Slotservations

Being a slot attendant is a pretty demanding job both physically and mentally speaking. Walking for 8 hours a night is bound to take a toll on the ol' bones, and the constant exposure to cigarette smoke leaves the longs with a constant burn. I look forward with fond anticipation of a time when I will no longer have such working conditions and I'm confidant my body will make a full recovery.

What concerns me are the mental effects that I fear will remain forever. For example, I was at the airport waiting to take a leisurely jaunt to Texas to scope out the Longhorn State when I decided the time could not be more perfect for a sandwich of some sort. I settled down with a sandwich and my laptop hoping for some inspiration when I saw someone waving their arms a few tables away. That's when I experienced the following knee-jerk reaction: dread. Surely that person waving their arms was after me! The wanted me to bring them a cocktail server, or maybe they needed change. Or worse, maybe...maybe their player's club card wasn't working - AGAIN - thus giving them license to yell at me for twenty minutes over something I have no control of whatsoever. A full minute passed by (okay, maybe more like 2 seconds) before I realized the fellow waving his arms was not trying to catch my attention but that of his traveling companions. Furthermore, I wasn't at work and if anyone did wave their arms at me I had every right to pretend I didn't see them. What a relief! And yet...what a disturbing realization that I've been so shell shocked by the simple motion of arms waving. *Sigh*

In a continuing attempt to not let the "man get me down," here is a delightful song by Kermit the Frog and Flight of the Concords's Bret McKenzie.
Anyone who is sad after listening to this is already lost...as lost as a casino patron waving their arms at me because they can't find the bathroom.

Celibacy in the City: The Disappointed

One of the greatest bands of the 80s (and overall, in my opinion) XTC summed up my love life in their song The Disappointed. One of the most disheartening aspects of a failed relationship is the disappointment...complete and utter disappointment. Disappointment in myself for failing to keep him interested, disappointed in him for being so typical, disappointment that once again things have not worked out to the full of their potential.

Once again, I have been disappointed. Such is life and I worry that mine is a life that will be a cylindrical whirl of one let down after another. Optimism is getting more and more difficult to maintain or even feign. I feel myself slipping into cynicism, one jaded moment at a time.

Take it away, XTC.

Slotservations

Pacing an entire night on a casino floor clad in brown polyester can bring really bring you down - if you let it. To pass the time and stave off cigarette-scented waves of depression, I'm starting a new blog segment called Slotservations. (Mike the Tech slaps his forehead in disgust at this poor mishmash of a pun)

Slotservations are tasty nuggets that I've been gathering like so many nuts for winter to make me feel better about myself and my situation.

Here's a few to get the ball rolling.

Far too many women wear white pants these days. I'm not talking crisp, white, respectable pants either. The offending pants I refer to are of a more spandex-like nature, and are often worn by heavier women with some form of halter top.

I find little old Asian women who wear thick, white socks with sandals completely adorable and endearing. I find strapping young black men who wear thick, white socks with sandals incredibly irritating. I don't know why this is. Is it age or race that makes the difference, and what does it say about me that I put so much stock in the socks of others?

There must be an unspoken rule that all poker players simply must represent the lowest forms of humanity possible.

I've never met a Texan I didn't like.

European men find me attractive despite my brown suit. American men find me attractive despite my brown suit, but only once they're roaring drunk. So drink up says I! *Sigh*

October, I barely knew ye.

I'm bitterly disappointed in my October. Bitterly! Halloween is the most magical time of year for me. I get to hide who I am behind a glorious costume, block out reality with bad horror movies, and feast on the culinary delights of the season.

Somehow this month flew by without my doing anything significantly Halloween-ie. I have yet to go through a haunted house or don a costume. I haven't watched any scary movies - with the exception of Stephen King's Carrie which disappointed me by being for more disturbing than I remember. I don't want to be disturbed. I want to be thoroughly creeped out whilst I watch, but not as such that the feeling lingers after the glow of the TV has faded and I'm all alone under the covers.

Determined to get some sort of Halloween thrill before the month was over, I went to see a live production of Evil Dead the Musical. While a poorly written script, the actual production turned out to be quite amusing and since my very good friend MLaw played a Deadite, that added to the fun. After, I took my picture with the actor who played Ash and he let me touch his "boom stick." Tee hee. If you don't get that reference, you're already lost. The crew I went with seemed to enjoy themselves and a good time was had by all.

But it isn't enough. I'm not satisfied. I must find more to do and I've only a week to do it! Cramming a month's worth of Halloween satisfaction is challenging enough for the everyman, but add to this the fact that I work nights! Really, my last two nights to get my Halloween on are next Thursday and Friday.

Hold on to your trick or treat bags, this is either going to get really crazy...or I'm just going to give up and it's going to get really boring.

Stay tuned...

If you dare...

Unfinished.

I realize I may have left all of my readers (okay so I don't have any readers) dangling with the tease of a conclusion to my night of Las Vegas debauchery. All I have to say to that is, you knew what I was when you picked me up. I have a tendency not to finish things. Two part blogs, sandwiches, relationships...I guess you could say my life is one blob of of incomplete tidbits of possibility mashed together. I shudder to think what that would look like were it a literal reference. I imagine something like what Chet was turned into on the movie Weird Science:



Anyway, as I've begun the process of applying to graduate school something remarkable has happened: I'm finishing things. I used to never finish stories. I'd start a lovely tale and then halfway through get bored or frustrated or inspired by a new idea. However, when applying to get into MFA writing programs, incomplete works don't really impress the folks on the review board. In the past 6 months, I've not left a single story dangling in the cosmos. No matter how bad I hate the story I'm writing, I finish it. Better to have it over and done with than floating about in the limbo of my mind right? I'm finishing projects too! I've taken a few stabs at sewing before, and usually have ended with a few scraps of fabric stitched together, no finished product, and me vowing never to attempt to sew again. However, this summer with my newfound lust for completion I have finished the following sewing projects:
3 tank tops for me
1 tank top for Michi
1 tank top for Coco
5 pair of Halloween pajama bottoms for the youngsters
3 pillow cases
A tunic (complete with pockets and a zipper. A ZIPPER!)
A skirt

Look out world! Suzy is finishing the things she starts!

So without further delay, here is the long anticipated (ha ha) conclusion to my night of debauchery in Las Vegas.

After the freaky comedy show, I felt MLaw owed me a safe activity so we made our way back to the sci-fi center where the owner had mentioned some sort of sci-fi musical was being performed. Well, I had to see what was so important as to result in the cancellation of Dr. Who night so we went.

Turns out the "musical" was a sort of Rocky Horror type production where a film is played on a screen whilst live actors lip synch and act it out on a stage in front. The film/play was called "Repo Man: A Genetic Musical." Set in a future where companies have a right to repossess organs if a payment is missed, this strange production gave me little comfort after seeing strippers and "adult" balloons. However, as I watched the mishmash of people performing and saw how much they enjoyed their craft I did get a warm feeling knowing that these people have a place. They have a little niche and a creative outlet. Sure, I may not approve. Acting out grisly horror scenes or dressing like a slutty nurse may not be my cup of tea, but it works for them. They have found their island of misfit toys and for that, I give them a hearty thumbs up. I've got my sewing, they've got their showing. This is not a bad world at all.

Deeper and Deeper

Friday night I found myself swallowed in the seedy subterranean underbelly of Las Vegas. Like my own edited-for-television version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I was exposed to characters and places I had no idea existed. My dizzying mini-adventure started innocently enough, but all that was needed was one miscalculation and everything changed. I was going to go get my nerd on at Dr. Who night (shut up, he's awesome) but when I arrived at the Sci-Fi Center (shut up it's awesome) the doors were locked and my Who fest was cancelled! Waaaht waaah...so I called my friend Mike (referred to from here out as MLaw) to see what was shaken'. He invited me to join him down the street at the Onyx Theater for "Balloon Master Comedy."

I had never been to such a place or heard of such a thing, however the idea of a comedy act centered around balloons was too delightful to resist. I imagined a comedian not unlike Carrot Top creating hilarious balloons, such as doggies but with tiny heads or maybe some sort of balloon sculpture of Lady Gaga tripping over some of those giant shoes she wears from time to time.

A dead giveaway that I was in for something much different should have been the fact that the Onyx Theater is located in a sex shop. A sex shop. I should have pivoted on my sandaled foot and left immediately. However, I know times are tough and real estate is costly, so perhaps this theater took residence in a sex shop because it was paying off student loans or had a sick grandma to take care of. I gave Onyx the benefit of the doubt. How wrong I was. Dead giveaway number two should have been that all the empty seats were occupied by large balloon shaped...uh...penises. Did we once determine that the plural or penis is peni? Not, I guess not. Anyway, I would have left right then but MLaw beckoned me sit next to him on the front row. Mistake number 3 - when entering a theater and show of questionable content, always sit on the back row. The BACK ROW. Near a door. Great for a quick exit. Leave it to MLaw to put his wide-eyed Mormon friend on the front row for an evening of debauchery the likes she has never seen. Everyone knows you can't walk out on a show when you're on the front row. That's a recipe for getting forced on stage while people put needles in your body. No, that didn't happen to me. But one other fellow, though he was a willing participant for an act that forced me to close my eyes and bury my head in MLaw's shoulder for what felt like an eternity. The act, known as "Freaks for Hire" consists of a woman well nigh 6 feet tall, tattooed and pierced from head to toe named Genocide and her partner, Danger. Genocide asks the audience to yell out body parts and then she will stick said body parts with needles and such. When someone in the crowd shouted "Balls!" was when my eyes squeezed shut never to open again until they left the stage. I tried not to hear what was going on, but I know there was blood, needles, rock salt, and male anatomy involved. I remember thinking to myself, oh so ashamed "I am in Hell. I am in Hell and I'm too afraid to just get up and walk out because I fear what they will do to me more than I fear the Hell."

If you think that's all the night was, there was so much more. A quick nutshell account - aside from needles and body parts, there was a dance off between burlesque dancers, a game called "Black C*ck, White C*ck, Green C*ck," a scary man breaking a cinderblock on another man's privates after he had been knocked unconscious from the sleeper hold, and a professional dominatrix woman who yelled at audience members while they downed corn dogs.

The night didn't stop there, but I take full responsibility for the next portion of the evening's strangeness. However, this entry has rattled on long enough. To be continued...

Why Huckleberry?

I had a truly liberating experience the other night at work. I met the vilest human being in existence, was forced to interact with him, and survived. He didn't even make me cry. Perhaps I'm finally developing one of those "tough skins" I've heard so much about. Working in a casino, I've been punched by a guest, shoved against a slot machine, propositioned, and threatened but none of those experiences compared to dealing with the likes of a guest named Huckleberry. Indeed that is his first name, and I shall omit his last name as I fear he is the type to google his own name and scour the internets for any information about his vile self.

Huckleberry is a professional poker player. Anybody who has worked in the casino industry will tell you, professional poker players are simply awful. Their success has been earned through cold, ruthless behavior and they have chosen a career that thrives on the defeat of others. Naturally, this strips away at a person until all that is left of their soul is a withering flicker of light, no larger than the poker chips they toss in their careless hands. To say I don't like poker players would have been an understatement before I met Huckleberry. However, after paying him a few jackpots I found myself praising other poker players for not being nearly as bad as the insidious entity that loomed over the video poker progressive that fateful evening. In fact, Huck makes other poker players look like pretty decent fellows.

Huck is always followed by friends who sit patiently by while he abuses employees. Oft times they look uncomfortable with his behavior but say nothing. Also, my management sits idly by while their staff (me) sits and takes whatever the loathsome creature feels like dishing out. Verbal abuse, spilling water on me, etc. I of course, smile and do my job for fear of write-ups or terminations. Which led me to contemplate the following: how responsible is everyone else for Huck's bad behavior? If his entourage of yes-men and well-meaning casino staff would only tell him "no" occasionally, would that change him at all?

If casinos were more apt to encourage guests to behave like civil human beings and treat the staff as people and not mud-spattered peasants from Lord and Surf times, how much better off would everyone be? I for one, feel better when I'm kind to others. Perhaps the miserable wretches laden down with the burden of wealth would feel better too if only they made eye contact and spoke a friendly word from time to time.

I guess the point of this whole post is, its nice to be nice.

Friday Night Fashion Rant

After going out tonight, I just had to get this off my small yet perky chest. Honestly, I'm just dumbfounded by the trends of women's footwear these days. I can not comprehend how anyone would find this shoe attractive.

How can that monstrosity have the nerve to call itself a shoe? This walking implement resembles an animal hoof more than a shoe meant for human use. Perhaps the above picture doesn't do the morbid clunkiness justice. Perhaps if we see if on someones foot, a human foot...

See what I mean? One couldn't possibly walk in such a thing, one could only clip-clop!
Speaking of clip-clop, what of this retarded cousin of the flip-flop?

I had a hard time finding a picture of this particular "shoe" because I didn't know what they're called. I googled "uncircumcised flip-flop" and surprisingly, that is not what this "shoe" is called. I finally found it after an exhaustive search, turns out this eyesore is called a "gladiator flip-flop." Well. Now I've heard it all. This concludes my Friday Night Fashion Rant.

A Special Request: Poetry without Inhibition

A Fine Wheel of Cheese

A good wheel of cheese is not hard to find,
Just look for one with a nice waxy rind,

A fine wheel of cheese is guaranteed to please
The masses, your friends and their families,

Always remember that cheddar is better
When shared with someone wearing a sweater

Brie can be nice if you say the name twice
Brie Brie, can't you see? Oh tasty brie

Swiss is a hit, full of lovely little holes,
But keep it well wrapped or you'll attract cheese moles!

Don't let the smell fool you, blue cheese is the best,
When tossed in a salad or grilled with chicken breast,

Whatever the color, whatever the rind,
A good wheel of cheese is not so hard to find!

So do not delay, eat cheese every day
Your bones will be strong instead of soft like clay

Celibacy and the City: Part II - Choices and Identity

I was out with a friend last week, and as I reflected with him on my days as a high school drama kid/punk rocker I realized something. Had I moved a social inch to the left, I would have ended up a *LARPER. In fact, the object of one of my major crushes (Mike Monson, a drama girl's dreamboat) was an avid LARPER and had he invited me to join, I'd have been at home crafting my own Medieval mace and warrior costume quicker than you could say "Ren Fair."

Of course, this led me to ponder the following: how much of who I date do I absorb? Much like Rogue from X-Men absorbs the powers of those she touches, I too take in a little something of the men I touch. I'm sure this is inevitable in all dating situations as humans typically (even if subtly) take on various nuances of people they spend a lot of time with whether or not there are any romantic inclinations. For example, I find my vocabulary "dumbed down" when I'm around certain co-workers, yet I step it up around others. Dating is no different, and while I almost ended up a LARPER for Mike Monson, I almost ended up a perfect trophy-wife with breast implants for another fellow. Clearly, I take in far too much. As with anything, awareness is the first step to overcoming affliction, and I will now strive to not be a "dating-sponge." I will be a dating-uh...what's the opposite of a sponge? Huh. There is this really smart guy I'm dating right now, maybe he knows. Which reminds me, I need to study if I'm going to be able to keep up with him. Oh wait. Grrr...this is going to be harder than I think. Maybe I should just start working on a new cloak of invisibility or something. After all, Ren Fair is only 4 months away!


*LARPER - A live action role-playing game (LARP) is a form of role-playing game where the participants physically act out their characters' actions. The players pursue goals within a fictional setting represented by the real world, while interacting with each other in character. The outcome of player actions may be mediated by game rules, or determined by consensus among players. Event arrangers called gamemasters decide the setting and rules to be used and facilitate play.
The first LARPs were run in the late 1970s, inspired by tabletop role-playing games and genre fiction. The activity spread internationally during the 1980s, and has diversified into a wide variety of styles. Play may be very game-like, or may be more concerned with dramatic or artistic expression. Events can also be designed to achieve educational or political goals. The fictional genres used vary greatly, from realistic modern or historical settings to fantastic or futuristic eras. Production values are sometimes minimal, but can involve elaborate venues and costumes. LARPs range in size from small private events lasting a few hours to huge public events with thousands of players lasting for days.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Live_action_role-playing_game

Why I Write: A Startling Revelation

After watching an episode of Hoarders, I found myself once again inspired to spend some time de-junking my home. The warm, stuffy musk of the garage beckoned me so I decided to begin there with boxes that have remained unopened since my last move.

Now, a smart person would not even peek in the boxes using the following logic: The boxes have been untouched for nearly two years, thus the materials within said boxes must not be important. Throw 'tall away and ask questions later.

Curiosity simply would not allow me to do this, and sort through the boxes I did. I'm ashamed to admit that one box was nothing but empty CD cases. However, one box was a treasure trove of stories I had written years and years ago. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I began a series of tales called "Muffin Stories." They were about a lady named Sarcel who had a little bakery where she made the most disgusting muffins imaginable. As I browsed through some of my earliest attempts at writing, I was shaken by a revelation. My motives for writing have changed drastically since I was a kid, and not for the better.

When I wrote the "Muffin Stories," I wrote them purely for my own amusement. I enjoyed using the word "muffin" for some reason, and even more I enjoyed making up strange names like "Sarcel." If I said a word aloud and the sound made me snicker, it was going in a story. Coming up with onion-mustard-and-chocolate muffins and other awful combinations was also amusing to me.

I can't remember when I wrote something for myself alone. Lately, I have been writing not for me but for the validation I hope to receive from others. Now, part of me still does write "for me." I do have these stories and characters in my head I just have to let out, but now I constantly think "will grad schools like this? Will an intellectual like this? Will a potential suitor like this? Will writing this make others think I'm smart? Talented?" This is flawed thinking, and for one week I am conducting another experiment not unlike the TV fast. Which, by the way worked really well...for about two days. Oops.

This new experiment go as follows: For the next week, I will not strain myself with my writing stretching for literary greatness. I will not write for grad schools, professors, of that literary journal. I will write what amuses me, regardless if nothing wonderful comes of it. I just want to see what writing without inhibition feels like, if only for one week.

A Very Short Story, Compliments of 2AM

It Ends with Marinara

I saw the end of the world today. Funny. I always pictured the apocalypse would be abrupt; a screeching halt on existence. It wasn’t. In fact, everything was slow and gentle and felt really calm even though I was terrified. I was driving home from work, I usually finish my shift around 1am, but the slot floor was empty today. Not a lot of players, maybe they knew the end was coming. Anyway, I left early; around midnight. I remember looking at the moon, just a little nub of a moon and it was so yellow. I had my sun roof open on my new car and I was enjoying just watching the bright nub of moon get smaller and smaller and – woah. I have never seen a moon just shrink to nothing like that. See, when I got out of work it was a full half – you know what I mean, a good wedge of moon. But the closer I got to home the thing started shrinking! I have never seen anything like that before in my life. The moon can’t shrink! All around me cars kept driving like nothing was wrong and all the while that moon kept disintegrating. For a moment I was able to convince myself that the moon wasn’t disappearing. I told myself it was just dipping behind the mountains where I couldn’t see it. Soon enough though, I knew that wasn’t true. The moon wasn’t hiding, it was getting the Hell outta here. So that’s why I’m just hunkered down in my house right now. Just waiting for the end. I mean, it’s gotta come soon. With no moon there’s nothing regulating gravity and the ocean tides are going to get all messed up and there’s going to be tsunamis and hurricanes and tornados and all kinds of scary disasters. I don’t know much about astronomy or geology or any kind of science but I do know we are in serious trouble without the moon. I can’t believe its still so quiet outside. I thought surely by now, all of Las Vegas would notice the moon was gone. I’m looking out the window and the lights of the strip are still blazing. As if a billion watts of neon light are going to replace the moon! To quote Shakespeare, what fools these mortals be! I feel like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe novel, trying to figure out why the rest of the world has gone insane while I am all alone. Ah well, no sense worrying about everyone else. They can’t be helped now. I think I’ll help myself to whatever provisions I have stashed in my pantry. My last meal will be a good one. After all, the power company and the gas company haven’t seemed to notice the missing moon. I can cook up one last feast and dine in peace before the impending mayhem breaks loose. I’m stunned I have an appetite at all, but the human body is a remarkable thing. Instinct for survival always reigns supreme in a crisis. Crisis. I knew there would come a day. I knew it, I knew it, I have always felt I would witness something great and terrible. I think I even knew what I would witness would be the ultimate, the end of all things. I am afraid, but I am hungry too. I think I’ll make spaghetti.

Yes, spaghetti. Maybe, if there are survivors they'll find my body stained with tomato sauce because I know I was meant to die with the world. I've known that long before the moon disappeared. I'm scared but I'm ready to eat now. Ready for spaghetti and the end. And maybe some garlic bread too.

The End.

To Write or to Internet?

A friend of mine posted this on another forum: "Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet."

Of course, this writer friend of mine found the quote whilst surfing the internet. Which leads me to ponder the concept of distractions in general.

When I'm at home, the following distractions descend upon me like a swarm of zombie dwarves when I should be focused on writing: laundry, snack foods, tv, exercise, facebook, youtube, picking up the cereal that my nephew spilt this morning, birds chirping outside, email, ipod, itunes, pandora, scrutinizing my body in the mirror picking apart every flaw until I'm convinced I'm a monster that no man could possibly love, more snack foods, the sound of wind, my neighbor's dog, what's that on the floor - a spider or a ball of fuzz? ADD. Gotta love it. I must say though, the internet is a big one. Especially since I do all my writing via laptop. I'm beginning to see the wisdom of Mike the Tech who insists on doing all of his writing on a variety of vintage typewriters. What I once thought of as charmingly eccentric (and maybe a little foolish - after all, there is no "save" button on a typewriter!) I am now seeing as a brilliant way to filter out at least the internet portion of my list of distractions. Now what to do about the cellulite on my thighs?

Write or Watch TV? A Dilemma.

Stephen King wrote a book called On Writing. Or something like that. In that book, he spoke of the muse and they key to truly invoking this vehicle of inspiration. To loosely paraphrase (and boy, do I mean loosely!) he said something to the effect of - the muse does not simply appear, wave a wand and then harp music plays as an idea is born. Rather, he felt like the muse was constantly present, watching for one who is diligently struggling in creative pursuit. In other words, to a writer the muse would only bestow brilliance upon the poor sap who labours constantly at their notebook, keyboard, or typewriter. Only when the writer has proved such dedication as to continue writing even when displeased with his or her work, does the muse take pity, sweep down with gilded chariot and intervene.

Oh dear Muse, you are a clever one. By behaving this way, you ensure that those capitalizing on your stimulation are truly deserving. I must remember the way you operate when there is a Dr. Who marathon on TV, Sex and the City is now in syndication on E (which means a nice Mormon girl can watch and not be assaulted by BEWBS and effwords!), and the series premier of Walking Dead is rapidly approaching. So thus begins a new writing technique I will employ: The TV fast. Anytime I feel like flipping on the ol' flatscreen I will think - wait. If my senses are being occupied by the tellie, will the muse be able to reach me? Will I hear the gentle knocking of the characters in my unwritten stories? The answer will always be nay. Which leads me to another point. Time spent thinking about writing, is not time spent writing. (I stole this from a Nike ad about running)

So. One week. No TV. I'm serious. Muse? Are you there? It's me Suzy. It's safe to come out now. The TV is off...starting tomorrow. After all, tonight is The Wire night. *Sigh*

Celibacy and the City: Part I - A Revelation.

Driving a Volkswagen Jetta is a good replacement for having a relationship. There is love, loyalty, a fondness of spending time together and the Jetta is much lower maintenance. Jetta love. It's a beautiful thing.

Conventional Weekends

Nothing puts a dull ache in my heart quite like having my "Monday" fall on what is Saturday for the rest of the world. While everyone else is out shopping for things to grill at their weekend barbecues or planning what to wear to that [insert some sort of exciting social event here], I am getting ready to start another long week of polyester-clad self loathing. [Insert disclaimer about realizing that in the current economical state of the world, I'm blessed just to be employed and I do realize that. I do. I just don't feel it every second of every day]
To be fair, you won't hear me complaining on my "Saturday" which is Thursday for conventional people. Thursdays have become the most magical day of the week for me. After I finish with classes, the evening is mine and I don't have to fight crowds of "conventional weekend people" at the movies, restaurants, or anywhere else I choose to be.

Fridays fall into the gray-area of almost-conventional weekend since nine-to-fivers are kicking off their conventional weekend that evening. For me, Fridays are pretty nice though the shadow of my impending "Monday" always lurks in the peripherals of my subconscious.
Today is my "Tuesday." Tomorrow will be my "Wednesday" and so on and so forth. I am just waiting for Rebecca Black to autotune a song about non-conventional Fridays so that I too will have an annoying anthem to kick off my unconventional weekend.
"It's unconventional Friday, Friday, everyone else is still waiting for their weekend..." Ick.

Intrinsically Speaking

I wonder if I've been using the word intrinsic out of context my entire life. As one who feels things rather than knows things, the word is one I use frequently to describe experiences that effect me on more than just a superficial level. To be more specific, I use the word to describe experiences that effect me deeply but for reasons I am unable to pinpoint. I call them intrinsic moments because a wonderful ache ripples through to the core of my being and I'm instantly awash with the sublime. I know what your'e thinking - visits to the opium den aren't intrinsic moments! How silly are you?

Allow to clarify - I have never been to an opium den and none of these intrinsic moments have ever been related to any sort of drug use whatsoever. Instead, they are moments tiny and almost instantaneous brought about by unseen forces. For example, my last night in Ireland, I stayed in a charming little B&B in Larne. Larne is a lovely dot of vibrant green located about thirty miles from Belfast. I had just taken a hot bath and was feeling warm at last after a long, cold train ride and walk through the town. As I dressed for dinner, I had a BBC fundraising program on TV and a boy band called Take Five began performing a song. Typical, poppy boyband fare, this song suddenly had me frozen mid hair brush and I was locked in a moment. I looked out my window at the charming coastal town full of ancient townhouses, crumbling stone churches, wet streets glistening under a bright Irish moon, and BAM! There it was. Another intrinsic moment, pure, unadulterated bliss.

Maybe I use the word wrong, but I have taken it and I shan't be returning it. To me, I have made the connection that an intrinsic moment is a nod from the Heavens, the powers that be are saying "Yep. Your'e where you need to be. Right now, right this very moment was written for you prior to your birth. Congratulations for finding your way."

Wanderin'

Day two in London: I slept way too late. HOWEVER, I made up for this mistake by getting lost in the London underground for about 2 hours and having a real adventure. I tell you what, boy howdy, and other countryisms! The best way to really get to know a new city is to take a wrong train (or 3, like I did.) You end up seeing things you wouldn't normally see! Like a man peeing in an alley that says "WOOPSIE!" when you catch him, and graffiti that reads "Sex is not for sale." Interesting.

Before I got lost though, I got cocky. Which is probably why I got lost. I started the day by venturing out with a city map and an Oyster card (a train pass) looking to see the sights. I made my way with great success to Buckhingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Burlington House, Big Ben, and the London Eye. After a frightfully good time at The London Death Trap, I decided to call it a night since it was cold and dark. Cutting through Westminster Abbey, I saw a Japanese girl getting strong-armed by some hustlers. I stood in the shadows ready to play superhero if necessary, but the girl held her own and sent the scumbags packing.

I then made my way to the tube station and promptly got on the wrong train, realized my error and sought to correct it...by getting on another wrong train. After I got on a third wrong train, I tossed pride aside and asked for help. After getting on the right path, my train failed to open its doors at my desired stop, so I had to wait for the next stop and double back. Good times. But you know, I'm really starting to like it here.

Even though this happened!

Appropriate

Sitting in your friend's flat,
In London with a sweater on,
Listening to the Beatles...
All You Need Is Love.

Immature

Though I turned thirty a few weeks ago, I have reasons to believe my mind in many ways has not progressed beyond the 7th grade. Today, while studying some fine Medieval poetry (save your nerd alerts for when I'm listening to the Bee Gees people), I came across a series of "riddles" in The Exeter Book. Most are religious in nature, clever, pretty little pieces of literature. However, Riddle 44 had me snickering in my seat like an adolescant learning about intercourse for the first time.

Without further ado, Riddle 44.

A curious thing hangs by a man's thigh
under the lap of its lord. In its front it is pierced
it is stiff and hard, it has a good position
When the man lifts his own garment
above his knee, he intends to greet
with the head of his hanging object that familiar hole
which is the same length, and which he has often filled before

I am not making this up. I repeat, I am not making this up. See, the ol' Brits aren't as proper as they would lead us to believe.

Hey, you know who else liked this riddle? This guy.

Hyppopocrite

We're all guilty of hypocrisy on some level. Lately, I've been thinking about some glaring areas where I fall into this trap of "holier than thou" behavior.

Area one: Knuckle Popping.



I hate it. If you commit this heinous act of self-abuse in my presence, the disgust will register in my face contorting it into a look of horror you'll not soon forget. However, I may pop my trick shoulder (the left) as often as I deem necessary. Which is a lot. I mean, a lot a lot.


Area number two: Gum chewing.




This is the more intense neighbor of the knuckle popping. If you chew gum around me, expose gum to me in any form (chewed, unchewed, packaged, etc)I will recoil as though being advanced upon by a leprous beast shooting laser beams and poison darts out of its eyes. If I could hide, I would. Instead, I just focus on breathing and keeping my dry heaves to a minimum. However, I may suck on mints and all manner of hard candies making a light slurping sound which probably registers the same decibel level as gum chewing.

Finally, flowery writing.



Nothing "grinds my gears (FG reference)" more than a writer who has to doll up their writing with more bells and whistles than a train station. To me, writing is like a good pizza. Adding too many toppings compromises the integrity of the food and confuses the palate. Keep it simple, keep it tasty. When a writer style clearly screams "Look here! I've managed to capture the forty colors of sadness all with a swipe of my pen!" I can only roll my eyes and pop my trick shoulder a few times. Yet, I, like a Domino's employee with too much time on my hands, am so very often guilty of throwing whatever may be lying around my mental kitchen into my writing. Olives, artichokes, sun dried tomatoes! Allegories! Syndecdoche! Hyperbole! More toppings more, more flare! All too late I realize I've got nothing but a junk-laden pizza that nobody wants to eat. Or read.

So what is the point of all of this? Am I going to change my wicked ways? Not likely. Acknowledging one's hypocrisy, however certainly does make for some interesting self reflection. And what goes better with self reflection than a nice, slice of pizza?

Flaw

My new found zest for purging my crowded mind into the blogosphere has proven to be quite refreshing. However, sleep deprived as I am these days, I am finding one crippling flaw in this recent creative writing exercise. I now have a new earworm in the form of obsessing over how flawed my writing is. I find that after every new post, I toss and turn in bed dissecting the piece in my thoughts and wondering how, how, how, can I ever have a career as a writer when I succeed in only producing trite little trinkets of indulgent observation. A perfect example is my last entry. How could I have possibly compared Nanny McPhee to Flow? There are so many flaws in that analogy I can't seem to stop thinking about them all. Here are the three big ones:

1. Now that I am fully awake (unlike yesterday, when I had not yet finished my breakfast of sugar-free Rockstar and determination), I remember the correct line from the Mary Poppins spin-off is "There is something you should understand about the way I work. When you need me but do not want me, then I must stay. When you want me but no longer need me, then I have to go." I'm not sure if that's the way Flow operates.

2. Nanny McPhee's functions were mystical in nature while Flow can be explained by science. Or can it?

3. I need to stop discussing things I know little to nothing about.

Sigh. On the plus side, I just now was able to come up with the word combo "trite little trinkets" and that just springs so pleasantly from the lips, I feel redeemed somehow.

Flow

Flow is the mental state of operation in which a person in an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and success in the process of the activity. Proposed by Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, the positive psychology concept has been widely referenced across a variety of fields.

http://dictionary.babylon.com/flow%20(psychology)/

Whilst discussion the wonderful world of distractions we live in (wwodwlin) with a friend today, I was introduced to the above term. Aaaah, flow. What a rare phenomenon you (yes, we will now be referring to Flow as an entity, not to be confused with Aunt Flo) are. Fleeting, infrequent, and beautiful, Flow, you are the runner's high of progress. Flow, you are much like Nanny McPhee.

When I want you, you are no longer there. When I don't want you...well, I suppose that is a moot point because when would I not want you around? (This goes for both Nanny McPhee and Flow)

Thus Spake Me!

Though its been close to six months since I've read anything by Friedrich Nietszche, something strange has been going on in my thoughts. I first noticed the peculiar new tick developing about two weeks ago. The tick is as follows: whenever I make any declaration, verbal or non, said declaration is followed by me thinking "THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA" with a booming, mental voice.

I don't know why, but for some reason punctuating my statements with that phrase seems to add a fresh, new validity to my existence. After all, saying "I need ranch dip with my broccoli" is a pretty mundane statement, but if it voiced from the lips of the alter-ego of one of the greatest minds to ever develop and speak through an alter ego, suddenly its a little more exciting. Even if I am just playing pretend. After all, that's what I do best. And I shall continue doing it until the day I die. Or maybe just until I get some ranch for my broccoli. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA!

Earworm, eh?

When I told Mike the Tech about this new blog he has inspired, he recoiled in horror gasping "Earworm? That is horrifying!" So I suppose explanations are in order. An earworm is not a slim, wriggling creature that's making a beeline for your ear so it can ease its way into your brain and eat it. I first heard the term from a German friend of mine. Earworm, or "ohrum" as they say in German, is given to a song that is stuck in the mind.

I am adapting the term for my own use to include anything that's stuck in my mind, not just songs. Since I live in the world of my head far more than the world of reality, the earworms are great in number. I just hope they don't eat any of my lobes.

Mike the Tech

When one has many Mikes in their life, one has to provide them with endearing nicknames to keep them all straight. Michael Lawrence is MLaw, Mike Coffee is Michael Coffee, and Mike Speegle is Mike the Tech. All three Mikes are significant enough to warrant their own personalized-by-Suzy name. Granted, Mike Coffee got the less creative end of the nickname shtick, but I just like the ring of Micheal Coffee.

Mike the Tech, especially deserving of his affectionate term is a co-worker and fellow English student. Often referred to as my doppelganger (despite the fact we look nothing alike), the lifestyle similarities Mike the Tech and I share are startling and annoying to our other coworkers.

We both turned thirty this year, we are both book nerds, and we both have been chipping away at our bachelor's degree with such slow precision even the greatest sloths of academia have passed us by. However, Mike the Tech and I are finally graduating in May. He has expressed disappointment in me that I have allowed a busy schedule to interfere in my writing and to him, I dedicate this new blog. He is the voice stuck inside my head encouraging me to accomplish more. He is my earworm.