Recent conversation between me, my friend who's also from Texas and my other friend who went to HS in San Francisco (after we'd decided that it would be really cool to have a “Portfolio Class Prom.” I know, I know, but we have class from 5 – 8 pm. Every idea sounds AWESOME by 6:30):
“We need to get those big, huge flowers with the ribbons flowing down from them to wear on our arms.”
Shocked silence.
“Are you talking about a MUM? Those are for homecoming!”
“And you don’t wear those on your ARM!”
“I don’t know, what’s the difference?”
Sound of jaws dropping.
“HOMECOMING IS IN THE FALL!”
“And it’s about FOOTBALL.”
“Ok, but don’t you wear flowers to prom too?”
“You wear a corsage to prom.”
“Which is in the spring.”
“But they’re still flowers, right?”
“Different flowers. It’s totally different. TOTALLY. DIFFERENT.”
“Alright, THAT then. We need to get that. Geez, who KNOWS shit like this?”
Peals of mad, gasp-filled laughter due to visions of showing up to prom with plastic megaphones and ribbons with your name written on them in glitter.
10/25/2008
10/16/2008
I write haikus now
But only when it's another in-class writing assignment (this time, the topic being rice cakes):
Add your own toppings
Nutella, peanut butter
Diet food my ass
Because three "yays" out of an entire page of "nays" is better than seeing my entire future crumple in front of my eyes
A typical in-class critique for me means that I’ve brought in taglines and headlines, of which 99% I feel are crap; 98% on a good day. Last week, it was 102%. It was also the day my professor decided to “help me out” by reading every one of those crap lines aloud to get a “yay” or “nay” from the class.
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
I thought that maybe I’d die right then of mortification. Until I remembered the rehearsal at the music conservatory when Maestro Asshole stopped the entire orchestra, looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a shitty high school orchestra, pointed his baton at me, asked me how I had the nerve to play this passage in the upper part of the bow and then in the next 20 seconds of silence, managed to communicate, “Your mother was lying to you when she said you were worth anything.” It wasn’t the first time he’d singled me or anyone else out in the middle of rehearsal, but it was the day* I first realized that maybe I didn’t love music quite enough to put up with this particular industry’s shit.
So last week after the afore-mentioned critique, when my art director asked me if I was going to kill her for making me put up all that crappy copy, I told her the truth:
“No, no I’m glad you did. Hell, that was FUN.”
*that day being one of the darkest ones of my life – so much so that I haven’t had the courage to write about it quite yet
And I never even touched a slot machine
Things I discovered during my recent trip to Las Vegas:
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
-Sitting in an airport helps me crank out crappy taglines
-I score an 81% on the Lee Iacocca listening test (as administered by a proud member of the OU Parent’s Association whom I met randomly at the Bellagio Conservatory)
-When you're in The Entertainment Capital of the World, wearing an orchid lei will get you way more attention than tasting another girl’s cherry ChapStick will
-Malibu rum is from Canada
-Things from Canada taste good
I see about 3 more things in the list above than in the list of things I’ve learned in school this week. I’m pretty sure this means I should have half at least ¾ of a degree in Vegastainment.
10/15/2008
But then again, a glove would cover up all my big, shiny rings
When my friends at school are standing outside tapping the ashes from their cigarettes after another coffee-filled all-nighter and calling out, “Hey Dallas Princess!” or “You! Healthy little fart, yes you,” I know they are talking to me. I know this because they are the ones who took me to a gritty bar downtown and then wanted to crawl into the toilets and die of embarrassment when I vehemently demanded to know WHERE THE SOAP WAS. These are the friends who regularly get my chirpy text messages at 5 A.M. on my way to the gym. And by some inexplicable act of God, despite all of this, they have not yet banished me from their regular ash-tapping caucuses in the courtyard between classes.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
I’m totally comfortable with my sunny healthy ways and all, but I’m also the first to admit that there are times when I wish I could share in their nicotine-craving solidarity. Mostly because I hate to be completely clueless in a conversation. But what does a healthy little fart know about the finer points of ash-flicking finger placement? Or about the best “smoking stance?” And yes, sometimes I get a little jealous that I can’t savor in the 30 minutes of heaven, also known as a “luxury cigarette.” But I'm the most jealous when they dreamily talk about the glove. You see, each of my friends (the female ones) have all decided on her own perfect smoking glove - the one that would most complement her sleek, white cigarette. And as they talk about the various colors and cuts and lace trimmings, I can only think, gloves, clothes, fashion!! Sleek and white! How is it that I have NOTHING TO SAY?
Last month, I thought maybe I’d found a way to wangle myself into these conversations. I’d just gotten home from my first full day of school, during which our portfolio professor reminded us that we are now working on the pieces that will actually get us jobs. Thus, he encouraged us to go ahead and just move right into the creative lab this semester lest we be asked to gracefully exit the creative sequence. I think what he meant was, “Work hard and care about your work.” But of course what I heard was that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life living in a cardboard box downtown, I’d have to SELL MY SOUL to taglines. That I’d have to completely give up full nights of sleep, blond-haired and blue-eyed sexiness and early morning workouts in exchange for spending all my days and nights on the 6th floor of the communications building in a windowless lab full of germy computers. And all for a career that I may or may not want. But just as I was about to shift into full panic,
I suddenly had a ferocious craving: I need a Blow Pop. RIGHT NOW.
I suddenly forgot all about windowless labs and cardboard boxes. Because all I could think about was Blow Pops. SWEET, STICKY PURE SUGAR ON A STICK! If I could just have ONE Blow Pop, I was certain that this claustrophobic, heart-racing shortness of breath would stop. So even though it was half past bedtime and I had a gym to get to in less than 7 hours, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the nearest candy aisle.
And while I was driving, taking deep breaths and feeling a little crazy, it dawned on me that this is what it must feel like to need a cigarette! And I couldn’t wait to call my friends and tell them to make room in the corner of the courtyard because I would be there the next time – with something to say! As I scrolled through the names on my phone, I could already picture it. I would have my own signature stance, my own finger placement technique! And of course, THE GLOVE! I'd be included in the starry-eyed glove talk! I’d finally have a perfect glove to complement my sleek, wh-, I mean, brightly colored fruit candy with a bubble gum filling.
Which is when I put down the phone. Even a princess knows when to throw in her squeaky clean, pink towel.
10/11/2008
When you're so immersed in a semester that you start posting schoolwork on your blog
My response to a recent in-class writing assignment loosely based on 55 flash fiction. Our only rules were that it be 55 words, be about death or love and written in 10 minutes:
Autumn is so ugly. Beautiful, blazing New England fall foliage, whatever. Those brilliant reds and oranges say, "dying." Leaves are dying, summer is dying, strappy shoe season is dying. Boutiques start bringing out brown and beige and brownish beige. But most importantly, autumn is the harbinger of a new school year. Which means I'm dying.
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