What’s there to live for?
Who needs the peace corps?
Think I’ll just DROP OUT

I’m sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco.  Progressive Grounds.  I had two mugs of black tea when I woke up this morning; I don’t need this giant cup of coffee.  This stuff is SERIOUS.  I’ve been nursing it for nearly an hour and I haven’t even finished 1/4 of the thing. With every little baby sip my heart starts racing like I just broke bread with George Jung.

I’ve been away from home for 11 days.  (Wait, Holy Cow, really?  I’ll have to celebrate…)  I’ve been in Santa Cruz, Menlo Park, Alameda, and, now, San Francisco.

Santa Cruz was a lot of  fabulous silliness that was briefly interrupted by an afternoon of dismal introspection catapulted by the misunderstanding that the bastards who stole my iPod from my car also stole my most prized nostalgic possession.  After Santa Cruz came a brief, much-needed low-key interlude in La Selva beach, where I got to spend two nights in an actual bed.  I also spent a lovely afternoon in Monterey taking pictures of headstones and crying underneath cemetery trees.  (Did anyone else just think of this song?)  Menlo Park was a brilliant afternoon and evening of Chinese Food and Catch Up.  I was back on the couch, but the couch was a comfy one.

When I got to Alameda I was ready to get silly again.  I stayed with a friend I hadn’t seen since July of 2010.  She studies Molecular Biology and she loves Judas Priest and Bridget Jones’s Diary.  She took me out for bratwurst and sauerkraut and I stole a drink coaster.  After lunch we bummed around downtown for awhile and eventually walked into a psychic shop.  We asked how much it would cost to have our palms read.  The cost was super cheap.  I went first.

The woman took me into a little room and sat me down.  She asked me my full name and date of birth, and then she looked at my hands.

“You have a long, full life ahead of you,” she said.

I was unimpressed.

“I don’t see any death or tragedy in your family.”

Cool.  Still, I was unimpressed.

The woman paused for a moment, and then her voice took on a more serious tone as she said, “I will say this: you’re procrastinating.”

I looked at her.  She was younger and prettier than I usually imagine psychics to be.  She had all her teeth and her skin was perfect and there wasn’t a single gray hair on her head.

“You’re creative,” she said.  “Every thought that comes into your head is creative.  But you’re procrastinating when it comes to work and school.  I don’t think you’re done with school.  But what you need to be doing now is focusing on your writing.“

I stopped breathing.

“I definitely see a book in your future,” she continued.  “You already have it completely planned in your head — you just need to get to work writing it down.

I took a breath.  I whispered, “I know.”  My eyes welled up with tears.  I apologized for being emotional and laughed at the contrived profundity I seem to encounter everywhere I go.

To give me a break from the heaviness she was layin’ on me, she talked about my love life.  She didn’t have anything monumental to say — she basically confirmed my suspicion that I’m actually completely fine with the fact that I’m single.  Once that was out of the way, she went back to the main issue.  She said, “Take a creative writing class.”

I held my breath again as I remembered an email I received a few days before my trip.  An author I met in December wrote to me and said she would love for me to participate in a creative writing class she was going to be starting.  I didn’t respond to her.  Why?  Apparently I’m a procrastinator.

The psychic asked me if I had any questions.  I asked about my location, and she said, “I’d like you to be closer to the water.”  Totally not weird.  Because, ya know, I never EVER fantasize about moving to Santa Cruz or San Francisco or Seattle…

She ended her reading by saying, “Write your book.”  I ended by saying, “How the HELL did you know all that?”

She only asked me for my full name and date of birth.  I didn’t show her my ID, tell her where I was from, tell her that I do, in fact, want to write a book and that I do, in fact, spend less time working on my writing than I should and that I do, in fact, want to live near water.

I don’t think I can continue to distract myself from doing what I really want to do.  Why it took a psychic to convince me that it’s time to get serious and declare myself a fucking writer is something I will never understand.  We’re all different, I guess.

Intermission.

That night my friend and I got in trouble at a Tikki Bar for causing a ruckus.  We were mainly disturbing the bartender, Jared.  At first we both thought he was a total babe, but at some point in the night when we asked him for more drinks, he told us he’d have to ask his manager first.  “Why can’t we have another drink?” asked my friend.  Jared gave us a list of things “polite customers” — customers who deserve their handcrafted Tikki cocktails! — don’t do.  He said that polite customers “don’t steal.”  My friend and I fell silent.  You see, I’d been sneaking pieces of pineapple when no one was looking, and I also had a purse full of Tikki God cocktail stirrers.  Jared then added that polite customers, “don’t say ‘The F-Word.’”  We fell even more silent.  You see, my friend had been saying “The F-Word” quite loudly, and quite a lot.  When the lecture was over, she said, “Fuck you, Jared.”  I took another stirrer.

We still got our drinks, and we still stole shit and swore.  It was all in good fun, and no one else at the bar seemed to be annoyed by our shenanigans.

That night we went to a house party in Oakland to see a band.  They played “DARK FOLK.”  They also wore long, black cloaks, which looked a good deal like long, black Snuggies.  I kept screaming, “YOU LOOK LIKE NICK CAVE!” at one of them.  The sight of their guitars made me miss my ukulele and I cursed myself for not lugging it with me.  Lord knows I could have at least busted out a mediocre rendition of “Creep” and made a few nickels on Pacific…

The next day we went to Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley and bought CDs and ate Indian Food.  I also bought a Rolling Stones T-Shirt in a thrift shop (and I’ve been wearing it for the last two days).  That night we went downtown and drank dark beers and I stole another drink coaster.

The next day we drove to Oakland to check out Lake Merritt.  We rented a paddle boat and rode around in the lake chasing seagulls and fantasizing that the pieces of wood we saw floating around were actually sea monsters.  Every time we saw a piece of trash floating by, we vowed to one day return to the lake with a giant net.

After one last meal together my friend made it clear that it was time for her to face the fact that she had homework to do.  This meant it was time for me to hit the road.

I’ll go to Frisco
Buy a wig & sleep
On Owsley’s floor

I had bought a copy of Let Love In by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds while I was at Rasputin on Telegraph.  I was so amped while listening to “Loverman” that I drove right passed the toll booth when I crossed the Bay Bridge.

Can You Blame Me?

My first night here was spent watching Mad Men with my cousin and eating Chinese take out.  The next day, yesterday, I walked around Valencia and bought a coffee mug and a t-shirt and a note pad.  I grabbed a taxi to North Beach and got out on Columbus avenue.  I turned the corner to Chinatown and got some Dim Sum, which cost $1.30.  I was good and full, so I bought a book at City Lights and sat down inside Cafe Vesuvio to chill out.  Two guys sitting at the bar were singing “Ghost” and I felt completely at peace.  When they were done singing some freaking Decemberists song came on and Good God I will always be team Aeroplane.

Walked past the wig store
Danced at the Fillmore
I’m completely stoned

I was broke so I went across the street to The Beat Museum.  I asked the guy behind the counter if they were still doing the “Poet of the Month” contest, and when he said “No” I asked if there was any way I could check out the archives.  I said I was awarded Honorable Mention twice in 2007, and that I could only find one of the poems online.  He was really sweet and spent a long time searching for the May 2007 results, and when he found that the web page was corrupted (or corrupt?) he fixed it for me.  I felt bad for making him do all that work, so I bought some Allen Ginsberg poetry and was even more broke.

I tried searching for the poem earlier this afternoon.  I still can’t find it.

I’m hippy & I’m trippy
I’m a gypsy on my own
I’ll stay a week
& get the crabs
& Take a bus back home
I’m really just a phony
But forgive me
‘Cause I’m stoned

When I got back to my cousin’s place we went out for Vietnamese.  We ate garlic noodles and prawns with spicy green beans and more garlic.  Then we went back to her house and watched the last four episodes of the third season of Mad Men.  That show only gets better every time I watch it.  This time I enjoyed it all so much I was almost impressed with January Jones’s acting.

Still, it’s always been about this big hunk-o-gangsta.

I had a bizarre sex dream last night, and when I woke up this morning I kept my eyes closed so I could remember all the crazy details.  They’re still a bit fuzzy, but I do know that at one point in the dream I was very mad at the young man I had just spent the night with because he was ignoring me during a screening of Lawrence of Arabia in 3D.  This confused me, because he was more than willing to skip the screening of Cat People the night before just to be with me.  I think that the preposterousness of it all demonstrates a new all time high in Dorky Dreams.

When I got out of bed I thought I’d maybe go to Haight Street…

Every town must have a place
Where phony hippies meet

Buy another mug or three…

Psychedelic dungeons
Popping up every street

Instead I got up and went to a donut place near my cousin’s house, where I ate a maple bacon apple donut.  And It Was Good.

I never made it to Haight Street.  Instead I creeped inside a tiny coffee shop and did some writing.  And ya know what?  I had a great time.  It was fun and challenging and I feel like it’s time to take a walk.

I definitely see more writing in my future.  I also see Don Draper.  And an ice cream cone.

GO TO SAN FRANCISCO
How I love ya, How I love ya How I love ya, How I love ya Frisco!

I found my Powerpuff Girls CD case.  I also found the Kerouac.  They were hidden underneath a towel in the back seat of my car.  Ya know what?  I’m glad I hid them.  Sure, I was upset for a day, but in the long run…wow, man.  Such a relief.

The iPod, however, has probably been sold for crack money by now.  Oh well.  The thing was starting to act up, anyway.

I spent most of yesterday bumming around the mountains.  Those mountain towns have always had profoundly calming effects on me.  During my last year in Santa Cruz I would sometimes drive all the way to Ben Lomond just to buy almond milk and kombucha.  Their stuff wasn’t any better than what I could get downtown, but the surroundings…wow.

I went into a little ukulele store on Highway 9 near White Raven and Don Quixote’s.  I’d never seen the place before — I guess they’ve only been open a little over a year.  I was already missing my cute like ukulele, but when I walked into the store I felt 100x’s worse.  I could have asked the guy behind the counter for a quick lesson, or asked him for some tips on quick and easy tuning.  ::Sigh::  Instead, I just basked in the glory of all the cute little ukes on the wall.

I took a lot of pictures of Felton, then drove a little further inland to get some pretty shots of Ben Lomond and Boulder Creek as well.  Boulder Creek definitely looked the most beautiful, and I had an absolute blast wandering up and down “the strip” taking pictures of the old timey-lookin’ buildings.  I felt 100% at peace.  I don’t know if I could ever live in the Santa Cruz mountains full time, but if I’m ever filthy rich and can afford to have multiple homes, I will definitely have a getaway pad somewhere over there.  I’ll decorate it with Jackalopes.  And Ukelopes…

Call me crazy, but I think the ukulele guy is having a laugh at this fellow Felton resident’s expense.  I’m not choosing sides — they both enrich my life.

After my wilderness adventures I headed back to the city of Santa Cruz, during which time Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty made their way to New Orleans to visit Old Bull Lee.  All the talk of saloons and sex and Benzedrine made me realize how much I wanted a shower, so I stopped at a house where a few friends of mine live to ask if I could use their shower.  Luckily my friend Dan was there to let me in, so I was able to clean up and relax a little bit before heading back downtown for a last-minute “Happy Birthday” drink with a friend.  After I was all clean I put on Dan’s VHS copy of Annie Hall and got comfortable.  I teared up a few times, especially when Annie and Alvy got back together after he killed the spider in her apartment.  When I finally got up to leave, Dan turned to me and gave me a speech about living life to the fullest.  I almost broke down and sobbed.  I didn’t, though, and I was able to get to the bar on time with my mascara in tact.

I had a Shirley Temple to toast my friend’s birthday, and then I was on my way to Watsonville to stay with my dearest, most darling friend Danielle.  I stayed up late screwing around on the internet and feeling ever so happy that I was in my dearest, most darling friend Danielle’s house.

Today we went to Monterey.  Danielle had an appointment there, so she pointed me in the direction of a pretty park near a lake where I could hang out and take pictures while I waited for her.  I crossed the white bridge over the lake and found myself in a cemetery, where I ended up taking pictures of strangers’s graves and crying over all the headstones that said things like,

Baby Winter

January 30, 1946

I was most overwhelmed by the baby that lived for two days.  So overwhelmed, in fact, that I had to sit down and scribble a few notes.  While I was doing that, I saw a woman praying underneath a nearby tree.  When she finished praying she made the sign of the cross, then she knelt down and set something on a grave.  When she left, I tried to figure out which grave she was praying at.  I narrowed it down to two possibilities.

After an hour I made my way back to Danielle’s car.  I threw my stuff inside and we sped off to Fisherman’s Wharf for lunch.  When I went to grab my coat, I saw that I had forgotten my purse.

Yes.

I forgot my purse in the cemetery.

We drove back, and my purse was on the bench right where I set it when I sat down to scribble and watch that woman pray.

Wow.

Today is Tuesday, January 24th.  I left for Santa Cruz on Friday, January 20.  During my drive, I listened to an audiobook of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.  Well, I got to Disc 3, anyway.

I stopped at Pea Soup Andersen’s in Buellton for breakfast.  I find that kind of thing whimsical.  After my eggs and toast, I got into my car to hit the road again, and, quite suddenly, I felt that dreaded sensation I haven’t felt in months.  My hands tingled.  My heart beat quickened.  “Oh, shit,” I thought.  “I’m anxious.”

I had felt anxious the night before, too, but opted not to report it to anyone.  I was watching the 3D re-release of Beauty and the Beast with my mom and two of my best friends.  Suddenly, after “Tale As Old As Time,” I noticed that my arms felt tingly.  I tried to ignore it, but, for whatever reason, I just couldn’t.  I even made the deadly mistake of thinking, “If I suddenly have a stroke, someone in this theater will call 9-11.”  That is not the kind of thing I am supposed to tell myself.  I am supposed to tell myself that arm tingling doesn’t mean shit.  Why did I let myself get freaked out?  Out of all the voices that chatter all day long in my subconscious, why did I listen to the one that sounds like Woody Allen?  As I sat there counting down the minutes until The Beast turned back into The Prince, I made one more idiotic mistake.  I thought to myself, “I hope this doesn’t happen tomorrow during my drive.”

The human mind is…well, it’s bizarre, to say the least.  That little tiny seed of doubt was all it took to freak me out hours later outisde of Pea Soup Andersen’s.  I started the car anyway, but I was still feeling weird.  There I was, driving north on the 101, desperately trying to tell myself to chill out and listen to the soothing sound of, “The night air blah blah All I had was $3 blah blah Dean Moriarty blah blah Bottle of whiskey blah blah Beat.”

Had I made the wrong decision?  Was it really wise of me to take a trip rather than find a damn job?  Why did I feel I even deserved to do what I was doing?  What was the point?   

It was time for Woody Allen to shut up.  He was disrupting Jack Kerouac.

I pulled over in the tiny town of Los Alamos.  Yes, Los Alamos, California.  It exists.  There’s a gas station, and a Subway (as in sandwiches) that looks like an old saloon.  I usually stop there on the way to Santa Cruz to pee and get something to drink.  This time, I peed, got a drink, and took a walk.

Soon enough, I was back in the car, feeling relaxed and ready to kick the drive’s ass.  I turned off Jack, put on some music, and made it the rest of the way to Santa Cruz without a single hiccup.  It was a rather encouraging experience.  When I got to Watsonville it began to rain, so I put on Van Morrison and sang.  Loudly.

That was Friday.  Today is Tuesday.  On Monday morning I got into my car and saw that I had been robbed.  My copy of Blonde on Blonde was on my seat, which was not right.  My glove compartment was open.  The windows weren’t broken, nor was the lock broken.  “I…I think I left my car unlocked?”  I couldn’t believe it when I said out loud, “I’ve been…robbed?”

The bastards got my iPod.  Ya know what else they got?  The audiobook of On the Road.  Except Disc 3, of course.  Sal Paradise will forever be in Los Angeles with his beautiful Mexican girl.

After some anger and confusion, I accepted what had happened and moved on.  My friend said, “You’re handling this really well.  I would be crying right now.”  I took her compliment seriously, and even went so far as to say, “Hopefully I’ll be able to think of this experience in the future and tell myself if I can remain calm after being robbed, I can remain calm when other shit happens.”  Yeah.  I said that.

Hours later, I totally cried.  I realized that the bastards had also taken my Powerpuff Girls CD case, which contained the following:

1. A burned copy of Nirvana’s Nevermind
2. A burned copy of The Mother’s of Invention’s Freak Out!
3. Pete Doherty’s Grace/Wastelands
4. My friend Dan’s Woody Allen CD…
5. Jason Webley’s Cost of Living
6. Jason Webley’s live album In This Light (I will now have to buy this a third time…)
7. A burned copy of the freaking BIG LITTLE DIPPER DIPPER ALBUM

THESE BASTARD METHHEADS STOLE THE MOST WORTHLESS CD CASE KNOWN TO MANKIND.  NO ONE IS GOING TO GIVE YOU DRUG MONEY FOR THE CD THAT HAS “HOCKEY STAR.”

Here are the four things that actually HURT me:

1. THE BEST OF LEONARD COHEN
2. THE DOORS
3. SAM FRANCE’S GOD IS REAL
4. FOXYGEN’S KILL ART

After realizing these CD’s were gone forever, I took a deep breath and then said, out loud, “With the exception of the live Jason Webley album, I have all of this music on my computer.  What is not on my computer is on a flash drive.  I can get all of this…”

Then I realized that the Powerpuff Girls CD case also contained what I consider to be the single greatest radio show I ever put on.  It was one night in April 2010 where Dancing Barefoot was just unstoppable.  My playlist was kickass and my delivery was ridiculously strong.  There wasn’t a single technical difficulty and I never said, “Ummm.”  I sounded like a happy, level-headed, stable fucking person who was having a killer time putting on a rock solid radio show.

I turned to my friend.  I told her what I had just realized.  We sat in silence.  I then said, “I’m going to cry in front of you now.”

As it turns out, I may be able to get a copy of that radio show after all.  Apparently KZSC’s archive of shows just might go back as far as 2010.  I shall see.   Regardless, I felt rather strange for the rest of the Goddamn day.  To be completely honest, I suddenly wanted to just go home.  Why bother sticking around?  My freaking back was killing me from sleeping on a deflated air mattress.  My last pair of contact lenses were completely fucked and the rain was fogging up my glasses.   I was tired, I was cold, and I was still unsure whether or not I deserved to be taking a trip.

Oh, and I was robbed.

Oh, and that Goddamn Woody Allen voice had made an appearance the other day.

As I sat on my friend’s bed after a delicious dinner at Charlie Hong Kong’s, all I could think about was whether or not I should call it quits on the whole road trip thing.

That, my friends, was yesterday.  Today, after finally getting a full night’s sleep on a firm mattress with lots of blankets, I am a new woman.  Screw Woody Allen, screw the bastards who stole my iPod, and screw calling it quits.  That is not what I want to do.  Besides, I just noticed that at no point did I mention that I’m actually having a great time…

Lock your doors.  Sleep well.  Wear dry clothes.

Time to start my damn day.  In Santa Cruz.

]]> http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/24/the-beat-goes-on/feed/ 1 dancingbarefoot17 http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/im-free/ http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/im-free/#comments Tue, 10 Jan 2012 07:03:30 +0000 Steff http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/?p=578 ]]> I did it.

I quit my damn job.

I put in my two weeks notice last Tuesday, and on Friday they told me to go ahead and leave.

So I did.

Yup.

I packed up my instant oatmeal

and my chamomile tea

and my finger puppet

and left.

I didn’t want to make a dramatic exit,

but I was forced to.

Let me tell, you,

it’s awkward to walk up to a co-worker and say,

“I put in my two weeks two days ago

but they’re asking me to leave now.

So, this is goodbye.”

It causes confusion.

None of it was my fault.

Nope.

None.

Oh well.

Today was my first official day

of being unemployed.

(I mean, I was unemployed after I graduated college

but that was different:

everyone I knew was unemployed.)

My mom took me to get Dim Sum.

And it was the best Dim Sum.

We had pork buns

and shrimp noodles

and Chinese broccoli with eel sauce

(I think),

and we talked about my former place of employment

and how it’s unfortunate that I had to leave

(because really, I had to),

and then I said that I should go to the dentist soon

but I hate dentists

because they’re so judgmental

but the dentist I went to see when I lived in Santa Cruz was so nice…

And my mom said,

“Go see him.”

I said,

“Go to Santa Cruz for a dentist appointment?”

“Why not?”

She then suggested I drive up north

and stay a week

(or more)

and have a blast

and clear my head

and go to the damn dentist

and look for a job when I get back.

I said,

“I actually came up with that idea  few days ago

but I talked myself out of it.”

“Why?”

“I convinced myself I didn’t deserve to go.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I beat myself up over these kinds of things.”

“Don’t do that.”

I’m going to take a roadie.

By myself.

I’m going to go up to Santa Cruz

to visit my buddies,

and then I’ll see where I end up.

Maybe I will take an extra week,

maybe not.

Maybe I will go to the dentist,

maybe not.

Maybe I’ll bring my ukulele

and play on the street corner

if and when I run outta money.

Maybe I’ll find a job in San Francisco

and never come back.

Maybe I’ll elope with some hippie.

Heh.

I think this is exactly what I’m supposed to do.

My trip isn’t for another week.

I have a lot of planning to do.

If you live up north and you’re a friend of mine, do contact me.

I need places to stay.

In the meantime,

being unemployed in my hometown is pretty fun.

Mom is taking me to the zoo tomorrow.

Yes.

The Zoo.

Tomorrow.

Life

Is

Good.

]]> http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/im-free/feed/ 0 dancingbarefoot17 http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/my-back-pages/ http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/my-back-pages/#comments Tue, 03 Jan 2012 02:50:05 +0000 Steff http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/?p=572 ]]> This is a facebook post written to me by my friend, Ellanee, circa January 2008:

i hope that one day, i am as cool as you. i hope that one day, i make convenience store clerks fall in love with me while i am wearing pajama pants and i hope that one day, i own a [VHS tape] of malcolm mcdowell as a paraplegic. and that i can drink 500 glasses of water in 2 seconds.

I copied the post and saved it as a Word document.  I was that touched.

I can’t believe it was four years ago that Ellanee and I solidified our friendship one afternoon over too much Captain Morgan and too much burnt popcorn.  It was Sunday.  The plan was to watch the Tim Burton version of Sweeney Todd.  That was it.

“Want a drink?” became, “Want another drink?” which became, “Pause this, I have to pee” and, “Pause this, I have to smoke.”  Finally, it was, “Pause this, we’re out of popcorn.”

We walked down the street to the neighborhood liquor store.  At the time, I found it obscenely convenient to have a liquor store so nearby.  Looking back, it was just obscene.

The walk to the store was really something special.  It was raining and we looked ridiculous.  My hair was thrown up in a messy, greasy excuse for a bun, and I was wearing black pajama pants with hot pink bunny rabbits printed on them.  I also had on a black t-shirt with cartoon monkeys playing guitars.  I believe Ellanee and I were both wearing fuzzy slippers, but I may be thinking of a different occasion.  Ellanee was struggling to light her cigarette while avoiding puddles and remaining upright.  We weren’t just two tipsy college girls — we were poetic.  We were divine.  We were a scene from Withnail & I. 

We were Rain Dogs.

We exploded into the liquor store like a Ralph Steadman cartoon.  There was no one else in the store, which left us free to stumble down the aisles in our solitary fancy examining the tiny plastic bags of gummy sharks, debating whether or not we should buy apple rings, arguing about Swedish Fish versus Sour Patch Kids, etc.  We managed to look through the entire store without finding any popcorn.

I ran up to the counter and roared, “Do you have popcorn?”

The hippie behind the counter smiled.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Over there.”

Our brief interaction was sobering.  I noticed he was young.  Then, I noticed he was wearing a beanie.  A beanie.  And he looked cute in it.  He looked damn cute in it.  A young, cute hippie in a beanie was smiling at me, the pajama-wearing, obscenity-spouting asshole who was drunkenly demanding popcorn at 3:00 in the afternoon on The Lord’s Day.

I managed to formulate a “Thank you,” and then stumbled in the direction of the popcorn.  I found Ellanee in the candy aisle.

“I know where the popcorn is,” I said.
“I want Red Vines.”
“Get some,” I said.
“Will you eat some?” she asked, raising her voice a bit.
“Maybe.”
“You have to eat some!”

I slammed the three-pack of popcorn down on the counter.

“You found it!” said the hippie.

“Yeah,” I managed.

He didn’t say anything; just smiled his hippie smile.

As soon as we were outside, Ellanee exploded with, “He liiiiiiiikes you!  He was kinda cuuuuuuuute!  He looooooooooves yoooooooou!”

I denied any and all accusations of winning the affection of the hippie behind the counter.

“It’s truuuuuuue!” she continued.  “He was lookin’ at you and smiiiiilin’ at yoooooou…”

“Bullshit.”

I used my hands to block the wind and rain from Ellanee’s lighter while she lit her cigarette.

“Nope,” she said.  “He fell in love with you.”

When we got back to my house we microwaved a bag of popcorn, mixed another pair of cocktails, and watched Johnny Depp kill a whole lotta people.

I was a junior in college and every little thing that happened to me was important.  All-nighters were news-worthy.  Class presentations were news-worthy.  I rewarded myself for making it to my 8am classes.  My idea of stress was having to write an essay and do laundry.  If I had a free evening, I spent it writing poetry or preparing for my radio show or watching some documentary about Bob Dylan or Nico and crying over music and history and my love for all that weird shit called “art.”

On January 17th, I will officially be 25 years old; my New Year’s Resolution is to act like it.  At the same time, I need to get back in touch with an earlier version of myself.  I don’t mean I’m going to casually get plastered on Sunday afternoons and start dating liquor store clerks (again), but I think it’s time I started taking myself seriously (again).  I want to think that what I do is important.  I want to rewarded myself for my hard work.  I want to set aside time for creativity.  I don’t want to cry about Bob Dylan and Nico because I feel shitty, but because I love Bob Dylan and Nico so damn much.

I hope that one day, I am as cool as 21-year-old Me.

It’s great.

Good flirting is like a game of catch.  It’s like a dance.  It’s like jazz.  It’s give and take.  It’s a free-flowing, yet calculated volley between, “Hey, look at me,” and, “Well well well, LOOK at YOU.”

Good flirting is never obnoxious.  If things are going well, there’s no need for any, “I can bench 335″ or, “I hate wearing panties.”  Good flirting is all about subtlety.  You can say mundane things like, “I still haven’t deleted my Myspace” or, “We need a new Joe Strummer album now more than ever,” because as long as you and the other person are on the same page, and the “accidental” arm grazing and deliberate “casual” hand touching remains constant, there’s no need to mention bench pressing and panties.  It’s about wit and word play.  Laughing and listening.  No cheap stuff.  No sex stuff.  Just fun.

Good flirting.  Yeah.

::Sigh::

That being said, being flirted with can also really, really suck.  In fact, in many situations, I HATE flirting.  I hate being looked at, I hate being smiled at, and Dear Lord, I hate being touched.  Ew ew ew ew EW.  It’s all so gross.

Gross flirting is like a game of catch where one of the participants has no arms.  It’s like a dance where one of the dancers is doing The Worm naked.  It’s like Kenny G.  There is no give and take.  Instead, one person is doing all the talking while the other person is silently wishing she were dead.  

I’m not talking about being flirted with by someone who is perfectly nice, yet unattractive (which is entirely subjective).  I’m talking about being flirted with by someone who is so downright creepy, the very sight of him hurts your skin.  You feel repulsed.  You feel nervous.  You curse yourself for putting on makeup that morning and for wearing a tank top that reveals the classiest amount of casual cleavage.

Yes, this happened to me today.  I was flirted with.  Hit on.  Or, as the kids are saying, “creeped on.“

I met him today at a testing facility.  We were there to participate in a soda taste test.  I’m broke, and dammit, I needed the $25 that was being offered.  Christmas is right around the corner, after all.

Testing facilities are fascinating.  The people who show up to participate in taste tests are fascinating.  They all look beat up and tired.  They all have tattoos and funny hats.  They get confused when they’re told to “Sign your name here, please,” and they seem to love blocking doorways with their awkward, spandex-clad bodies.

After I signed in at the front desk, I took my pre-taste-test questionnaire and stood against a wall.  The door opened, and in walked two of the trashiest dudes I’ve ever seen in my life.  They stunk up the lobby with an odor that can only be described as a mixture of pot and ass.  One of them was portly with curly pink hair, wearing a faded black t-shirt and torn jeans.  He looked like Guy Fieri if Guy Fieri were a burnout from the valley.  The other looked like Matthew Lillard’s meth-addict brother.  I didn’t really catch what he was wearing, because I made sure not to look in his direction.  Why?  As soon as he walked in the room, he looked right and me and said, rather loudly, “YOWZA.”

“YOWZA”? 

I pretended I hadn’t heard him.  I looked at my questionnaire.  I played with my clipboard.  I studied my cheap ballpoint pen as if it were the most fascinating object I’d ever seen.  The whole time, I could see from the corner of my eye that the YOWZA dude was staring at me.  Rudely staring.

He walked up to me.  My stomach turned.

“What do we do with this paperwork after we’re done?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, in the most curt tone possible.  I didn’t even look at him.  I was still transfixed by my pen.

“Is this your first time doing one of these tests?” he asked.

“No.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert?”

“I hope not.”

I looked at him.  Oh GOD.  Oh SHIT.  YOWZA!  That man was HORRIFYING.  I couldn’t tell how old he was because his face was messed up from years of Lord Only Knows.  He had short, curly hair that was frighteningly pube-like.  His eyes were glazed over with a filmy funk.  He had a smile like a rapist hamster.

He smiled some more and laughed.  I looked away.

“I’m Michael,” he said, and he held out his hand.

“I’m Stephanie,” I said.

As soon as I shook his hand, I couldn’t wait to go home and wash it.  Great flirting?  I think not.

“It’s nice to meet you, Stephanie,” he said.  “Do you live in this lovely town?”

“Yeah,” I said, still not looking at him.

“What do you do?” he asked.

In the split second it took me to answer, I considered telling him the truth.  Then I figured it would be too painful to try to explain to him what kind of company I work for.  Plus I didn’t want to engage him.  I thought that maybe if I told him I was a lawyer he would back off, but then I realized that lawyers don’t have to participate in taste tests for $25 checks.

I took a breath.

“Not much.”

He laughed.

“Not much, huh?”

“Yeah.”

I needed an excuse to walk away, so I decided that it looked perfectly natural for me to walk to the front desk to turn in my questionnaire.

“You filled this out in pen,” said the woman behind the desk.

“…Was that wrong?” I asked.

“Yes.  It needs to be done in pencil.”

A voice behind me said, “Come on, Stephanie!”

Michael “Meth Head” Lillard was standing behind me.  He had followed me.

I grabbed a new questionnaire and scurried back to my wall.  No one followed me, thank Goodness.

I understand that I assumed a lot about Michael.  I assumed that the lines in his face were the result of fast-living instead of age.  I assumed he was a loser.  I assumed he was a creep.  Was that fair?  After all, I was there for the $25, too.  Does that mean I looked as weird to everyone as they all looked to me?

The fact is, if it hadn’t been for the “YOWZA” and the excessive staring, I would have found his overture annoying as opposed to vile.

I may be $25 richer, but I’m also a bit pissed off.  Great flirting.  Where the Hell is it?  I know that it probably isn’t anywhere to be found at a testing center, but come on.  Starbucks?  Some bar?  Some nightclub?  Dear Lord, I’d rather encounter a creep at a testing center than a nightclub — dancing creepers are worst.  I only like dancing if it’s, you know.  Like jazz.

::Sigh::

(QUICK NOTE! DUE TO THE VOLUME OF COMMENTS REGARDING HOW BEAUTIFUL THE POEM ABOUT “VIENNA” IS — I DID NOT WRITE THAT.  IT’S FROM A POEM BY FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA THAT WAS TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY LEONARD COHEN.  I EXPLAIN THIS AT THE END OF THE PIECE, BUT HERE IT IS AT THE BEGINNING NOW, TOO, JUST IN CASE.  WHY DID I SCRIBBLE IT IN MY JOURNAL?  BECAUSE I LOVED IT.  STILL DO.)

“I could still make it to class

But it’s such a fucking

beautiful day.”

————————————-

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

————————————-

“The song they’re playing right now

Is absolutely beautiful.

I can’t even understand

What the singer’s saying

but his voice is still great

And I love that I can hear

someone playing the triangle –

Or are they chimes?

Maybe it’s some indie band

that someone put on a CD

titled “Tuesday Afternoon Mix.”

If that’s the case, I would love to shake that person’s hand.”

———————————————–

“I don’t think too many people

look attractive in shorts.

I myself haven’t worn shorts

in public in at least five years.

I don’t have long, skinny, supermodel legs

and I don’t pretend I do

So I save people the terror

and always wear jeans.”

————————————–

“Now in Vienna

there’s 10 pretty women

There’s a shoulder

Where death comes to cry

There’s a lobby with 1200 windows

There’s a tree where the doves

go to die.”

—————————————

“I love you like

sitting outside at sidewalk cafes

watching people stroll by

while I sip at a mug

of coffee and scribble in my

notcebook.

I’m wearing sunglasses that

reflect back an image of

you smiling and then closing your

eyes to breathe

Just for a second.”

—————————————–

1.) I wonder what I was doing in that moment that was too good to give up for the sake of going to class.  I suspect I was sitting at The Kresge Cafe, because I know that’s where I was when I wrote the ditty about the “Tuesday Afternoon Mix.”  Was I somewhere else when I wrote the first blurb?  Was I outside, or was I just content?  Finally…did I end up going to class?

2.) “I don’t know what I’m doing.”  Whoa there.  What was I talking about?  Whoa there.  Don’t even get me started on that one.

3.) How funny that I just posted the final draft of this one.  It’s interesting for me to look at this draft.  I guess I didn’t change too much of it, but I still think the changes I made were the right ones.  Go Steff.

4.) Ha.  Oh, wow.  I still haven’t worn shorts in public.  I wonder why I felt the need to write this down.  I probably saw someone wearing shorts and felt inclined to write about…shorts.

5.) No, I’m not secretly a brilliant poet who’s been hiding her true capability from the world.  This is a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca that was translated into English and made into a song by Leonard Cohen.  This song was my JAM when I was 20.  My JAM.  I’m still every bit as hopelessly romantic now as I was then.  ::Sigh::  Only question: “12oo windows”?  It’s “900 windows.”  I mean, “TWELVE” doesn’t even SOUND like “NINE.”  If I had written “FIVE HUNDRED” I would have understood, as “NINE” and “FIVE” sound similar…but “TWELVE”?  Pretty dorky, Steff.

6.) I blame my love for Jack Kerouac and Ani Difranco.

Dear God, was I being serious about all of this?  Or was I just having fun?

Why am I evening worrying about it?

Aren’t I doing this for fun?

I’m positive the only reason I listened to the album was because my big brother told me to.  We weren’t little kids anymore, but that didn’t matter; handing me that album incited the same sense of urgency and fear I felt when I was seven-years-old and he handed me a copy of Soundgarden’s Superunknown.  I was given a task, and if I followed through that would mean I was Cool.  I took my copy of Raw Power out of my CD player, and replaced it with the CD my brother had just given me.  What I heard was all at once everything I loved about my classic stuff, as well as unlike anything I’d ever heard before.  It was dark in a Jim Morrison way, but not at all Bohemian.  Could Bob Dylan have written this?  Leonard Cohen?  Patti Smith?  Maybe, yeah, in another world…but that’s not how things panned out, was it?

Somehow, the rest of my family got turned on to that album.  Perhaps it was because my big brother also gave a copy to my little brother — or was it me who did that? — and then it was eventually played for my parents.  Regardless of the real explanation, it eventually got to the point where all five of us were singing, “What a beautiful face I have found in this place…”.

(My family’s love for this song gives my love for this cover a bit of extra umph).

A few weeks later, when my big brother was home for Christmas, he handed me a copy of On Avery Island.  Similar to the Aeroplane phenomenon, the remaining family members fell in love.  I distinctly remember listening to “3 Peaches” as a family on our way back home from a car trip somewhere.  Was it Vegas?  How…appropriate?

As I became a bigger fan, I learned that the band was formed in the 1990′s and that the lead singer’s name was Jeff Mangum.  When I learned about the band’s indefinite hiatus, I really, truly felt sad.  Bowie Buzz be damned, I wanted to hear “Oh Comely” live!

My prayers were answered, in a way, a year later.  I was a freshman in college, and my mom came to Santa Cruz to drive me home for Thanksgiving.  To keep us entertained during the six-hour-long trip, she brought a copy of Live at Jittery Joe’s.  She was especially excited for me to hear, “I Love How You Love Me” because it was “nothing like the original version!”  She also loved how the crying baby in the background punctuated Mangum’s performance.  “Isn’t it just so good and weird?” she said.

As a result of all this, Thanksgiving makes me think of Neutral Milk Hotel.  When Halloween is over and it finally starts to get a little bit cold (here in Southern California, that is) and people start thinking about ordering turkeys and learning how the Hell to make cranberry sauce, all I can think about is trumpets and Anne Frank.  Every morning, afternoon and night, regardless of where I am, I am either listening to, or thinking about In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.

***

On Thursday night, after all of our esteemed guests had left the building, the five of us sat down in the family room to decompress and digest.  I was on the couch between my dad and my big brother.  My Big Brother.  My Big Brother who wanted me to stop listening to my Ren & Stimpy CD and start listening to grunge.  My Big Brother who changed my life when he handed me a brand new copy of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea…

I turned to him and said, “Thanksgiving makes me think of Neutral Milk Hotel.”  “Oh yeah?” he said.  I then told him that he had given me that album on Thanksgiving years before, and what an impression that album had made on me.  He said, “I loved that band so much in college and I was so upset that I would never be able to see them live.  I once had a dream I did.  It was very…emotional.” As someone who knows all about emotional concerts and emotional dreams, I felt very close to My Big Brother in that moment.  “Brother see, we are one in the same…”.

My dad and I mentioned that Jeff Mangum played at Occupy Wall Street.  “No way!” My Big Brother said.  “He did a show?”  He wanted to know when, where, and how we knew.  We explained that we had seen a segment on Democracy Now! where Amy Goodman talked about Occupy, and that during the segment she showed a few seconds of Jeff Mangum singing “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” for a crowd of people.  This really blew My Big Brother’s mind.  He didn’t seem to believe what we were telling him.  “I’m sure it’s on YouTube,” I said.

My Big Brother found a forty minute and fifty-nine-second long video of Jeff Mangum’s Occupy Wall Street set, and, as a family, we listened to all of it.  We sang along to every song: “Holland 1945,” “Song Against Sex,” “Two Headed Boy Part 2,” “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea,” “King of Carrot Flowers Part 1,” and “Oh Comely.”  During “Two Headed Boy Part 2,” when all of us took a break from singing to just listen, my younger brother — who is awesome — couldn’t help but repeat after Jeff Mangum when he sang, “God is a place where some holy spectacle lies.”  “Wow,” my little brother said.  “God is a PLACE.”  At the risk of sounding like a sentimental nut, I have to agree; and maybe, just maybe, it’s a place I’ve been to.  All I know is that I spent the night of Thanksgiving sitting on my couch singing about “how strange it is to be anything at all” with the two people who brought me into this world and the two people who I will always be inextricably linked to.  Does it get much better?  You tell me.

It is now the evening of Sunday, November 27th.  Thanksgiving of 2011 has come and gone.  While I’ve had a great time eating mashed potatoes and pie and stuffing for the last three days (curse you, delicious leftovers!), I’m looking forward to tomorrow, when I plan on ingesting some green vegetables and going to the gym.  The food binge may have reached its end, but the feeling of thankfulness will continue.  For as long as I have my Neutral Milk Hotel CDs, what ISN’T there to be thankful for?

Thanks mom and dad, for the obvious.  Thanks, little brother, for the awesomeness.  Thanks, Big Brother for more than you know…

And thanks, YouTube, for the sweet covers.

]]> http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/neutral-milk-tradition/feed/ 0 dancingbarefoot17 http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2011/11/23/ladies-and-gentlemen-leonard-cohen/ http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/2011/11/23/ladies-and-gentlemen-leonard-cohen/#comments Thu, 24 Nov 2011 00:33:43 +0000 Steff http://dorkydorkydorky.wordpress.com/?p=520 ]]>

I may not keep my promise; however, despite the darkness, the night is young.

I keep telling myself that I’m going to go for a run soon, but then I think about how cold it is outside, and how cold it was when I took a walk one night this time last year.  A year ago today, actually.  The night my grandmother died.  A year ago.  Today.

My grandparents haven’t had the greatest timing when it comes to the whole dying thing.  In 2006 my grandfather had his heart attack right before Christmas, and in 2008 my Papou had his heart attack right before my father’s birthday.  I, like my mother, assumed my grandma would never die, but she did — last year.  Three days before Thanksgiving.

Maybe she wanted to make sure no one came over and bothered her.

I admit, I got a good chuckle out of writing that last sentence.  It was a little twisted, a little shocking, and a little harsh.  Just like Her.

Just like Her.

When I was a kid, that was all I wanted to be — Just like Her.  I’m not really sure why.  Maybe because she said funny things, like “Goddammit.”  Or because she made really good grilled cheese sandwiches and always had soda in her house.  Or because she used to let me play with shaving cream.

Now that I’m older, I can’t help but notice how many ways I already am just like her.  Whenever I say or think the words, “To Hell with ‘em,” I smile and think of grandma.  Whenever I make damn sure to have the last word, I smile and think of grandma.  Whenever I’m faced with situations that range from somewhat scary to utterly terrifying, I take a deep breath and tell myself, “Think of grandma.”

This act is something I like to call harnessing my Inner Polack.  As someone who is 1/4 Polish, all thanks to grandma, I’m allowed to say that.

I think my height is also “thanks to grandma.”  So’s my foul mouth.  So’s my love of donuts.

Good Lord, she was always the first person to tell me when I “looked great” or when I “looked fat.”  She was also the only person in the world who would offer me meatball sandwiches after I told her I just had lunch.  “You can do it just this one day,” she’d insist.

Dear God, it was no use telling her what was what — she invented What Was What.

I’m giggling right now as I remember Classic Grandma Moments.  I remember sitting on a bench with her at a shopping mall in Downey.  I must have been about four-years-old.  A woman wearing a gigantic back pack walked by us — she had a funny walk — and a bottle of lotion fell out of her back pack.  When my grandma told her she had dropped something, the woman didn’t understand.  My grandma eventually communicated to the woman what had happened, and after the woman picked up the bottle and walked away, I asked my grandma why the woman walked so funny.

“Well…” said my grandma, in her Rhode Island accent, “she’s re-tahted.”

I didn’t ask her what it meant.  I just assumed that everyone who walked funny was re-tahted.

A few years ago, after my grandfather had died and my grandma was practically bed-ridden, my younger brother, Michael, and I went to her condo to say “Happy Thanksgiving.”  At that point, visiting grandma was pretty hit or miss — I either came out of her condo smiling or sobbing.  This time, I’m pleased to report, was somewhat upbeat.  The three of us had a good little visit, and somehow the subject of Women vs. Men came up.

Michael said, “You can’t trust women.  They’re devious.”

My grandma paused, took a breath, smiled, nodded her head, and said, “Yup.”

Michael and I laughed, and then grandma looked Michael right in the eye and said, “Ya think ya smaht, but ya not as smaht as a woman.”

Years ago — and I mean many, many years — I thought that the day my grandma died would be the worst day of my life.  I knew it was inevitable, but I couldn’t help it — the very idea of it was enough to make me tear up.

Then my grandfather died and my grandma had a bad fall and everything changed.  My mother worked herself sick trying to do the right thing and grandma just kept getting older.   I was away at college and phone calls from home became depressing.  Every time I was in town, the phrase “let’s go visit grandma” inspired nothing but pain in my heart.   The days of grilled cheese sandwiches and shaving cream were over.

Last year, I was standing at the stove stirring a pot of homemade vegetable soup when the phone rang.  My mom answered it, and she just said, “Yes, I’ll be right over.”  It was my grandma’s caretaker saying there was something wrong.  This had happened hundreds of times before.  My mom got in the car, and I kept stirring my soup.

Fifteen minutes later I sat down at the kitchen counter with a steaming bowl of my homemade vegetable soup.  I heard the garage door open.  My mom came in, and she told me that my grandma had choked.

“Grandma didn’t make it,” she said.

I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.  After four years of going to visit my grandma One Last Time, she was finally gone.  I hadn’t seen her since her 94th birthday two months earlier.  I cried for a minute, and then my mother had to go back to the condo to deal with…ya know.  Everything.  As usual.

I finished my soup, and then a friend of mine came by to get me for our nightly walk.  I told her what had happened.  She put her arms around me, and when I said, “I’m okay,” I really meant it.

I’m “okay” tonight, too.  The kitchen table is covered with pieces of dried bread that will eventually be made into stuffing.  Michael just got home for the Thanksgiving break.  It’s cold outside, and all I want to do is curl up on the couch with my family.  More than ever, I’m thankful that I can do that.  People don’t stick around forever, even though sometimes it sure feels like they will.

There’s no way I’m going for a run, but I think I will do that crazy thing that makes me feel like my stomach is made of tiny butterflies.  Time to harness my Inner Polack and say, “Hell with ‘em.”

Goddammit.