Let There Be Chaos

Not so much.

2009-07-09T07:07:00.000-07:00

I am not cut out to be an entrepreneur.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized that I could make money by waiting in the Shakespeare-in-the-Park line for people who had to work. Since I am, at the moment, living literally a block away from Central Park, this week seemed perfect.

Not so much.

After advertising on Craig's List, I found a woman who wanted the tickets on Monday. So I went. It seemed like the responsible choice would be to go early, like 7ish. Since I had previously waited in the line starting at 8, going at 7 seemed perfect.

Not so much.

The line was long. Crazy long. 450 people in front of me at 7 in the morning (the tickets are given out at 1 PM). Needless to say I didn't get a ticket. And therefore did not get my $100 fee for sitting in the line. A day wasted. To my mind, it was pointless. Way too early to get there in order to be sure of a ticket. I was done.

Not so much.

Undaunted, the woman who wanted my tickets wrote to beg for another try on Thursday. Me, being a total sap, agreed to do it. I knew it would be even busier by Thursday, but I figured that I could get up early, just that one morning. Of course it would be easy to get tickets if I made it to the line by 5 AM!

Not so much.

This morning, after a night of inconveniently-timed insomnia, I leaped out of bed at 4:30 and walked the darkened streets into Central Park. Because you know what's not a good time to be wandering around Central Park by yourself? 5 AM. Fortunately, New York is full of lunatics, all of whom were in the Park that morning. I approached the line, only to see the vague, murmuring shapes of about 200 people moving about in the pre-dawn light. Yes, there were 200 people in line by 5 AM. Time to take comfort in the shared insanity and to hope that our insanity would yield tickets!

Not so much.

I settled down for the long wait. For once, I figured I was in a good position. Totally in the zone that always gets the tickets. Just had to pull the blanket over my head (pre-dawn Central Park seems to be full of mosquitoes -- who knew?) and wait it out.

Not so much.

At 7 AM, the line guy showed up. Instead of doing his usual "this is is the cut-off for definite tickets" spiel, he gave a new speech. For today, of all the days of the summer, was the corporate day. The day in which the entire spirit of free theater for the masses is subsumed by the greed of the corporate sponsor. In other words, there were virtually no tickets for the huddled masses. They were all going to those who paid for the privilege. Free theater?

Not so much.

I thought about leaving. It looked bad for my ticket chances, after all. But I had promised to try to get tickets for this woman! And I am way too true to my word for my own good. I would stick it out and hope for tickets.

Not so much.

Tired of just lying there being tired, I decided to check my e-mail (yay for the technology!). Upon opening said e-mail, I noticed a message. From my ticket buyer. Sent last night. Seems that gmail chose not to update at that time... And the gist of the message? She didn't need the tickets after all. And she hoped that my day would be better for it.

Not so much.

Choices. Do I stay and try to sell the tickets to someone else? Do I give up and accept my loss of sleep? Do I wait for tickets and then keep them for myself, despite having already seen this play twice? The befuddled pondering of but a moment brought about the answer. Was Shakespeare worth anymore of my time?

Not so much.

As I walked out of the now-daylit Park, I saw the forms of the many people hurrying in the direction of the ticket line. More fools who, like me, thought they had a chance.

Not so much.

Some people make the entrepreneur thing work.

Me? Not so much.

Twitter controls the universe. Be afraid.

2009-07-05T09:02:00.000-07:00

My weekend is turning surreal. A few hours ago, I tweeted this:

"Life really needs to get on the ball and give me what I want. Because right now, not so much."

Since I had no particular 4th of July plans, I went to the ticket lottery for Hair. The lottery tickets are given out 2 hours before the show and are only $25 for incredible seats. So, they tend to be popular. And I never, ever win lotteries.

Except yesterday I did. And the show was great, just as good as it had been in Central Park last summer. Plus, we made it on to the stage for the audience-participation dance number this time! Cheesy maybe, but totally awesome (when else am I going to be on a Broadway stage?).

When my activities were done, I came back to my current housesitting/couch-surfing situation. I'm in an incredible studio apartment for the next week and a half. Right in the "best" part of the Upper West Side. Literally across the street from the Natural History Museum. One block from Central Park... The comfortable affluence of this neighborhood is amazing to me. Sucks that I only get to stay for a short time, but still.

And then today. I decided this morning to strike out entrepreneurially and advertised that I would wait for Shakespeare tickets in Central Park for money. Already have a possible taker for tomorrow...

But it's the e-mails from friends that are the surreal part.

First I get an e-mail from a friend asking if I would house-sit for her in the second week of August. Which could very well be the single best week for me to need housing all summer. Then, about an hour later, another friend wrote to ask if she could possibly pay me to live in her house and organize life stuff.Not sure if I can actually do any of this, but at the rate my luck is suddenly going, I should be offered a dream job by Monday afternoon!

All of this followed my twitter about how life had to get around to helping me out for a change. Does Twitter control the universe?

A Cautionary Tale

2009-06-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

Tonight:
1 glass of wine = I love wine!
2 glasses of wine = I want to fall in love!
3 glasses of wine = I love everyone!
4 glasses of wine = I love my bed!
5 glasses of wine = Where's my bed?
6 glasses of wine = I love my bed and the person in it... Wait who is that? Is this my bed?
7 glasses of wine = I don't care, it's my bed now.
8 glasses of wine = I love my bed, but why does it need to spin?

Tomorrow:
1 glass of wine = I love wine!
2 glasses of wine = I want to drink wine again soon!
3 glasses of wine = I love a good night out!
4 glasses of wine = I love my bed -- I think I'll stay in it for awhile longer.
5 glasses of wine = Where's my aspirin?
6 glasses of wine = This is not my bed! And who the hell are you???
7 glasses of wine = I don't care, I'm staying in this bed. Forever.
8 glasses of wine = I hate my bed. And why is it still spinning?

Doldrums

2009-06-08T20:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is uninspiring.

Unfortunately for the blog.

Not the best way to start the day

2009-06-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

As I moved into my friend's apartment yesterday, I noticed a sign by the elevator. According to this little sign, the water in the building would be turned off today between the hours of 9 AM and 1 PM. The pipes needed fixing or something. Annoying, yes, but understandable. I made plans to get up by 8:30 in order to squeeze in a shower while I could.

They shut the water off at 8:35.

I was in the shower. Covered with soap. Shampoo in my hair. Had to rinse with 2 partially-filled 1/2 liter bottle of water and some melted ice cubes.

Now my skin itches.

This does not seem like the best start to my new residence.

We should all stay put. Forever.

2009-06-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

The move was about as good as can be expected. Which is not to say that it didn't suck. It did. It just didn't suck as much as it could have.

My day began at 7 AM, when my phone rang. My phone is not supposed to ring at 7 AM. Ever. 7 AM is sleeping time. Not phone call time. Anyway, the evil 7 AM wake-up call was from the moving company. The way-too-chipper voice on the line informed me that they'd had a cancellation and would now be arriving at some point between 8:30 and 9. Instead of between 10 and 2.

Needless to say, I bounded (actually, staggered) out of bed. After blocking my roommate's attempts to get in the shower before me (she was only starting a new job today -- so not important!), I frantically ran around the apartment packing up the last few things. I didn't actually manage to tape the boxes shut before the movers arrived. But I had a lot of other boxes to keep them occupied, so it was OK.

Then they moved stuff. And I kind of sat around awkwardly and watched. It's amazing how fast an apartment can be emptied when three men are doing the work.

After about 45 minutes, the head mover guy told me they were done and that I should meet them at the storage place. As I had thought that my moving price included a ride to the storage facility, the apparent need to get a cab was a little annoying, but whatever.

I got a cab. I arrived at the address. I spent about 5 minutes looking for the storage facility all over the place before I realized it was the big building with no signs. And I mean NO signs. Not even at the desk inside. I only realized it was the right place when I saw a box with the company logo on the desk.

The storage rental went as swimmingly as such things go. And the movers actually arrived, thereby denying my paranoid fantasies about everything I own disappearing, never to be seen again. And it all fit in the storage unit! Granted, if I ever try to take anything out of the storage unit, it'll be kind of like the end of a Jenga game.

I then walked back to my soon-to-be-former apartment. It was two miles, but I figured a) it was a nice day, b) I had some time, and c) there are NO cabs in East Harlem anyway.
Back at the apartment, I had to move my summer stuff over to my friend's place and then sweep out the mounds (literally, mounds) of dust that had accumulated under my furniture. Before I could do this, however, the new tenant's mother showed up. Because who can move in to a new home without mommy's help? Or something.

The upside of this arrival was that I didn't have to clean, as mommy dearest came prepared to wage war on all vermin that might harm her precious young one. So I spent my time hauling far too much stuff to the next building and my temporary home. I need all this crap why exactly???
Then it was done. And only after 7 hours! But at least I am moved.

For now.

Ode to a Casualty of the Move

2009-05-31T22:35:00.000-07:00

Wow, the end of an era.

Today, after 6 years, I finally took down my "Free Ballard" bumper sticker. Also today, Archie McPhee's, that wonderfully insane store wherein I purchased the bumper sticker, moved its location from Ballard to Wallingford.

I've had it hanging on my bedroom door ever since I moved to New York City in the fall of 2003. For all that time, it's been there, reminding me of Archie McPhee's all the way back in Ballard. For all that time, I've had the pleasure of trying to explain the sticker's meaning to the foolish New Yorkers who just don't understand. For all that time, it's brought a smile to my face, knowing that I was helping to fight the silly fight.

Unfortunately, I now must leave this apartment, so the "Free Ballard" sticker came down. But I can at least take solace in the fact that I gave up the fight for a liberated Ballard on the same day that Archie McPhee fled for new environs.

Sorry Ballard!

You know you're too sensitive when...

2009-05-30T20:30:00.001-07:00

Coming home this evening, I found myself once again on the crowded and odorous 1 train. Although I hate to diminish the wonders of that fast-moving tube, I have to admit I was playing my iPod in an attempt to drown out the surrounding reality.

The man who sat down next to me was doing a better job at the reality denial.

He walked over, deep in conversation. Apparently with himself. Or possibly with someone else of the invisible persuasion. Then he sat down next to me, kind of close. But, hey, it's the subway! Where it's socially acceptable to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the sanity-questionable.

After a couple of minutes, he may have said something to me. Not sure, of course, because a) I was listening to my iPod and trying to ignore everything around me, and b) he had been conversing steadily with the air for several minutes at this point.

It seemed, however, that my non-reaction did not sit well with him. He paused and seemed to look a little sad or maybe angry. Then he abruptly got up and moved to the other side of the train, smiling and agreeing with himself that this move was for the best.

After a minute, all seemed to be right again in his not-right world.

I, on the other hand, kind of felt hurt that he'd rejected me.

Things suck.

2009-05-29T14:17:00.001-07:00

You know what sucks? Moving.
You know what else sucks? Unemployment.
You know what else sucks? The cable company.
You know what else sucks? Humidity.
You know what else sucks? Not hearing back from an interview.
You know what else sucks? Having to mooch off my increasingly broke parents.

This is one of those times that is supposed to build character. Character is over-rated.

Shopping is cool though. When I was forced to travel to the upper tip of Manhattan (literally -- I walked into the Bronx to get the train home) in order to get a form to transfer our cable service to my roommate, I actually SAW the New York Target store! It looked very pretty.

I'll have to go back there someday when I have this mysterious and out-of-reach thing known as a "home."

Until then, back to the packing. Storage unit, here I come!

There's only so much writing you can do in a day...

2009-04-27T19:52:00.001-07:00

Tonight, I answered e-mails. About a month's worth. Or maybe 6 weeks. It's hard to tell. So I think I'm written out. So sad... The creative forces wasted, just wasted!, on the rote replies to dozens of messages.

Not that I actually replied to most. Mostly I just hit delete.

Yes, I am a bad person.

An Ode to My Love

2009-04-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I knew you had to be mine.

We've been apart for so long, but you were never far from my thoughts. Yes, I have tried to replace you, seeking out poor substitutions for your goodness, your sweetness. They were a comfort, I admit it. Those others briefly satisfied my craving, but it was never more than a bittersweet moment in time. They lacked your substance, and my satisfaction could never remain long. Some were too sweet, making me crave your subtlety all the more. Others simply lacked some ingredient, that one key component that makes you my everything. A few did nothing more than leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Through it all, you were the one I sought. But you were not to be found out in the world! No, that world is only full of cheap, commercial imitations. They try to be what you are, but they fail. How could they succeed? You cannot be bought, as they are! You are not for the masses, all of whom yearn for you but few of whom truly know you!

All this time, you were waiting for me. You knew I would come for you. That, someday, the pieces would all fall together, that I would stand at the ready. The ingredients were all there, I just had to gather them. In the end, it was not you that stayed away -- it was me! I did not think myself ready for you. You always seemed too much for me, it's true. I worried that, should I finally get you to myself, I would simply devour you whole, a devouring that would ultimately destroy me. I thought that you were not good for me. I believed the lies of others -- I did! -- which claimed that you were unhealthy and that I should seek another.

But tonight, all that changed. I took a chance. And we came together in beautiful, undying passion. When you touched my lips, I forgot the lies, the hesitation. It was our time.

This time together may be fleeting. And perhaps that is for the best. For I know that you must, in the end, leave me. But know that I will be thinking about you, dreaming of the next time when we two shall meet! Let us enjoy our time together, savoring each taste as though it were the last. And when our union is but a fading memory, even then your sweetness shall remain.

For now, we will enjoy our love. It is indeed time for another brownie.

Who knew?

2009-04-25T07:58:00.000-07:00

So I was just pouring myself a bowl of All Bran for breakfast (yes, I eat All Bran. It tastes good. Shut up!) and noticed that there was a $1-off coupon on the back of the box. The good people at All Bran advised me to look for the advertised fiber bars in the "Fiber Supplement Aisle!"

There's a Fiber Supplement Aisle?

Why won't they just give me money?

2009-04-15T13:55:00.000-07:00

Applying for jobs is hard. And boring.

Work should not be hard and boring. It can be hard, that's fine. That's challenging, exciting even! Work can also be boring. That is, unfortunately, the nature of work.

But hard and boring? That's just not right. Especially when the work in question is only trying to get work. There seems to be something wrong with this system.

The whole thing is especially irritating right now. Because it's not like there are actual jobs out there. Oh, there are job announcements! A few of them, anyway. I am not, however, convinced that any of these announcements are attached to actual jobs. Instead, my theory is that they are decoys, meant to lure the unsuspecting job-seeker into a state of false hope. Then, when the job-seeker is disheartened by his/her evident failure to measure up to any employment standards, the writers of the job announcements attack!

Yes! They attack! Suddenly, the job seeker sees new job announcements. These newly-announced jobs are similar to the old ones... But wait! The salary offers have dropped. And what's this about longer hours? More boring work? "Oh well," the disheartened job-seeker thinks to his/her lonely self. "What do I have to lose?"

And the cycle begins again. Ending only with highly-educated and highly-motivated persons prostrating themselves before the counter at an Auntie Anne's Pretzels, begging for a job, any job.

But they will no longer be hiring. And somewhere, in the distance, the malevolent gods of the unemployment world are heard to laugh.

End of an era

2009-04-13T20:02:00.001-07:00

So they're going to let me escape the academic prison. With a degree, no less!

The fools...

Blog guilt

2009-03-28T20:22:00.000-07:00

I should blog tonight.

But I don't want to.

So there.

When hipsters congregate...

2009-03-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

The venue, a converted church. On the stage, a pair of overly-earnest music students taking down the classics with piano and violin. The crowd, hipsters of all sorts (both), waiting inattentively for the arrival of the main act and the subsequent banishment of these cultured types. They shift. They whisper. They escape to the lobby for the requisite drinks. A few especially rude souls commence with the blogging via their hipster phones.

The classical girls finish! Massive applause for the end! But wait, it's only the beginning. One unidentifiable song bleeds into another as the IT workers and waitresses-but-really-I-act begin to resemble more and more the pre-schoolers they are at heart. As the "adult" standing to the side shakes his head in disgust, the hipsters save seats for their friends and slurp over-priced cocktails through straws.

More applause. It sounds sincere, if you don't notice the faces. Not a smile to be seen, except on the faces of the people whispering to their friends.

How long until the hipster singer-songwriter takes the stage? How much more of this actual culture must we put up with before the arrival of the culture we accept? Why do we need this? How many of us will feel validated tomorrow, telling our friends about the formerly-religious venue? The quirky and oh-so-cool mixing of classical and rock IN ONE EVENT?

And how many will just be hungover?

Cats

2009-03-26T22:13:00.001-07:00

They're out to get us, you know.

My rubber ducky disapproves.

2009-03-20T20:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's weird to think that the whole world isn't in my head. I don't mean that in a sociopathic, "only I exist" kind of way. It just surprises me sometimes when I surprise anyone. I mean, it should be obvious? It was all obvious to me!

But if I could remember that you're all not in my head, I'd probably be less surprised by the people who don't make sense. There are so many of them!

It's sad to think that I'll probably never understand them. Most of them, I won't ever even know.

Think about it! A whole world of people that I will never know. Plus all the people who used to live in the world. I'll never know them either.

We're all missing so much of each other.

But maybe someday there will be a party! Even if it's just in my head.

Is it time to stop crying now?

2009-03-15T20:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is hard. Really, really, really hard. I don't like that. Not one bit.

People say that it's the hard times that create character, that make you what you are. Whatever. I would be willing to be a characterless blob, if it meant that I didn't have to deal with the crap that life likes to throw at you.

And the really horrible part? Things aren't that bad right now.

I've got my health. The people in my life are more or less OK. I'm about to finish my seemingly neverending education. I've been successful. Some people think I'm smart.

But man it's tough.

For one thing, my life is changing. No more school. Back out into that "real world" place people keep talking about. And, suddenly, there's just not very much in that real world. There used to be jobs. Money! Now, there only seem to be a lot of people looking for those things.

Am I going to be one of them? How do I do that exactly?

I have to face the ramifications of 6 years in grad school now. Will anyone ever see me as a prospective hire? Will the PhD label make me an undesirable? I've heard that happens. Even if I do get hired by someone, somewhere, will I be able to pay off that debt? Because it's awfully monstrous at the moment.

These are problems. Tough problems. Problems that are not helped by that dissertation that still hangs over my head.

Still, it's not the problems that are the only problem. The really tough part about these hard times is that my supports have been disappearing on me.

Don't get me wrong. I still have family. I still have friends. The missing supports are not those old standbys. Instead, they're my silly internet supports. My favorite band. The message board that's been my virtual home for almost 3 years now.

The band went and broke up a few weeks back. I suppose technically they didn't "break up" in the classic sense. But the lead singer left, and now the band is different. They might be good, but they're not what I've been relying on for entertainment.

This is hardly the end of the world. It's just that I suddenly don't have concerts to look forward to. It's that I always have an underlying feeling of dread when I look them up on the web now. It's that I sometimes stay away from fan message boards, not wanting to read about what's happened.

And then there are those message boards. One in particular. Technically, a fan board too. But really, it's more like a place for friends. A place where I could always be sure of a laugh. A place where I could find people who liked me, people who admired me, and people who I liked and admired in turn.

This morning, however, it was gone. Suddenly. No warning. Just gone. Probably for good. Everything that we had there is gone. All those friends, all those laughs, gone. Not for any good reason, either. Just gone.

I can be angry. I have people to blame. I can be proactive about this -- helping to set up a new board, contacting those responsible, moving on with my life. I can do all of these things.

But mostly, I just want to stop crying.

Thoughts on Exhaustion

2009-03-11T22:44:00.000-07:00

I should go to bed now.

An Open Letter to Those Who Should Hire Me

2009-03-11T08:19:00.000-07:00

When applying for a job, conventional wisdom has it that one must write a kick-ass cover letter, should one actually want to get hired. This is especially important for people, like myself, whose resumes do not immediately indicate how they might be qualified or why they'd even want the job.

So I need to write a cover letter. What follows is the cover letter I want to write. I doubt it's the cover letter I will write, since one must follow convention, even when one is, by applying to that job in the first place, punching convention in the face. Thus, this particular cover letter will remain here, in its virtual home, in the vain hope that someone with a job might stumble across it and take pity on the poor fool who wrote it.

It could happen, right? Sure... Anyway, the letter.

March 11, 2009
Dear Really Important Hiring Person at the Coolest TV Show on the Planet,

HIRE ME!!!

Please, please, please, please, please, please, please! Pretty please! With cream and sugar on top! Please, I beg of you! Don't let my lofty dreams crumble into dust!

What do I bring to the table of your show? Creativity! Dedication! Loads of skills! Punctuality! Enthusiasm! (Unless that irritates you, in which case I can totally tone it down. Just delete all those exclamations and we're good.)

Thing is, you should hire me. Yes, I have a skill-set not immediately applicable to the television industry. Yes, that skill-set indicates that, even if it were applicable to the television industry, I'd be way over-qualified.

But it's not. And I'm not.

I could totally do the television thing. All of that serious historical research into medieval Arabic texts and the star knowledge of Tunisian fisherman? Transferable! Just substitute "your show's production needs" for "medieval Arabic texts." And "applicable background research" for "star knowledge." And "awesome producer-types" for "Tunisian fishermen." Oh, and drop the "historical" altogether, OK? It could work!

As for the over-qualified thing, I'm not. I'm so not. Seriously not. I mean, I've been a grad student for the past 6 years. Before that, I was in the Peace Corps. We're talking glorified slave-labor here. How would that over-qualify me for anything? And, if we're going to be honest, I'd do pretty much anything to work on your show. Get coffee. Run photocopies. Shine your shoes (actually this last one isn't such a good idea -- I'm guessing that the tragic, yet hilarious, mishap that would befall your shoes within mere seconds of me being handed the polish would result in my termination). What I'm saying here is that you really don't have a job that's beneath me.

So hire me, OK? Like now. Or soon. Because I need a job. And you need me. Honestly.

In Desperation,
Laurel Brown

Why I Will Be Unemployed Until the End of Time

2009-03-08T14:49:00.000-07:00

I set up my very first informational interview about trying to get a job writing for TV today.

I had planned to wear my black slacks, because otherwise I pretty much have jeans. So of course the pants were wrinkled. Which I figured out AFTER I put them on and was about to walk out the door. I hastily ripped them off and attempted to iron the stupid things. On the floor. Which I haven't swept in roughly 18 million months. Thus, after I ironed the pants, I had to lint-roll them. Lint-rolling reintroduced wrinkles. But I was so late at this point that I put on the pants and my shoes to go.

So, my shoes. I noticed yesterday that my normal shoes were starting to look a little scuffed. Fortunately, I had another pair of shoes that looked to be in better shape. At least they looked in better shape in the flourescent lighting of my bedroom. Out in the light of day, I was dismayed to find them equally scuffed. If not more so. Plus, these particular shoes highlighted the fact that my nice black pants had apparently shrunk a bit in the wash. Where once they had reached the tops of my shoes, they now stopped just above the ankles.

But, like I said, I was late. So I went with it.

I couldn't even go directly to the coffee shop wherein this interview was to take place. Oh no, that would be too easy! Actually, it wouldn't be easy at all, since I had no money. The bank, where the money is, was five minutes out of the way. Since I was already five minutes late, this added a fun new dimension to my day! Fortunately, for the first time in the history of the universe, my beloved WaMu cash machine ACTUALLY HAD CASH ON A SUNDAY. Seriously, this has never happened before. I was fully expecting to have to go to another bank and suck up the many dollars of extra charges they would impose on poor little me. But something worked out! Yay!

Eventually, I arrived at the coffee shop in question. And it was only a block away from the address I gave my interviewee! (Never, ever trust Mapquest when giving directions to important people) At least I had gotten the name of the coffee shop right...

Since I was a little late at this point, I figured my interviewee might be inside. He wasn't. But approximately 4/5 of the population of the Upper West Side were in there instead. Took me three minutes to even get in the door to ascertain that not only were there no tables, there would probably not be any tables available before about 3 PM the next day.

I went back outside, where I realized that I might not actually recognize my interviewee. I then spent a fun 15 minutes staring intently at every male between the ages of 18 and 50 who had the misfortune of walking past. My interviewee was none of these men. He was instead, at that time, stuck on a dead train. It's the weekend, after all, so who needs public transportation to actually transport?

Thanks to the wonders of mobile phone technology, I did soon learn about the dead train and its deletorious effects on my meeting schedule. Yay for being a grad student who rarely has to be anywhere else -- I could wait some more!

While I waited, a colleague from my department spotted me from the sea of occupied tables and offered me a seat. Upon my news that I was waiting for someone, he shared some news of his own: he'd found a job. Kind of the ideal professor job -- teaching in his field, in a tenure-track position, at freakin' McGill University. Despite my desperate not-wanting to be a professor, I had to restrain myself from throttling the lucky bastard. I went with congratulations instead.

My interviewee, despite the best efforts of the New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority, did eventually show up. He did not seem particularly impressed with my choice of a coffee shop. Probably because he preferred establishments with enough room to actually sit. Some people are just so picky...

We decided to leave the shop that we could not enter. The interviewee indicated at this point that he hadn't actually taken nourishment (probably due to his unexpected confinement under the streets of New York) that day and would greatly appreciate a restaurant that had food.
You'd think that wouldn't be a problem. This is Manhattan, after all! There's a restaurant approximately every five feet! Except that apparently the restaurants in this neighborhood don't serve food between 3 and 5 PM on Sundays. Just for the hell of it, I guess, since the restaurant we tried was at least 3/4 full, despite having no food.

They suggested the coffee shop/swanky bar two doors down. I'd been there before, but only for pretentious and overpriced late-night drinks. But I knew they had coffee and brunch during the day. Brunch food worked for my interviewee, who expressed an interest in French toast. We even found seats after about five minutes of being ignored by the Worst Waiter Ever.

Granted, our seats were under the DJ. Seriously. UNDER the DJ. Because what self-respecting coffee shop doesn't have a DJ? The DJ in question was of course having a shouted conversation with another guy, who was standing next to us.

No matter. On to the interview! In which I was pretty much informed that I was totally not on the right path to become a successful writer in television. And that, if I were extremely lucky, I might just get a job as a production assistant, where I could fetch coffee and suck up in the desperate hope that a higher-up might take pity on me and consider my existence to be worthwhile.

Whatever.

Our food came! Well, my interviewee's food came. As did my chai. Now, I mentioned before that my interviewee wanted French toast. He found French toast on the menu. He ordered French toast. He got... ummmm... Something that resembled a chopped up and reformed muffin, with a pat of butter placed in its center. Drowned in a white sauce with black specks. Plus two artful dabs of a red gelatinous globs on the side.

This food-substance was placed on our table without a word from the Worst Waiter Ever. When we asked him what the food was, he condescended to inform us that it was the French toast. My interviewee requested some syrup. Actual quote from the Worst Waiter Ever: "We don't have syrup here."

Since he was feeling akin to a famine victim at this point, my interviewee proceeded to eat the food-substance, even having a go at the gelatinous red globs, once we had agreed that they were probably jam. The interview proceeded apace, with me learning that my interviewee had actually met this one person who one time actually managed to work their way up to being a writer after years and years of work at their production. (As far as I could tell, the other writers had sprung fully-formed from the head of Zeus.)

After about 45 minutes, we decided that we'd had enough of loudly-conversing DJs, gelatinous red globs, and my inane interview questions. Only about a dozen attempts were required to wave down the Worst Waiter Ever, who eventually brought the check, stopping only to give change to a homeless woman on his way to our table.

For your future dining reference, the food-substance with gelatinous red blobs costs $11.50. Plus the pre-added tip for the Worst Waiter Ever.

My interviewee and I said good-bye on amicable terms, despite his being ruined for all French toast in the future. He even said I could e-mail any further questions (presumably this was to stop me from ever suggesting more meetings in coffee shops).

He left to attempt a successful return trip on the subway. I left to walk home and ponder whether or not this afternoon foreshadowed a certain level of catastrophic failure in my career plans.

Then it started to rain.

Blogs on a Train

2008-06-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

Generally, I enjoy Friday the 13th. Not so much today.

I was in Williamsburg for the week and came back to New York by train today. According to the schedule, our train left Williamsburg at 9:30 AM and would arrive in New York City at 5:10 PM, at trip of about 7 1/2 hours.

The train was one hour late arriving in Williamsburg, supposedly because of an engine problem that had been resolved. When we (finally) got on the train, we were informed that the train engine was still broken and that we'd have to get a new one in Richmond (about 1-2 hours down the tracks).

We stopped just short of the suburban Richmond station a couple of hours later. A conductor announced that the engineer and another guy had just left (!!!) the train to see about getting us a new engine up ahead. About 30 minutes later, it was announced that there was no new engine and that we would have to wait for a train coming up from further south. Then we would take their engine.

We pulled into Richmond. And sat. And sat. And sat. About every 20 minutes, there would be an announcement saying that the expected train would be arriving any minute now.

The train in question showed up after about 1.5 hours. We slowly got the engine connected to our train and moved on. About this time, I went to the snack car to get something to eat, as lunch time had come and gone. I was informed that all the food that remained on the train was one garden burger. Fortunately, there was also a package of cheese and crackers, so I did not have to resort to the vegetarian food. (Ick.)

Eventually we got moving. And made it to Washington, DC -- the big stop of the train. When we got there, the conductor announced that anyone traveling beyond New Haven, CT (the train was supposed to go to Boston) would have to get out in DC and go look for another train. The announcement concluded with the hope that Amtrak could find them something, maybe.
We also found out that our new engine was no longer useable, as trains north of DC run on electric, not diesel, as the engine we then had did. So we had to wait for yet ANOTHER engine to show up and get connected to our train. This procedure of course meant that the air conditioning in the train was turned off. Who needs air conditioning in a steel tube in 85 degree heat anyway?

The (now about 4 hour) delay of our train meant that the passengers who had been waiting in DC had long since been re-ticketed onto a different train. In order to fill up our remaining seats, Amtrak had the brilliant idea of sticking the passengers from two other trains onto ours. This made for a somewhat crowded train, although I heard it was even worse in business class, where they had oversold the seats.

The train left Washington DC at a little after 5 PM. 3.5 hours from New York at the time of the train's supposed arrival.

By the time we got to Baltimore, I was thirsty and stressed. Time for cheap wine from the cafe car! Unfortunately, however, the train had been replenished with food in DC. This meant that every person who had been denied food earlier, plus every person who had gotten on at the previous two busy stops, was in line. I waited for that glass of wine for over 40 minutes. Or, put another way, from Baltimore to Wilmington, DE.

Back at my seat, the train inched its way across the several states that separated us from New York. Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey passed by in unrapid procession. Eventually, a few hours after sunset and a full FIVE HOURS after our scheduled arrival time, we pulled into New York City.

Needless to say, I splurged on a cab for the ride home.

2008-05-10T22:48:00.000-07:00

Hi anyone who clicked on the WIR link!

There's really nothing in this post. I just wanted to say hi if you clicked, you know, give you some reward for your effort. Not that this is much of a reward. But it wasn't much of an effort either. So it's fair.

That's all for now. But not forever. Because it's summer now! When I will, theoretically, have time for such things as blogs. Won't that be nice! :)

Questions...

2008-02-24T08:07:00.000-08:00

Why is it so easy not to work?

How come my roommates can never hear anyone knocking on the door, even though their rooms are closer to the front door, and they never play music like I do to drown out outside noise?

Should I move to Queens?

Would someone like to write my dissertation for me?

Why am I so freaked out about dreaming about a baby last night? Is that one of those biological alarm clock things?

Is the gym going to be busy later?

Why do I like chocolate so much?

Why does chocolate have to be bad for you?

When is my income going to actually match my lifestyle and interests?

Can anyone recommend a good book?

Why am I so amused by peeps when I don't like to eat them at all?

Who is going to win an Oscar tonight?

What are my chances of ever winning an Oscar?

Do I even want to?

What should I be when I grow up?

Is there a meaning to life?

Do I want to know what it is?

If I knew what it was, would I accept that meaning or would I do what I usually do and try to fight against that obvious meaning for years before suddenly realizing that it was inevitable?

Are prunes and dried plums the same thing?

Why do sugared nuts smell much better than they taste?

How much money do I have? Do I want to know, or is it too depressing?

How much time is wasted annually by blogging?

Will I ever find a guy worthy of falling in love with?

Will he ever find me?

How do people avoid clutter?

Why are rubber chickens funny?

How do you sing?

Why is it that I can remember miniscule details about completely worthless things, like commercials from my childhood and what I got for my 10th birthday, but can't remember people's names when I meet them?

If there were no internet, would I have two PhDs and a Pulitzer by now?

Why don't I love New York?

Is there a monster outside my window in the dark?

How do you get off mailing lists for political causes that you have neither the time nor the money nor the interest to support?

How do you donate to those organizations you do support without getting on the aforementioned mailing lists?

Can anyone answer my questions?

Did you find this one?

2008-02-18T21:06:00.000-08:00

Wow.

Long blog posted earlier.

I didn't realize it was so long. Which is really kind of stupid, since it was something like 12 pages as a single-spaced Word document. I, however, tend to be kind of stupid that way. Oh well.

Anyway... I should blog now, shouldn't I? That's kind of the point. Right? I'm kind of new to this.

Topic, topic, topic... Herein lies the problem of starting a blog without a definite topic in mind. You get to the blog, and there is nothing to write about. I guess I will therefore take the easy cop-out and write about something in my life today.

Unfortunately, I have just realized that I didn't do anything interesting today. Humph. That sucks. So I guess I'll just make up a story instead.

Once upon a time, there was a Twinkie. It was a lovely Little Twinkie -- yellow as the Sun at midday, as symmetrical as you like, texture like the best in packing foam. Yes, the Little Twinkie had it all.

But this Little Twinkie wanted more. It saw the other snack cakes in the factory, and it began to feel the growing specter of jealousy arising in its creamy bosom. "Why can't I have a curly line of icing across my top?" the Little Twinkie asked. "What flavor is yellow?"

These questions consumed the Little Twinkie. Its turmoil disturbed the other Twinkies, who wisely knew that only hungry schoolchildren should consume Twinkies. After awhile, the Twinkies came to a sad decision. The Little Twinkie had to go. So the older Twinkies bade farewell to their young friend, packing it off with a handy cellophane wrapper for protection. The Little Twinkie got into the truck with a feeling of exhilaration -- it was going to find answers!

Time passed. The Little Twinkie didn't know how much time, sitting alone in the back of a dark truck. But the Little Twinkie knew that answers would soon be coming. When light once again entered into the Little Twinkie's world, its hope flared up. The Little Twinkie soon found itself in a well-lit building, surrounded by a bewildering variety of snack cakes and candies.

Often, people passed by. Some of them even stopped to visit with the Little Twinkie, but none of them stayed long enough for the Little Twinkie to get its questions answered.

Then, one day, a small boy came to the Little Twinkie. After considering the Little Twinkie for a short time, the boy carried the Little Twinkie away. "At last!" thought the Little Twinkie. "This boy can answer my questions!"

The boy and the Little Twinkie went together for lunch on the very next day. When the boy pulled the Little Twinkie out of his bag, the Little Twinkie said, "Boy! Do you know why I don't have a squiggly white line across my top? And what flavor is yellow?"

The boy looked at the Little Twinkie. "I dunno," he said.

And then he ate the Little Twinkie.

The End

6 Days of the Cruise...

2008-02-12T21:49:00.000-08:00

For the possibly one person out there who is reading this but didn't go on the cruise in question:

I went on a cruise a couple of weeks ago. It was a music cruise, featuring my favorite band in the whole universe, Barenaked Ladies. This is the second time I had been on such a cruise. In between the two cruises, I spent many an hour on a message board devoted to the cruise. As a result, I "met" a whole bunch of people who would be cruising along with me. They feature prominently in what is to follow.

Six Days of the Cruise...

Not a week, alas, but six days ought to be enough fun and excitement for anybody. Right?

Well, we’ll see about that.

The fun and excitement that was Ships and Dip III began before the cruise. A whole day before. In a place we like to call the Courtyard by Marriott – Airport.

Saturday

I arrived, together with Nikki and Jackie, to the parking lot of the many Marriotts at the airport. It wasn’t too hard to find – only 3 or 4 u-turns and a few false stops in the parking lot on the way.

We went to check in. Actually, technically, I went to check in. Nikki and Jackie went to stand unobtrusively to the side and then sneak into my room so that they would not be homeless for the night. The friendly man at the desk told me that some of my party had already checked in (“two girls” was the information he would give). And then he gave me cookies!

The “two girls” were Michele and Amanda, having managed to arrive before me, despite having to trek down to Florida from the frigid wastelands of Quebec. We greeted each other. Much merriment ensued.

Time passed. Other hotel roommates arrived. Alcohol (2 liters of peach schnapps? really?) was purchased. Laundry was done.

And then? Then it was time for that most awesome of events, the Ships and Dip Pre-Party.

With Janie, one of the thousands of people sharing my two booked hotel rooms, at my side, I clambered through the ruins of what was once a nice hotel and what was now an post-apocalyptic, Arctic-temperature hallway. The journey, though perilous, was worth it as we began to partake of the merriment. In the form of a $7 cheeseburger. At least it was a good cheeseburger. We then waited for the hordes of easily-recognizable people who would soon be descending upon us for socialization and continued merriment.

They didn’t come.

After some time (and all of the cheeseburger), we did run across Willow, who was easily recognizable to me as she lives 13 blocks away from me in New York. But it was good to know that she made it to Florida without me. And it was good to meet her cruise roommates-to-be, including one Kristen, who illustrated her board identity of Yay4BNL by doing the chicken dance. Shortly thereafter, a friendly person walked up, said “Hi, I’m leprrkan!” and then disappeared into the faceless masses.

And that was all. For awhile. Then, fate and my cell phone intervened, as the final inhabitant of the hotel rooms, Brandy, had arrived and wanted, for some strange reason, to enter a hotel room. Despite some confusion as to the location of various Marriott front desks, we found each other. Bags were left. A return to the Pre-Party was accomplished.

Upon our return, the much longed-for recognition began to fly thick and fast across the mostly-abandoned pool. It began with a Jody-sighting. For a brief instant, she was at the bar. Then, FLASH, no Jody. We pondered the lightning speed of the NiceyDoodle, but were soon distracted by one Reaven and her Manny. Reaven might actually be called Casey, but I will choose not to dignify her with a real name. Since she didn’t manage to know who I was. At all. I mean, she had no idea that there could possibly be a poster named really_mzungu. Who had posted regularly. All year. Occasionally in response to her posts. With an easily-identifiable avatar photo…

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

My repeated insistence that I truly had posted on the message board was soon interrupted by the arrival of a person who did not look even remotely like a blue computer screen, accompanied by a person who did not look even remotely like a bottle of ketchup. They were, however, those known as Amicus and ketchup (or occasionally Sallie and Bob). Yes, I was one of the rare, privileged ones who met our exalted moderator. And then, I promptly forgot what she looked like.

I’m pretty sure I met someone else right then too. Whoever you are, I’m sorry, but my brain has chosen to censor you for some reason. If you do not deserve such censorship, please speak up and be reinserted into this narrative now.

Possibly my memory blanks can be attributed to the excitement of what happened next. No, I do not refer to the naked pool guy (although that did happen next and was quite amusing). I refer instead to spying, across the party, several people who looked strangely familiar, although far more three-dimensional than I expected. The ensuing moments were a blur. I remember some “really_mzungu” calls, some shrieks, and numerous hugs. And then I was in the midst of message board couples – those who I have privately been calling the YokoOnos (aka personal venus and Musical Genius, aka Bari and Mark) and the Doodles (aka NiceyDoodle and WildEagle, aka Jody and Andrew).

Yay!

There was conversation. There were photos. There was a rapid outing of the appliances, started by Andrew, which resulted in me being punched (ow!) by Bari.

Oh, and in case you missed it, I was Dishrack. Please don’t punch me.

Exhaustion and anticipation soon began to claim the partiers. Also, the hotel staff seemed to want us to leave for some reason.

So we left.

And I began to cough, only a little. Probably just allergies or something…

Sunday

The day had arrived. A day of joy. A day of promise. A day that had been eagerly waited by thousands for months and months. It was here.

Ships and Dip III would begin.

But first!

There was this marathon. Nothing against marathons, but what the peep?

We had had the bright idea to have Chris (Son_of_Ed) use his rental car to get the baggage and some of us passengers to the port early. That way, we wouldn’t have to pay for a shuttle, the luggage would get aboard early, and we could miss the lines sure to form slightly later in the day. Great ideas all, but only one would ever be realized. And it’s all because of the Stupid Elation Miami Marathon.

Having been to the port several times already, thanks to the Rock Boat, I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to get there again. I mean, of course they’d have a detour route to the port for departing passengers to use. And of course it would be well-signed so that those driving the departing passengers wouldn’t suffer the misfortune of driving forever until their heads exploded.

Of course not.

The first sign that there might be a problem should have been when we saw people with cruise-like luggage. Walking down the street toward the port. But we dismissed them like the idiots we were and continued to drive. Until we couldn’t. Until the police sent us the other way. Around and around and around in circles, spiraling our way through downtown Miami and yet never arriving at anything that might be considered a destination. We tried going the way one policeman suggested. No luck. We got back on the highway. Only good for going to the Florida Keys. We tried heading the completely wrong direction in the desperate hope that we would enter into a wormhole and be magically transported to the port that way. Nothing.

And then, somehow (I’m thinking magic or all the luck of the Irish), we were at the port.

Yay!

The correct terminal was located. The car was stopped. The bags were unloaded. Brandy and I were unloaded. The Stupid Elation hat was left on the floor. The porter was tipped. And Chris sped away into the bright tropical morning.

And then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Meanwhile, all of the rest of the passengers, and I do mean all of them, arrived to board. Tacky tourists walked past, mingling with guitar-toting musicians (professionals and passengers). A friendly Carnival line-minder looked sympathetically at us as we yearned to join the ever-lengthening line at security. But it was not to be. For we did not possess the fabled FunPass that would gain us access to the ship. One of our other three roommates had that. And we also did not possess the intelligence to realize that we totally could have gotten on the ship without it and could have been sipping rum punches on the Lido Deck instead of standing around in the glaring sun getting more and more impatient as the day wore on.

But we were fools, and so we waited. After two hours, the wait was over. Well, not over, exactly. The wait for the roommates was over. And then the wait to board the ship began. The security line went quickly. We were then herded up the escalators, where apparently everyone else on the ship got to see and chat with a member of Barenaked Ladies. We didn’t. A much-bearded Steve did rush past at some point, but that was all the BNL we were going to get. Fortunately, our BNL-lessness didn’t have to wait too long as we were soon checked in and speeding toward our cabin and the promise of drinks with little umbrellas.

Food! Buffet lines filled with Harvey Danger band members! Fruity cocktails! Suddenly realizing that I did in fact have a cold! Muster drills! Thus, the first few hours on the ship passed.

After the muster drill, our confidence in surviving disaster at sea strong, we rushed for the Lido Deck, having thrown our lifejackets in the general direction of Chris and Michele. But what was this? A half-filled (or half-empty, if you’re a pessimist) Lido Deck? Concerned only for the balance of the boat, we immediately headed for the empty half of the deck. We made it to the sound booth before a very earnest ship person informed us that big, heavy pieces of equipment were being hurled over the closed-off side and that we should probably not get hit by said equipment. This was a good argument, so we only slowly edged into the parts of the danger zone that promised a good view of the stage. After much more equipment than they had told us about, the all-clear was given, and BNL fans surged like waves upon the beach across the previously-vacant deck. Good spots were gained. And all was good.

And then the concert. Oh, the concert! Sunshine, sailing away, rather loud ship’s whistles, and Barenaked Ladies! Plus, they played “Life, In a Nutshell,” which is probably unimportant to just about everyone who isn’t me. But those people don’t matter. Thus it was, in fact, the best BNL concert I’d seen all day. Up until that point anyway.

The concert ran over. This might have been a tragedy if I had even remotely cared, but more BNL is always good BNL. It did mean, however, that the message board party had to be rushed to afterwards. And rush I did, despite the fact that my BNL-based cold medicine had abruptly worn off with the end of the show, and I suddenly actually felt sick. No matter – the message board was, as is so often the case, my priority.

What a priority it was! People who were once just words in the flesh! Many of whom I had already met (see above, pre-party). Plus a few that I hadn’t. Excellent people, all of them, especially Charmed One, who has the distinction of buying me my first drink (sorry MG). The message board party was held in what was quite possibly the oddest of the many odd rooms on the Victory. The Ionian Bar, a designated place for smokers (so of course they’d stick the message board there?), with the coolest behind-the-bar murals pretty much ever.

The party continued with many pictures, many newly met people (including some, like drumgroovy, who didn’t really speak to me ), and much conversation. About halfway through I did realize that, in my haste to arrive, I had totally forgotten my 135-page booklet containing all thirty-whatever Weeks in Review. So I left to get it. Because I must show off. Whenever possible. Of course, a noisy bar full of excited people walking around is perhaps not the absolute best venue for the touting of a book, but whatever. It’s not like I was going to walk around with the thing all week.

Alas, after some time, the party began to wind down. And with that winding down came my own winding down. It’s interesting how one tends to feel significantly worse as the cold medicine (the real stuff, not the BNL pick-me-up) wears off. Despite a few more drink offers (sorry MG), it was time to collapse in the cabin.

About the cabin. If someone ever tells you that a 5-person cabin is a valid, sensible way to save money on a cruise, they’re lying. A 5-person cabin is steerage. Like on the Titanic. No room for luggage. No room for the beds. No room to walk across the floor without stepping on a roommate. I hated that cabin.

Fortunately, I did not have to stay there long, since there was many an activity still to come that evening. Due to the much-aforementioned feeling like sh*t, I skipped several of the concerts that evening. But nothing, and I do mean nothing, was going to keep me away from the BNL Double Dippers show.

Good choice. When else am I likely to hear my favorite band perform at least reasonable approximations of some of their most obscure songs (Really Don’t Know? wow…)? And with no preparation whatsoever. If I had been them, that bucket would have been thrown out in terror within minutes. And yet, they persevered, playing song after cruel song. No One Week or anything! Yes, they may have cheated a wee bit, but why not use a lyrics book, if one of your fans is so considerate as to bring it along.

This BNL show, like all that have come before and all that are to come, eventually had to end. Two concerts in one day… If there was such a thing as too much BNL, that might be it. Thank goodness that this is not possible!

Following the concert, many other people went to later shows or to party. Me? I went to bed, feeling certain that a good night’s sleep was all I really needed to get better and rock out the rest of the cruise.

Monday

The day didn’t exactly begin early – it was a cruise, after all! Why get up at the crack of dawn? At least not until a shore excursion day… And Monday was a day at sea. Nothing to bother my rest. Except of course for the evilest of room stewards, Eben. Stupid Elation Eben. Among my many, many complaints about this man may be his insistence that we should have already been up at 9 AM every day. Sigh…

Not much happened in the morning. I attempted to figure out where things were on the ship. That didn’t work too well. But I was certain that I would have the whole deck plan memorized within a few short days. How hard could it be? Hard, apparently. I did, however, find the Lido Deck in time to take off all of my clothes and play a kazoo in the morning sun. After a little dressing, it was off to the dining room for my first formal meal of the cruise – lunch. Pity that there’s no chocolate melting cake that early in the day… Not that I would have gotten to eat it, since I had to run before the dessert ever made an appearance. According to Brandy, I didn’t miss anything in the dessert I had to forgo anyway.

Why did I have to leave? What possible activity could there have been on this night-oriented ship at 1 PM? The Kids CD Listening Party, of course. Not that I’m a kid. And not that I have a kid. And not that I have any close relationship with a kid who might benefit from such an event. Fortunately, I had arranged to borrow a kid, just for this event. The lovely Snow Leopard and mommyand3 (Doug and Tammy in reality) had a spare, and so I was graced with the loan of their firstborn, Devon. Who got me in the door and then promptly dumped me for his much cooler friends.

Whatever. I was in and was soon treated to what might just be the greatest children’s song album in the history of the universe. The only sad part is that I have to wait another 4-5 months before I get to hear “7,8,9” again… And then I suppose I might have to justify to some cultureless people why exactly I need to buy an album aimed at children. Philistines…

The rest of the day was pretty much devoted to wandering. Up, down, in strange and unexpected circles… Thus, the Victory. After a few hours, I was still completely lost. I did also manage to get my door decorations up, which was helpful in finding my own cabin at least.

Brandy and I had been planning on seeing Carbon Leaf that evening, but that was not to be. Instead, we, dressed in our greeny finest, found some message board types with whom to dine. Such a table! Myself, Brandy, WildEagle, NiceyDoodle, Ellen from Saint Louis and her Codger, Musical Genius, and personal venus. Spoons dangled from noses, many lobsters were consumed, MG finally succeeded in purchasing a drink for me, Finchy appeared (looking exactly as I had pictured him, by the way), Kermit strolled by, the waiters danced… Who needs a concert when one can have all this?

And it all ended with Warm Chocolate Melting Cake…

When there was no more chocolatey goodness to be had for that night, it was time to experience the much-anticipated Great Big Sea. Oh my… We opted for balcony seats, due to my weakened condition, which were probably a good choice. However exciting the floor may have been, I am fairly certain that I would have collapsed with all that dancing and vertical movement. As it was, I’m fairly certain that I’ve never bounced so much in a seat before…

I had originally thought to stay for Guster, but it was pointed out to me that I was not likely to ever hear the songs of Paul McCartney in loving tribute again, should I miss a certain concert that night. So across the ship we went, up and down several decks in the process, to the Adriatic Lounge where Steven Page and Sean Nelson were ready to amaze us. There were no seats, of course, but the floor was quite lovely and almost disturbingly close to the stage. The show was indeed one-of-a-kind, but most of what I took away from the whole thing was that I really don’t know the music of Paul McCartney so well. I think I only recognized one song all night…

There were other shows that night. There was more partying that night. But for me, there was only sleep that night. And cough syrup. Early the next morning, I would have to be a pirate, and a girl needs her beauty sleep for something like that!

Tuesday

Tuesday dawned far too early. Before dawn, in fact. Why exactly did Carnival hate me so? Why did they think that I wanted to catch a 7:15 tender to Grand Cayman in order to pretend to be a pirate for the day? Why?

The insanely early start time did lend itself well to a spectacular Caymanian sunrise. And to a mad dash through the many floors of the Caribbean Lounge, desperately looking for something that resembled the assembly point for the tenders. Said assembly point was eventually found, moments before we were herded away to the tender point. The tender wasn’t as bad as I’d been fearing after all the tender horror stories we’d been hearing about. It was just a smallish, smelly boat with uncomfortable seats. But we were quickly ashore, eagerly anticipating our adventure.

But when we got to shore? Not a pirate to be seen. It’s not like I was expecting Johnny Depp or something (Orlando Bloom would have been more than adequate), but there was no one resembling a pirate anywhere. Other than the Carnival photo guy, of course. Who just didn’t do it for me somehow.

In the absence of piratey folk, we waited. Brandy and I were soon joined by several dozen touristy people, a few of whom were even from the Legend! Still a cool ship, although nowhere near as cool as it once was… We were also joined by Mari and Doug, my official excursion buddies for the cruise.

After many minutes of agonizing wait, a completely non-pirate-like person led us to another of those tender boats. Which fortunately took us to a real live pirate ship! Really! Full of real pirates! Honest. It’s what I insist on telling myself anyway, so no arguments on this.

They weren’t Johnny Depp, but our pirates at least approached that great man’s caliber. And they made all the kids onboard swab the deck. With toothbrushes.

After a few thoroughly satisfactory canon shots at the Victory, the pirates made us walk the plank. Granted, they made us walk the plank while wearing life jackets, which diluted the experience somewhat, but still. Ah, the Caribbean waters… So warm, so pretty, so teeming with fishies and other scary things that Brandy, Mari, and I did a very good job ignoring the existence of.

Back on the pirate ship, it was finally time for my rum punch. I’d been up for hours, and it was so very much time for booze. There’s nothing like a little rum to start your day off right! And there’s nothing like being recognized from your avatar (by the equally early-boozing Sarah (See the Sound)) to start your ego off right!

The pirates very (uncharacteristically for pirates) thoughtfully dropped us off back in Georgetown, where we all decided that 10:30 was plenty late enough for lunch. At that cultural mecca known as the Hard Rock Café – hey, it’s not like any of the other restaurants were any better!

We walked around a bit after that, gawking at the cars going the wrong way and the business-suited men expertly dodging the tourists. Odd place, Grand Cayman. But nice, I suppose. The whole place just made me want to sit on a beach with a cool drink.

Maybe I would have too, but the dreaded Death Cold decided that was a bad idea. So we tendered our way back to the Victory. Not much going on on that boat when everybody’s off on an island, but it sure was nice not to have to wait in any sort of line for the tender!

Then it was time for Great Big Sea. After a few hours anyway. But I can’t remember what actually happened during those few hours, so we’ll pretend that they didn’t exist. OK? Good. So, it was time for Great Big Sea and for free drinks, courtesy of the Captain’s Party. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm… We were on the Lido Deck plenty early enough to have been right up front for this concert, but the Death Cold would have none of it. So we just dragged a couple of chairs to the edge of the pool behind the stage. It is quite possible that these were not the ultimate fan seats for the show, as we weren’t all that close to the stage and only got to see the back sides of Great Big Sea throughout the performance. But it did OK for the GBS-newbies that Brandy and I were. Plus, it afforded easy access to the waiters with free drinks. We even got a glimpse of the bespeedoed Ed, as he joined in the merriment (I almost missed this, since I had not yet noticed that there were bathrooms close to the stage and had wandered to the other end of the deck for the facilities as a result. But I got back in time, so it’s OK.).

Like all good things, Great Big Sea came to an end. So I donned my sweater and headed back into the icy bowels of the ship (side note: why was the air conditioning turned up so high? I know most of us came from cold places to go on the cruise, but weren’t we trying to escape the cold? Not reenact it… Stupid Elation air conditioning.).

To do something. Which I am sure was very entertaining.

But which will not be recounted here. Instead, time for dinner again! This time with Shell and Patty! And more Warm Chocolate Melting Cake!

Fortunately, scheduling for this evening allowed for both Chocolate Melting Cake and Carbon Leaf to be enjoyed. And enjoyed they were, even if my camera did decide that no good Carbon Leaf photos would ever be taken by me. You’d think I would have gotten one or two, wouldn’t you? Oh well. The music was good. As were the cat ears on a certain lead singer…

And then it was time for the main event of the day, the BNL show! This was my “extra” show, technically, received for referring a new passenger. Which meant that I got the worst seats in the house. Fortunately, this was the Caribbean Lounge, in which the worst seats are about ten times better than the best seats in most houses. Brandy and I were allotted seats in the middle of Row Q. It only went to Row S, so that should give you an idea of where we were. Fortunately, Row Q was pretty much empty. As was a fair amount of Rows P, O, and N. Which meant that we ended up with a huge amount of space and a clear line of sight over the soundboard. With the arrival of the always-welcome Kate and Eric into Row S right behind us, we had the makings of a true BNL party (helped, of course, by my bottle of rum-enhanced ginger beer…). So we danced. And danced. And contemplated things that could be thrown at the drunken people at the end of our row who felt the need to loudly converse throughout the entire performance (WTP???).

Then, it all ends, after one measly little encore. The crowd applauds thunderously, but, alas, the lights come back on. It was over. But, wait! The crowd continues their thunderous approval as the minutes tick on and the yellow-shirted security folk begin to look anxious. And then? Then, the lights go out. Barenaked Ladies reappear. “When I Fall” is played. And I realize that I could die happy, should that be the Death Cold’s next move…

Well, I didn’t die (not yet anyway, but with this cold, I’m not counting on anything…). But I did go to bed. Much entertainment was missed, but the tepid allure of my despised cabin (now containing several sick roommates, thanks to the contagion) was too strong. True partying would have to wait until the next day…

Wednesday

Jamaica! That lush, beautiful island that actually is what I dream the Caribbean should be! Seriously, if I had to pick an island to visit twice in eight days, it would always be Jamaica.

Although not the Ochos Rios secondary cruise ship pier. That place is scary. Rusty old buildings, strange topiaries, a long walk to nowhere. Not that I noticed, since it was again ridiculously early in the morning (what is it with Carnival and the early excursions?) and I was on my way to the fulfillment of a childhood dream.

I was going to swim with dolphins.

Did you ever read a book by Madeleine L’Engle called A Ring of Endless Light? If so, then you might just understand why I got completely obsessed with dolphins when I was about 12. The obsession did fade with time, but there was always a lingering adoration for these creatures. So when Jamaica brought about the chance to swim with a dolphin for a mere $160 or so, I jumped at the chance. It’s not like I was being financially sensible while going on a cruise anyway…

Along with my regular excursion compatriots, Mari and Doug, I arrived at the dolphin cove. I was extremely pleased to see that the dolphin area, while cut off from the open ocean, was at least real sea water. I had been a little nervous that it would be a Sea World-type tank, which would totally detract from the experience. Mari and I were quickly sorted into the “Skye” group (Doug was there solely to photograph the experience) and sent to the dock. After only a few short anticipatory minutes, life jackets were donned and into the water we went.

Turns out that “Skye” was actually “Mitch,” the horny boy dolphin. First we got to pet Mitch as he swam by. Then there were some splashing antics. Next, a kiss from Mitch. Very cool, although a little unnerving when you realize exactly how big and powerful dolphins actually are. Also, I’m not sure if it was the training or if Mitch really was horny, but that dolphin definitely gave more love to the ladies. Not that I’m complaining. I figured that the kiss was the cap to the experience (people had warned me that dolphin swims were notoriously short and lacking in much contact), but that was not the case. We got to pet Mitch a few more times. And then we got to ride him. I rode a dolphin!!! Yay! My inner adolescent is still jumping up and down and shrieking about this! Mitch swam on his back with the rider holding on to the side fins. Totally fun.

Alas, the fun had to end eventually. We were all to soon ushered out of the water and over to the gift shop, where the photos were readily available. Tourist trap or not, I instantly bought $50 of photos and have yet to regret it. I also got to show off my beloved camera to one of the Jamaican photographers. Always fun.

The dolphin cove definitely began to lose a little of its excitement once we were out of the water, so we headed up to the buses. Which were only going to Dunn’s River Falls, the obligatory tourist stop for all who come to this part of Jamaica. You were supposed to strip down to bathing suits and water shoes and then climb the falls. But we were lazy, newly dried off people who were having none of it. We therefore just wandered about on the riverside paths, marveling at giant, freaky spiders and strings of wet tourists. Among those wet tourists were Jody, Andrew, and Michele, who made me perfectly happy to not be climbing up the falls right about then.

An hour or so later, we’d had our fill. Cleverly detouring around the craft market and having already taken our tacky pictures with the donkey, we quickly made it to the buses. The next stop was town, where they expected us to tourist shop ‘til we dropped. Having none of it, we went to lunch. It was a nice place to look at – a covered porch looking out on the main drag of Ochos Rios (home of the legless beggar man), cold beer, and jerk chicken. And only jerk chicken. Seriously, this place had a two-page menu, listing a wide variety of meats and seafood cooked in many ways. But all they actually had was jerk chicken.

This made me very happy.

After lunch, Mari and Doug decided to take advantage of our shopper-friendly location, while I decided to head over to tourist central for some ice cream. Good ice cream. Much better than the “real Bob Marley experience” I was offered on the way over. The ice cream didn’t last so long, as is typical of ice cream, even when one is interrupted by Melissa and Ed and by the tropical downpours that make Jamaica so lovely. Soon, it was time to head back to the ship. Not wanting to deal with a cab, I walked back. So what was up with the boys whose heads popped up over the bank? I’m not sure I want to know. Especially since it was otherwise a truly nice day.

Back on the Victory, it was time for more wandering and waiting for the music to restart. Not a very exciting afternoon – I was actually bored for the first time! Unfortunately, my boredom was not to be alleviated by Oakhurst, who were quickly rained out (although I heard rumors that their show continued elsewhere, I didn’t catch it).

But that was OK, because Wednesday evening was to be jam-packed. First, there was dinner and Warm Chocolate Melting Cake. Then there was Rock Band. Now, I’m not much of a video game person. In fact, the only video game system I’ve ever owned was a Colecovision that my parents bought for us in 1986, shortly before the system was discontinued. We had Donkey Kong – a game I never got good at. So I had never played Rock Band before. I hadn’t expected to particularly want to play Rock Band before. I was wrong. Rock Band is amazing! I want Rock Band! Now I just need to figure out which system has it and how I can possibly justify it’s purchase. Not that I was all that amazing at the game – I played the drums on Easy and can only brag that I did make it through on my first try.

But it was so much fun!!!

Waiting around for Rock Band made Brandy and I a little bit late for Harvey Danger. I don’t think we missed all that much though, so it’s OK. I had seen them before, so I thought that I wouldn’t be too surprised. Silly me. An almost a capella, no microphone rendition of Pike St./Park Slope (my absolute favorite Harvey Danger song) may have been one of the greatest surprises of a cruise that was full of such surprises. Sean Nelson may look like the most bullied kid on the playground, but his voice can take us all down.

Unlike 90% of the people in the Caribbean Lounge, we got up to leave at the end of Harvey Danger, forgoing the joys of Guster to get a chance to see the Vanity Projects up on the Lido Deck. Hardest decision of the cruise, that was. Fortunately, the weather chose to help us out, bringing enough wind to shut down the outdoor stage for the evening. The Vanity Projects were to be moved elsewhere, where they would start late. Guster, here we came!

Before Guster, however, our path took us to the Atrium overlook, where we heard the sweet sounds of the Brothers Creeggan echoing up to us. Dancing was obligatory, and so we did (Brandy, who can actually dance, may have beat me at this…). A song or two later, and it was time to head down to their level. In the glass elevators. Glass elevators are good for dancing. So we danced. All the way down from the Lido Deck to the Lobby. And then back up. And then back down. Silly maybe, but when are you going to be silly if not on a cruise?

The Brothers Creeggan show ended shortly after our arrival, and I soon had my only real BNL conversation of the week with Jim (who we trapped at the only exit from the Atrium stage). It’s strange how my favorite member of Barenaked Ladies tends to be the one I talked to most recently… Strange, but cool.

After this, there was nowhere to go but Guster. So we went. Guster was, as always, a whole lot of fun. I had been a little concerned about seeing Guster without the Thundergod, since I tend to spend all of every Guster show marveling at Brian’s resemblance to Animal from the Muppets. Tyler, however, pulled it off. He may have lacked Brian’s insane drumming style, but he made up for it in the wisecracks and the enthusiasm. I actually think that Tyler may have been making up for always having to play third fiddle to Ed and Steve during BNL shows or something. That must be hard…

We left Guster a little early, wanting to arrive at the Vanity Projects in time for a good seat. Little did we know that our information was somewhat faulty. The Vanity Projects had finished a good ¾ of their set before we even got there! Oh well. At least I got to hear “Baby Loves the Radio” before bed.

Bed. Unlike every other night on the cruise, I was actually feeling energetic enough that night to consider not heading straight to bed as soon as possible. Granted, I was a little tired by the end of the Vanity Projects, but I wasn’t about to give in. Up I went to the Lido Deck, where a little late night pizza awaited my arrival. As did Nikki, Jackie, Leigh, and her husband. There was a little munching and a little appliance talk. And then it was, in fact, time for bed.

Thursday

The last day. Sigh. Had to come eventually, but that doesn’t really lessen the sadness of it. Fortunately, I am a master of ignoring the unpleasant and having fun anyway. So the day still got to be good!

I got to sleep in a bit on Thursday. Not much, but a lot more than I would have on say, a shore day. No more 7 AM departures for me! There was far too much of that for a vacation. Anyway, my morning began at the almost-reasonable hour of 10:30, when I went to go see what the Tour Photographer dude, David Bergman, had to say about how to take kickass concert photos. He had a lot to say, as it turned out. With slides. Shocking for a photographer, I know. But they were cool pictures. Almost made up for the fact that I didn’t really understand anything much at all about the technical aspects of the photos. One of these days, I will take the time to figure out how my camera works, but Thursday was not this day. I actually had to leave the photo seminar a little early, since the Death Cold decided to visit an uncontrollable attack of the coughing upon me. Bleah. Although the picture has not appeared anywhere public, there may even be a photo of me during this coughing, thanks to the paparazzi-stylings of one FastEddie.

At this point, a sensible person would have realized it was lunchtime and acted accordingly. I am not a sensible person. So I just went straight to the Songwriters’ Panel. I went there so straight, in fact, that I didn’t even notice that there was no one checking for tickets at the door. This technically didn’t matter, since I had a ticket, but still. As was typical for this cruise, I immediately ran into Kate and Eric upon my entry into the Caribbean Lounge. They, braving the contagion of the Death Cold, invited me to join them. Which I did.

Briefly. I realized shortly after this that I was in fact a little hungry. And more than a little thirsty, since it was after noon and I hadn’t had my first adult beverage of the day! Moving quickly to remedy this horrid situation, I headed for the gelato bar, which had been taunting me with its creamy goodness for days at this point. Some might say that gelato does not make for a healthy lunch, but those some are losers who want to spoil my cruise. They are to be ignored. I also purchased a Coke, with the full intention of heading back to the Panel, where a small bottle of rum in Kate’s bag had been offered earlier.

My plans, however, were to be thwarted by the Evil Door Person. It seems that in my absence, Sixthman had realized that they should probably do the ticket-checking thing. As I had my ticket, as I mentioned before, I figured that this was not a problem and proceeded to walk in the door. But then. The Evil Door Person struck. She informed me that she didn’t think I could bring food or drink into the Caribbean Lounge. When I mentioned that they served drinks regularly in the Caribbean Lounge, she amended the prohibition to food alone. When I added that people had been eating in there all week (including the guy I had seen eating a sandwich earlier that day), she reiterated that she thought it wasn’t allowed. Then she decided to check on her position and radioed someone else to ask about food. That person didn’t know. So she radioed another person. Who also didn’t know. Eventually, they had to call the head of Sixthman, who also didn’t know. After several radio calls, while I stood there, melting gelato in hand, the Evil Door Person finally found someone else who was pretty sure that I couldn’t bring food into the Lounge. I was summarily sent away to gulp down my expensive dessert in the few remaining minutes before the start of the panel. Kind of ruined the whole gelato experience for me.

It is fortunate that I eat ice cream quickly at times, because the Songwriters’ Panel started a little early. I did make it back before then, and assuaged my annoyance by the liberal application of Jamaican rum to Coke (thanks Kate!). I was then ready to enjoy eight or so singer-songwriters show off their great music. And it was great! My guilt at not catching a Jason Plumb or Sarah Harmer set (stupid Elation Death Cold) was somewhat mitigated by getting to hear them both during this. Also, “Kittens in a Bag” by Boothby Graffoe may just be the funniest and wrongest thing I have ever heard in my life.

The Songwriter’s Panel was supposed to be over by 3, giving me ample time to run up to the Lido Deck for Harvey Danger. Then, they just decided to go long. Sometimes, the cruise just totally rocks! An extra 45 minutes of songwriting goodness for us all!

Eventually, it did have to end, so to the Lido Deck I went. Where I was immensely pleased to find out that Harvey Danger would be starting late, almost as if they planned it all out for me. To make things even better, there wasn’t much of a crowd yet, so I got to stand right up against the stage. I never get to stand that close! I was joined by Nikki and Jackie soon after, thus even giving me friends to hang out with through the concert.

It was a good concert – nice sun, fun people, wonderful songs. Even if Jackie was under the serious misapprehension that it was all about her. No Jackie. Once again, it’s all about me! You just need to understand this!

The day passes by so quickly! When Harvey Danger was over, it was just about dinner time. As it was the last day of the cruise, my roommates and I were planning to have the final dinner together. And to drink the bottle of champagne we’d been eyeing in the room all week. A good roommate would have headed directly to the cabin to be in plenty of time for dinner. But I’m not a good roommate. I’m a roommate whose lunch had been a small amount of gelato and a rum and Coke. I’m a roommate who wanted sushi. Mmmmm… Sushi…

After the sushi, I did force myself to go back to the cabin, aka the claustrophobic box full of sick people (granted, the sick people were pretty much my fault). I didn’t have to stay long though, since it was time for our assigned seating at the Atlantic Dining Room. Dinner went well – champagne and Warm Chocolate Melting Cake! Also, the waiters kindly performed If I Had $1,000,000 for our pleasure (granted, in the other dining room, this was accompanied by Steve and Ed dancing on a table…). These things a good dinner make.

Responsible people would have packed after dinner. I am not responsible people.

Instead, I went up to the Lido Deck for a little Great Big Sea. Wonderful, as always. But there were other shows to see that night! Brandy and I opted for Gaelic Storm, a band that I hadn’t managed to see all week. Which totally sucks, since they are great in concert. They didn’t disappoint that night either, even though we only managed to stay for a few songs. We would have stayed longer, but you’ve got to have priorities in this life. And my priority that night was the BNL show.

Yes, I may have seen them 3 other times during the week. But there can never be too much BNL. And I was supposed to have good seats/standing room for this one!

They were pretty good seats. I, however, had aspirations for better (than the second row – yes, I am never satisfied) and edged out of the row and toward the stage. Not a bad location in the end, although I did end up behind a whole mess of tall people. And not just tall people – tall people known to the band, which means I got absolutely no eye contact that night. Sigh… So spoiled… I shouldn’t complain though, since the tall people in question, especially Kristen and Rena, were incredibly considerate with making sure I could see between them or over shoulders. Most tall people aren’t so good about this!

Oh, and the show was good. Of course. But this one was especially good, with all sorts of craziness. They let Devon, my pseudo-kid from the CD listening party!, up on stage to play drums for The Old Apartment (he rocked! I was so pseudo-proud! ). After a casual mention of the phrase “trust me,” they went and played “Trust Me.” Steve finished the show in a queen-sized green dress with a feather boa. It’s true that you never know what’s going to happen… on the cruise-ah!

All too soon, yet another amazing show was over. The end of the cruise seemed imminent. Sigh… We went back to the cabin, where a little packing was in order. How sad. Michele and Chris just plain gave up and headed to the Lido Deck for libations. Brandy and Amanda passed out. A sensible person would have followed suit. But again, I am not so sensible.

As soon as a reasonable amount of packing had been accomplished, I therefore headed to the Lido Deck, where I was determined to make it to the end of the Acid Wish last-night-of-the-cruise jam session. The jam session was very much in full swing by the time I arrived, with roughly every single artist on the cruise sharing the stage and just about every rock song of the past 40 years. I was especially impressed by Bartles, with his interesting choice of attire (how did he change so fast anyway?). I wandered around the Lido Deck, running into all sorts of people (including the ever-so-cool Devon and his dad Doug). I then spotted a few friends at the bar. The type of friends who buy me drinks – the best friends. A certain T.B.A. was especially friendly in this way (mmmmm… buttery nipple shots…). There was a great deal of drinking and dancing with many people at this point.

And the music continued. After awhile, we noticed that there were some lights on the horizon. Closer inspection revealed, to our horror, that it was the Miami skyline rapidly approaching in the early, early morning sky. Not a good sign for those of us desperate for the cruise not to end. The insanity of the jam session was continuing, but soon that had to end too, when the crew informed them that they had to stop.

I did hang around for a little while after this, hoping for a last signature on a postcard, but then it was indeed time for bed. Although why I bothered at 5 AM, I have no clue. I should’ve just headed for the Casino Bar with the other people crazy enough to still be up at this point. It probably wouldn’t have made too much difference in how I felt in the “morning.”

But I was not thinking of that right then. So I went to bed.

And, all too soon, it was Friday.

Nothing good, nothing at all, happened on Friday.

It is therefore here that the story of Ships and Dip III ends.

In Which I Explain Myself

2008-02-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

This is my blog.

I will write things in it.

I'm not sure what kind of things yet. They will probably be quite random. This is because I am a random sort of person.

For example, the title of this blog is Let There Be Chaos. Had I been thinking a minute ago when I set up this blog, the title would have been Let There Be Chaos!. But now it's too late. The excitement is gone. Chaos is now boring.

It's not like I'm a big fan of chaos in real life. Actually, I just like the word. I remember seeing it written for the first time, in third or fourth grade. I was convinced that it was pronounced "chows." To this day, I tend to read it, in my head that way. If you are reading this and do not know what I am talking about and perhaps think that my pronunciation is in fact correct, then I apologize. This blog is not for you.

I should stop writing now. I have explained myself, at least a little bit. There is more explanation to come, but not now. Now, I am tired. Now, I will go to bed. Now, I will try to find some readers for this, my blog. Good night.