Future Car!

I am sick. Here is what it is: I have a cold in my head. My nose is running, and I have a headache, and my ears feel larger than usual (?). So why not blog, in this case?

Because it is January and because everything is pretty much nexus-ising in my life (that's a word, look it up, it means when everything coming together to be a nexus but isn't there yet it's in the process of nexusising (the hyphen is optional)), I am thinking of the future.

If you Google image search (or "gis") the word "future" you get the car that is pictured. It's odd that when people think of "future cars" what springs into mind is something ridiculous that you would never want to get into. No one wants to leave the grocery store with two bags of groceries and you don't have a car cause you only went in there for milk and cheese so you just took one of the baskets but then you thought as you were in the aisles that you want to make a good soup and the cat needs food so you came away with two bags of groceries and you walk to your parking spot which was the closest at the time but now there are like 18 spots that are open and closer but whatever you finally get there, and you have to reach down and unlock the pressurized seal of your cockpit to your car. Look at this thing. Good thing you don't have three grocery bags or you're making two trips! After/if you insert yourself into this glorified bobsled, if you are rear ended going out of the parking lot the car is totaled. I am guessing this thing weighs 65 pounds and has the structural support of a coffee cup sleeve. Why are we heading to this design?

Much has happened:

-Meredith is engaged! Read her awesome blogness about putting a wedding together.

-In the future when I'm a better person, I will donate to her wedding. And speaking of people whose lines I steal, Kelsi has a badass job now and also looking to purchase property.

-A whole bunch of people are either drifting together or drifting apart. (The gis for "drifting apart" was completely uninteresting, but "drifting together" yielded an interesting photo of, from what I can tell, a Pacific Northwest couple magically transported through space to a beach, left sitting there contemplating their overencumbered backpacks, their failing relationship and the guy's denim jeans.)

-I am running the board for this company doing Marat/Sade. It is an awesome show that everyone should come see.

-But because I am working for the theater, I have missed many happy hours, a date with Rapunzel, a sushi party, TWO rockband parties, a Steelers postseason victory, and too many other fun times to list or link to. Marat/Sade? More like Matt/Sad!

-I had a reading of the full-length play I'm working on dealing with a casino coming to Pittsburgh. Readings are hard but necessary, as is illustrated by this fun little stat:

A) Time spent alone typing thinking I was writing a work of art: The past 6 months.

B) Time spent listening to actors read the play aloud and finding out the play has deep, chasmic problems regarding character, tone, structure, dialogue and theme: 2.5 hours

-Other people moved and junk. Sorry, it's too much to realize what's happened over the past three months. Because you see that's the past. The last three months is the Toyota Camry. The future is the Toyota Bulletmobile, small enough to be in everyone's blindspot, yet quick enough to totally fly off a country road.

The future is now, but, like the elusive Blue Monkey from the Merrie Melody cartoons, the future is wily, hard to find and impossible to control. Which is why it is necessary every once in a while to take stock, to blow out the mucus of your decision-making paradigms out into the soft 2-ply Kleenex of the past, to snort hard the nasal spray of introspection, and to take the Nyquil of the Promise of Tomorrow. Which is why tomorrow I'll be taking a sick day.

What do you do when you're out of ideas? When the casino opus needs to be fixed with a chainsaw, not a scalpel? When you have no money for a wedding? When the housing market is surprisingly competitive? When a three-day weekend is nigh, and all your plans involve watching Season 6 of West Wing and running board for the theater?

Ladies and gentleman, I suggest we take this Nyquil, and in the morning, we start building a car. It can be blue. It can be shiny. But goddamn, it needs to have room for groceries.

Journalism - Not all that awesome

From this column about what it takes to be a good reporter:

"Good reporters are committed to telling the story. Associated Press reporter Terry Anderson ignored his boss's advice to leave war-torn Lebanon; he felt that he had to stay. He was kidnapped in 1985 and spent 6 1/2 years in brutal captivity."

Yeah...I guess I don't got what it takes.

What up? It's been a while since we rapped. Maybe that's because I've been spending all my online time at this awesome Saved by the Bell site! I read this entire blog way faster than I should admit. It is the "Catcher in the Rye" of blogs. Uh...if Catcher was about making sarcastic comments about an early '90s show.*

The great thing about Saved by the Bell, besides the fact that they learn Driver's Ed using a golf cart in the gymnasium, is that I loved the show to the point where, if no one was at home after school and it came on, I would dance on the coffee table and play air guitar to the opening theme music. I thought these people were the coolest and the funniest, and it was pretty much what high school was like. High school was cool not because of popularity, but because everyone did really rad things, like, all the time! The show couldn't depict popularity, because there were only like seven extras at the most at any point. But I attribute this sense more to the set: it always seemed like Zack and the gang were hanging out in one tiny little corner of the school. You know, the stairs were in the background, leading down, and that was where the cohort was. And they had a crappy corner of the school too, since it was right next to the principal's office. I always had the sense that in all the other corners of the school, other rad stuff was happening, and we the viewer were only exposed to the radness of this one section.

So the real joy of SBTB to me was this cohesive unit that stayed together...er...except when the cast changed without explanation. But they went and got summer jobs together, they went to college together, they hung out at the Max all the time, they were there for each other when Jessie got hooked on caffeine pills.

I really thought there was some brilliant way to tie all that in to the nostalgia I've been feeling lately, but I don't think I'm clever enough. Point is, lately I've been really wanting everyone I know to live in the same city. I know we all have our own lives and grad schools and jobs and children (!) and dreams to attend to, but it really is inconvenient that the world is so large and so many of the people I know and love are attending to its different corners.

Right now, I am "Seattle Matt" and when I want to go visit friends in Ballard, I am Seattle Matt, and when I go to Rainier Valley, I am Seattle Matt, and when I go to Capitol Hill, I am Seattle Matt...With A Little Bit Of Gay. When I'm back in Indiana, I can be High School Matt. When I am in Pittsburgh, I can be College Matt. There are so many Matts out there, but I have to drastically change my geography in order to be any of them!

But really what I want, rather than just a manual transmission to shift to any Matt I feel like, is to touch different points of time in life as much as possible. My friend Roselyn recently visited, and there was a moment when we and some others were walking through Discovery Park in the drizzly evening, when, just like that, we could have been at Ox Bow or Shanklin back in Indiana. There are so many bitter and sweet moments in the history of our friendship, and I cannot stand to be so far from them. I wish I could group us all up and put us in a city...I don't care which one. Even Tacoma.

So, I guess my point is, no one should be allowed to move and all the cities should have walls around them.


*Which it sort of is? I mean, "Catcher in the Rye" is basically a guy making sarcastic comments about all those goddamn phonies out there. Substitute "goddamn phonies" for zany plot contrivances and you pretty much have the sbtb blog.

Kites and Kowboys

Everyone will be happy to know that at this year's International Kite Festival on the Washington coast, there will be prizes. And these prizes are presented at a banquet. And the banquet has a cowboy theme.

"To add some more fun to this year’s World Kite Museum WSIKF Award’s Banquet and auction, there will be a theme. We’ll all get to be even sillier!

Starting at the door, you’ll be welcomed by the sheriff. Unless you want a fine, you need to wear some piece of Wild West gear. Nothing fancy – could be a bandana around your neck, a cowboy hat or boots or big buckled belt, a sheriff’s badge, handcuffs, fake snake, sunbonnet, Minnie Pearl hat, etc., etc. There will be prizes, so get as elaborate as you want. A jail will be available in case you break the law (not on purpose of course!). So have a friend with funds to get you out of jail.

One of the best parts of the auction is to see someone excited and thrilled about a kite item you donated that they won. The other best thing is getting an item that you had your eye on – and all of this helps support the World Kite Museum.

Watch the web page for pony express online updates. If you have ideas that inexpensively and easily can be incorporated, let us know. No shootouts, no, no, no!"

The saddest part of this event is that after a shooting at the Folklife Festival, the expressed prohibition of firearms at a Kite Festival is completely justified.

Estelle Getty died today, causing this obituary to happen.

"In similar vein of take-no-prisoners elder, Getty played Sylvester Stallone's domineering mother, Tutti Bomowski, in "Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot." Generically, it was a battling-buddy movie whose comic thrust was the diminutive Getty's bossing around her L.A. lawman son."

How necessary is it, on a 1-10 scale, to sum up what the Stallone movie was about?

SAD

Time for a blogpology*: I haven't updated this in a bit. I hate when people apologize about not writing in their blogs - I mean, a blog is just an online journal of sorts, and if you don't journal for a week or a month or whatever, no one should be like "way to not type out any observations or stories, jackass." So this is the last blogpology I will issue...savor it. Link to it, so you can, at any moment you feel you are owed an apology, go to it.

I have a good excuse: I, like many people living in Seattle, suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Most people who are afflicted with SAD feel its numbing effects in the winter, while they are driving to work in the dark, working in your dark cubicle, driving home in the dark, watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond in the dark. It's a lack of sunlight.

But with me, I suffer from SAD during the summer. I wake up and it's gorgeous out and I want to watch DVDs. It's noon and the sky is cloudless and I want to play another game of Scrabulous. It's after work and Green Lake is full of young people exercising and playing volleyball and bicycling around and I just want to blog blog blog. I hate nice weather. It's great to look at and all, and it's nice I don't have to put on a jacket everywhere I go, but beyond that it's just the worst.

The problem with nice weather is it's so full of unused potential, you know? It is great for everything I'm not doing: Going on a date, mountain biking, sailing, living in a cottage in the Italian countryside, driving a convertible, white water river rafting, chopping down trees, etc. (Oh yes, I do enjoy chopping down a good tree. For the sake of the environment, I control this impulse. But if I had my way, look out Oakie, you know what I'm saying? Be aware, Poplar. I'm coming for you.)

Instead, I am working in an office or driving in traffic. But the WORST is that even when it's nice in my free time, I'm doing something and it's just not that great, you know? Like I'm riding my bike, and I'm thinking, I'm gonna have to say "On your left!" to that schmoe. Or I'm writing an awesome play in my notebook while sitting in a park and there's a family walking by and they absolutely love each other and the kids are playing and I'm thinking "An ant is crawling on my shoe. If he crawls on my leg he is a dead ant. The shoe is fine, but the leg is a no-no. Then he's in biting range, and that is when I'm bringing the hammer down. He's on the lace! Should I do a pre-emptive swat, or let him make his move? Come on, ant, what's it gonna be? How are you--WHAT THE--! DAMN MOSQUITO JUST BIT MY NECK! Stupid ant was just distracting me...they're working together! They are in cahoots! CAHOOTS!"

You know? I can't enjoy the nice weather, I can never just sit back and enjoy it. I like life, even though it's miserable, you want to know why? Everyone's miserable. The mother at the grocery store with three screaming children is miserable, the grocery checkout dude making $10 an hour is miserable, AND the super rich, super beautiful, super talented MOVIE STAR is in the magazine at the grocery checkout line talking about HER MISERABLE LIFE. Everyone is miserable, and we're all gonna die. It's like this guarantee, this warm fuzzy existentialism.

I read that in The Stranger, in April there was an issue with this cover story. The author basically makes a list of generalizations about Seattle based on a few friends and a couple book readings (which seems kind of, well, a pretty insubstantial subject for a cover story, but whatever). Anyway, the author says this:

"I feel like most people in Seattle have "given up on life" due to a comprehensive knowledge about existentialism but in a "good" way that doesn't feel bad at all. They wake up, go to work copywriting shampoo advertisements, go home, lie in fetal positions facing the back of their sofas, and feel beautiful and existentially awesome."

THAT IS EXACTLY RIGHT.

And this beautiful existentialism fits, usually, with Seattle's weather. It was weather that made me want to move here, actually. I was walking outside last September in Evans City, Pennsylvania, and it was raining, and I was like: "Me and the rain get along pretty good. I should move to the most famous rain capital of America." And so I did.

But it's really tough when you got all that sunlight and frolicking and hopefulness out there, like the past two weeks, oh, it's been terribly, awfully, horrifically gorgeous outside. I can't stand it.

I don't know how to cure Summer SAD. In the winter you go into a room with a light. I'm not joking - that's the cure for SAD. You stand in front of a light. It's the best cure ever. But for the summer, I don't know. I guess stand in the show for an hour with the lights off and play Radiohead? What if I get pruny?

I just don't like the heat, okay? I feel sluggish, I get sunburned, the bugs are all out. People always want to "do things" and "go out." I spend more money, gas is more expensive, traffic is worse. There's more pedestrians. TV sucks. Kids are all home and running around, and it's plain hot! Argh...

If you need me, I'll be in the shower.


*Blogpology: At the beginning of the post I thought I had invented this word! I was so excited to name the phenomenon of apologizing about not blogging, since most blogs do that! But then I Googled it and found out it's been used like a million times, so my ego became deflated. The same thing happened when my friend was pitching bank slogan ideas and I suggested "Get More Bank For Your Buck! (TM)", which I was super excited about as an idea until we looked it up and, yeah, just about every bank in the English-speaking world has used this slogan.

There's this interesting article about a businessman on his way to jail who faked his suicide. Most interesting to me is how the police started getting suspicious:

On the day that he was to report, Mr. Israel’s abandoned GMC Envoy was found along a shoulder of the Bear Mountain Bridge near the Hudson River with the message “suicide is painless” written in dust on the hood. The keys and a bottle of pills were still in the car.

When Mr. Israel’s body failed to turn up and the message turned out to be the theme song of ”M*A*S*H,” the authorities began to suspect he was on the run.

So...if your suicide note makes a pop-culture reference, the police are going to start asking questions. Note to self: If deciding to fake own death, don't write in the suicide letter "This wasn't my day, my month, or even my year."