write later.

The other waits again. After a time, the other quits waiting. Not out of spite, but because it's just not on the other's mind anymore. It's not as important as it used to be.

And the phone calls and the letters stop.