Awkwardly Social

As part of my ongoing quest to listen to more music in the apartment (it’s checked off the 101 in 1001 list) I try to sift through the ginormous iTunes library on my computer and find songs I either have never listened to, or that I haven’t listened to in months. For the 2 of you who have never seen the iTunes interface, it gives you basic information, including number of times the song has played, and the most recent date on which it played. It also tells you how much music you have on your computer. Right now my computer is sitting pretty with 11 days, 2 hours, 24 minutes and 26 seconds of music. That’s slightly inflated because I have some Spanish Language programs and a few books on tape on there. (The Spanish Language programs… man, I need to get on that. Or just go ahead and learn Chinese before they invade. I guess with that logic I need to get me some alien tapes up in here. Anyone loan me their Klingon. Ooooo. I’m a nerd.)

The annoying part about this iTunes version I have and the ancient iPod I have, is that they don’t talk to each other. My iPod says I’ve played “Fame” by Irene Cara (shut up, it’s good to running music) 38 times, while iTunes isn’t so honest and says I have never once played it. Which makes the A student in me want to get the credit I deserve. I’ve tried to manually update the number of times played in iTunes, but it wouldn’t let me. Also, it felt a little like sneaking into the grade book and changing my grades. The iPod shuffle does update the iTunes interface, which is good because if I die, I want the world to know that not only is Britney Spears in the top 10 most played songs 4 times (she has good beats… shut up) but so is a classical guitarist named Vehkavarra. (Ok, fine, he’s in the top 15, but still!)

I’m not really sure why I care that I’ve never played the Paul Simon that I have on there, or even the Peter Frampton (which I really should delete, stupid Frampton). But I really hate seeing songs on there that I haven’t ever listened to. Songs I actually like (Frampton, not included in that, he’s just an example. No really. My dad gave me that. oh nevermind.) It’s even worse that Pat Benatar is just kind of sitting there, not listened to for 3 years! How is that possible? Especially since it appears I’ve played the hell out of Sean Paul.

Sometimes I put it on Party Shuffle and let the cards fall as they may, but that usually gives me a little too much Mozart and not enough Carly Simon. A little too much Spanish for Beginners (which would be an awesome J-Lo album title… hm… don’t tell her) and not enough Buena Vista Social Club. I’ve tried doing playlists, but in addition to being obsessive compulsive I also have a bit of crow in me. I see something shiny and the next thing you know I’m watching dumb videos on You Tube or trying to find a history of the New York subway system on line, and by the time I get back to iTunes I’ve forgotten what I was doing and a year later I’ll open a playlist I named something like “Awesome Songs I Should Always Be Listening To,” and it’ll have like a Sinead O’Connor song and maybe Cat Stevens. Cat Stevens, by the way, is someone you should always be listening to, what a songster.

Right now I’m listening to Simon & Garfunkel’s Concert in Central Park album and it’s… good, but there a couple of songs that (Old Friends) kind of make me think they could have left them out of the concert. Can you believe that I had never listened to it before on this computer? I can’t. I used to think I was a hippie in high school and this and Peter, Paul and Mary were like my discoveries. I used to think I was so damned original for listening to old music. That’s what I get for growing up in a small town, I didn’t know that people actually listened to hippie music anymore. From where I sat, it was all Classic Rock (man, CCR, I still love that band) and country (which kind of explains why I have a few Little Texas and Reba McIntyre songs in the library. oh, shut up.) and I was leading a musical revolution. I guess I was in my own mind.

Oh. Final song, Sound of Silence. This live version of it irritates me for some reason, I guess because the stupid crowd gets really LOUD during it. It’s the Sound of Silence, bitches. Respect. Fucking New Yorkers.

It’s Friday night, I just got paid, we had wine in the house, I cooked some roasted potatoes (I really did, Allie) and now I’m sitting here thinking about what I can tell you today.  I wonder what you want.  Do you think I should be funnier?  Do you wish I’d drink more?  Or have a tragedy?  Do you wish I was prettier?  Maybe you want me to fail, and you secretly read to see if this will be the post where I say “Fuck it, I quit.”  Do you think I’m just good enough to stay on your radar and just uninteresting enough to stay off everyone elses?  oh.  That might be the wine talking.  And the Rilo Kiley playing in the background.  And the impending shedding of uterine lining.  (I should have put “does he love you” by Rilo Kiley on my list yesterday, crushing me.)

[Here’s where I try to deftly change the subject, and fumble a little with it.]

I’m putting together a collection of stories for my mom.  She told me that’s what she wanted for Christmas.  There really isn’t anything better than having your mom tell you she enjoys what you write, even if sometimes you call her Nurse Ratched-esque.

I don’t really remember getting a lot of compliments as a kid.  I’m sure I got enough, I think I’d be a lot more fucked up if I didn’t.  I think I’d have slept with way more inappropriate men.  I would have spent a lot more time with the foot guy who never once… well, that’s going to be too much information.  I’m just saying I wasn’t smothered in praise.  My sister either, though at the time I thought they loved her more.  I still sort of get that impression sometimes.  She was certainly better at a lot of things.  I’m not sure either of us knew if we were good enough until later in life, and I know I still wonder if they think about all the things I could have been and if they wonder if I had one more piano lesson, or less time home alone if I would be the successful trial attorney I sort of think I was supposed to be.  Hell, I still wonder if I belong in the court room rather than the editing room.

I tip-tap away at the computer, thinking about smart suits, judges who think I’m the sharpest thing since they shaved that morning.  I think about what it means to have given it a fair shot.  I don’t know when a person living in LA working for what I’m working for decides they’ve had enough.  I know I’m not ready to say I gave it everything I had, I’m not at the bottom yet.  I don’t see the bottom yet.  I wonder if you actually can see the bottom, or if all of a sudden you just look up and you can’t see the top anymore.

I can see one thing, that’s for sure, my glass is almost empty.  My wine glass, that is.  Time to remedy that.

Since I’m still not feeling 100%, I thought I’d do a list.  I sort of feel like I should apologize for this, but I’m trying this thing where I don’t say sorry unless I mean it and if I was really sorry I wouldn’t post it, so there you go.  I hate how I just basically told you to “suck on my suckiness, suckers.”

Without further ado, words I hate:
1. milk, milking
2. yogurt
3. snivel, sniveling (although, sometimes these two are words I love)
4. stucco
5. pus
6. snatch
7. gurgle (another one that I sometimes love)
8. carp
9. loin

Words I like, for the moment, if they’re lucky:
1. Koi
2. bungle
3. convalesce
4. effervesce
5. doom

Band names that are stupid:
1. Evanescence
2. U2
3. The Band
4. Nickelback
5. The Pussycat Dolls (wait, I might just think that the last two are just stupid ‘bands’)

Songs that crush me:
1. Anything, Anything - Dramarama
2. Us - Regina Spektor
3. Through the Wire - Kanye West
4. Life is Sweet - Natalie Merchant

Take of the judge-y glasses, you read it, didn’t you?

First of all, let me say, well done. Well done, sir, er… madam…uh… gender-free theory/FACT type thingy. Keep fighting the good fight vs. the devine magic theory. I think you’re going to survive this latest onslaught.

That being said, I was reading my Snapple Real Fact today, (BTW: Snapple was invented by humans who have good taste buds, so… if you had anything to do with that, which I think you do, kudos.) and I was informed that Dragon Flies have six legs but cannot walk. What’s the delay, Evolution? I would think, while Dragon Flies’ legs aren’t high on the to-do list for you, they have been around for quite some time. And I see several things that you’ve put to the head of the line, like say… fish with tongues that look like lures that are man-made, and um… I actually can’t think of anything else you’ve done recently. So, you’re probably getting behind on your to-do list.

Here’s what I suggest, Evolution, as a procrastinator myself, I like to do the easy things first on my list, and break the hard things down into little pieces so it’s easier to tackle them, and more things to cross off the list!

First things first, get rid of the Dragon Fly legs. They need something to land on, I imagine you could leave them with one little post. So here’s what this to do list should look like:
1. A small genetic change in Dragon Fly A resulting in a little post instead of six legs.
2. A small genetic change in Dragon Fly B resulting in a sexual deviance making it super attracted to Dragon Fly A.
3. They do the rest by breeding like crazy.

See? So easy.

Now for the human appendix:
1. Let everyone who has an appendix die.
2. Start over with humans from there.
3. Do a better job.

Thanks for listening, Evolution! I know you can do it.

Best,
Tamara

I keep trying to think of a way to sum up our vacation but pretty much everything I want to talk about is either too gossipy or too inside-jokey. Scott, who graciously kicked out his sublet, and let us stay in his apartment and Jen, my new favorite person, took us around and showed us a great time. Those two know how to make people laugh, and where the party’s at, and the location of the closest exit even if it is behind us. Never a dull moment, and for that I am grateful. There are some photos, but nothing really captures how much a 10 vodka tonic hangover can be cancelled out and magnified all at the same time by spending time in their company.

I’m home sick (not homesick, that would be weird because I’m home. Should there be a comma? I can’t figure it out at the moment) today, possibly because there are more germs in New York, or possibly because I am carrying Sarah’s African Plague back to LA with me, or possibly because you never know when vacation is over until you’re coughing up green snot and sneezing on your fellow Jet Blue passengers. Patient Zero - that’s me.

If you watch Louie’s Flickr page, you’ll see some of the highlights, I’m sure. But here’s one of our gracious host, Scott, who did whatever I told him to do. Including stand for a picture with an enormous anthropomorphized pig.

UPDATE: I forgot to explain the asterisk earlier. I’m sick.

* The title is an inside joke having to do with the weird mural on the Coney Island boardwalk that reads, “If Paris is France, then Coney Island, between May - September, is the World,” and the crazy lady that accosted us in the Nathan’s line and said, “I’m honest as the Superbowl.” Neither of which any of us could figure out at the time.

We leave for New York tonight for a quick vacation.  I started getting really irritated with our choice of city last night when I realized all I wanted to do on this vacation was sit with my feet in the Caribbean Sea with a margarita in one hand and Louie’s hand in the other.  Louie, brave and patient soul that he is, told me last night we could cancel the trip if we wanted.  We don’t have to do anything.  We are masters of our own destiny.  Novel, I know.

So instead of cancelling our trip I decided to go and have fun.  I mean, they have alcohol in NYC, at least they did the last time I was there.  There are multitudes of people to see.  There is no end to the possibilities, which is probably why I was getting a little grumpy about the whole thing.  Me and endless possibilities don’t really get along so well.  I think the most surprising thing that ever flew out of my mouth was when I said “We could go running in Central Park, or over the Brooklyn Bridge!”  And I actually was excited about it.  One year ago, that thought would have only crossed my mind if I was thinking about ways to give myself an actual heart attack.

I am currently having a packing crisis, in that I’m so sick of every piece of clothing I own, I’m half considering not bringing anything and replenshing my wardrobe while there.  It’s not actually that bad an idea. Hmmm…

I don’t know if this person is just wild about Quantam Leap, or is a former producer or possibly even the man himself, but even if all of those things are true, I just can’t stop giggling. I thought I was a nerd.

I can’t tell if you can read what the license plate holder says, but let me help you out. The top reads, “Quantam Leap.” And the bottom reads, “Al, why haven’t I leaped yet?”

Hmm… good question. Al? Why hasn’t this guy leaped yet?

I had a hankering for spaghetti sauce with sausage for dinner this evening. So, I took matters into my own hands and bought some pork sausage. Then I worried that I would cook it wrong. I wasn’t sure if I could just squeeze it out of the casing and fry it up like I do hamburger, or if the casing was important in the whole scenario. I looked up recipes for Sausage Spaghetti sauce on the internet and there was a lot of talk about slicing the sausage and pan frying it, but I didn’t see anything about squeezing it out of the casing. So I threw caution to the wind and just did it.

Which, side note, I totally forgot my abortion movie I did in my first semester of film school making a fetus out of a chicken breast and the umbilical cord was a squeezed out sausage casing. I got kind of nostalgic and wanted to make another abortion movie, maybe a stop motion animation fetus movie. I wonder how gross that sausage casing would get by the end of a stop motion shoot. heh.

Anyway, I poured in a jar of sphaghetti sauce and simmered it for a while, making sure I didn’t have any raw sausage and it turned out fine. I don’t know why the kitchen always seems so intimidating to me. I’m actually kind of good at cooking. And also, it’s easy. So there, famous chefs! Anyone can do this crap.

It’s hard to believe there was a time in my life when I didn’t appreciate the smelliest of Stilton cheeses and the cheapest of White Zinfandels, a time before calling dibs on the ugliest guy at the party, a time before the inside joke “You’re _____” (fill in the blank using the thing they just said, ex. They say, “This place fucking sucks,” you say, “You fucking suck!”), a time before throwing out all of one’s dishes because you just can’t see eating off of them again, a time before Allie.

Allie has the unique ability to diffuse an awkward situation with inappropriate sexual humor. I think this comes from the years she spent living with women who drank Yuengling beer and played rugby. She isn’t a woman who shies away from friendship. She is ridiculously funny and at the same time so serious underneath it all.

A few months ago, I wanted to kill her, but I chalk that up to too many years living together. It was a fight that I didn’t think I would ever see the other side of, but when we came out of it, we were quickly able to look back and see the humor. She of course was the one who remained calm, while I was screaming into my cell phone and throwing things. I don’t really understand what, “Still waters run deep” means, but I think it means that you don’t want to get in a fight with Allie, she’ll win. Handily.

For a while we were the ‘girls with big tits who had questionable hygiene,’ around film school. There was a slide into wearing ridiculously tight spaghetti strap tank tops, no shower and a quick dousing of perfume before smoking 2 packs of cigarettes and working in the sound department. We really needed someone to perform an intervention, but I’m pretty sure everyone was too afraid of us to tell us we needed to put the girls away and take a shower.

She’s coming home today. I missed her.

(Photo credit Louie.)

I have been without a camera since my Elph decided to go and give up its will to live. I tried to get it to turn back on every once and awhile, to no avail. It would squeak, gasp, and then fall back on it’s pillow with a sad little sigh. I was starting to get really irritated. There were things! to be photographed! I didn’t get to take a picture with my niece in Minnesota. I didn’t get to take pictures of my crazy, semi-dysfunctional family. Sure, my family took pictures, but they are as lazy or lazier *coughtaviacough* than I am and haven’t sent me the pictures I was promised.

I tried again this morning and started ranting about how I really needed a camera. How money would be leveraged. Entire ovaries would be sold! Kidneys removed! Corneas sliced!

Louie asked if he could try and fix it, and since I was close to throwing the thing out the window to see if it would at least make an interesting explosion upon hitting the asphalt, I told him he could. He got out tools! He disassembled! I saw my camera’s guts! And guess what? I can take pictures again. Crappy, out of focus, over-flashed pictures! (All things it did before it broke.)

And I have Cameraboy to thank.