metaness's Open Salon Blog

Metafirsts (for Nabina)

Mon, 3 Aug 2009 20:08:40 -0400

This post has a metaness quotient of zero (no metas).

At the entreaty of their dear friend, Nabina, Melissa and Michael have agreed to discuss their firsts. Are you ready, Michael?

Yes, I’m ready.

Melissa?

Sure. Fire away.

Here is your first “first”, then: The FIRST outstation stay.

What’s an “outstation stay”?

I’m not sure, but if you read Nabina’s post, it seems to be about the first place you traveled to away from home. What I’m not sure of is how it’s different from your first sleepover, but I think it has to do with distance. That’s my guess, anyway. So let’s go with that.

That would be when I traveled with my “Uncle” Jim following behind my grandfather on our way to Phoenix, Arizona, shortly after my grandmother died. I spent one night there and left the next morning with my grandpa.

     I just remembered a joke I told my uncle that night while driving. I was in the back, leaning over the front seat, and I told him a joke I’d learned in my fourth-grade class. I remember padding it quite a bit, thinking, “I gotta make it interesting for an adult. So I gotta add a lot more words.” When I finished, Uncle Jim let out the heartiest laugh. That was one of my favorite things about him. Hearty laughter.

What was the joke?!

Well, remember, this is a ten-year–old’s joke, so we’re not talking about the height of humor.

I don’t care. You have to tell it.

Okay. A father takes his son, who is just learning to talk, to the airport. As the plane’s taking off, the father says, “Takeoff!” And his son says, “Takeofff!” Then he takes his son to the zoo, and they’re standing by the zebras, and the father says, “Zebra!” (You can probably see where this is going.) And the son says, “Zebraa!” Finally, the father takes the son to the hospital. They go to the delivery room, and the father says, “Baby!” And the son says, “Babyy!” When they get home, the mother asks, “What did you learn today, son?” And the son replies, with great pride, “Take off ze-bra, baby!”

Hahaha. I think mine would be driving to San Bernadino to visit my Uncle George. He was really my great uncle. I remember being about three and swimming for hours upon hours in his pool. Maybe I was a little older then, I’m not sure. I just remember my mom having to bring me a piece of bread with peanut butter on it because I wouldn’t get out of the pool. I hung onto the side, kicking my legs, while I ate the most delicious piece of bread in the world.

I know what you mean about after-swimming food. For me, it was a banana. That was the best banana I had ever eaten, maybe even the best food.

Yeah! Isn’t it amazing how delicious swimming for hours makes food taste?

Yes, swimming allows you to become distracted enough to not notice how exhausted you’re becoming.

And how hungry you’ve gotten, which is why the food tastes so yummy!

Who was your FIRST prom date?

I didn’t go to my prom, but I did half-jokingly ask one of the waitresses at the steakhouse where I worked to go with me.

What did she say?

“Yes.” It was a big joke at the restaurant. But as the day got closer, I started thinking, “Wow, if I really did show up with her, that would sure put me in good standing with the guys.” I can’t believe I used to think like that.

Haha. Was she a lot older than you?

Much. Probably in her early thirties.

I bet she was flattered that you asked her.

Maybe. I was also kind of afraid of her. She was really tough to work for as a busboy. Very demanding.

I didn’t go to the prom, either. All of that socializing stuff made me uncomfortable. Not because I was an outsider or anything. I had lots of friends. I just made it clear I was focused on my studies and wasn’t interested in the social life aspect of high school—sports games and dances and all that crap. I was too busy spending eight hours a day on homework.

Who was your FIRST love and do you still talk with him/her?

That would be you, Michael! And yes, I guess you could say I still talk to you.

Even though there were others I thought of as having loved, I didn’t really know the meaning of the word until you showed me.

Awww.

(kiss)

Who was your FIRST crush?

Mine was a girl in first-grade named Cindy. She didn’t know I existed, but she had a haircut like one of the girls I had a crush on in the Little Rascals. I just thought of something. Wouldn’t my first crush then be the little girl in the Little Rascals?

Well, we’re probably talking real people here. But which little girl?

I doubt you know her. She’s from the earlier episodes, before they even had sound. But I believe her last name was “Darling.”

Let’s look her up.

Yeah! Jean Darling.

I wanna see a picture.

     Aww, she’s cute. So I guess if Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart don’t count, I’d have to say Justin. Maybe it’s because I was drawn to that name—it’s what I would’ve been called if I’d been a boy, after one of the Moody Blues members. This was in second grade, and Justin lived across the street. He was in my class, too. Weird thing is, I barely remember ever talking to him, and I’m not even sure why I liked him, other than the name! I think I was too young to really understand what a crush meant then. I just knew I was expected to have one, so that’s who I picked at the time.

What was your FIRST alcoholic drink?

That would be kahlua. Anything coffee-related got my attention. There was a bottle of kahlua in the kitchen that lasted for probably a year. I just remember pouring a teeny amount into my coffee, usually when I was pulling an all-nighter doing a research paper or something. I think maybe I was in seventh or eighth grade then.

I was around nine or ten and was attending a wedding, where I began sneaking drinks of champagne. I found out that day what kind of a drunk I was. I proposed to every woman I met.

Hahaha! How adorable.

What was your FIRST job?

That would be a summer job working at March Air Force base while I was still in high school. My favorite part of the job entailed painting signs, which I liked but was terrible at.

Really?

Yeah, I learned how easy it is to lift all your hard work up with masking tape if you’re not careful. But I also found out how cool people in the military tend to be. It’s not their money, after all. (performs) “Just make another sign.” Other than that, I swept warehouses with sweeping compound and cleaned toilets.

     That was the job where the airman told me to climb up on this huge dumpster, and when he saw me scamper up there, he exclaimed, “Man, you’d make a great thief!” I was so proud of that.

Haha. If you don’t count the decals I used to color in for Danny’s silkscreens, I guess my first job would be working at the library in college. I remember before I even started classes, I marched into the library director’s office. I knew I wanted to work with books, and I couldn’t imagine a better place than the library. They didn’t have any openings, but they hired me anyway because they could see how passionate I was. I got to make signs, too—on the computer.

I remember those! Remember they had a mistake in them that you had to correct?

I had a mistake?! I don’t remember that at all. How bizarre. But then I ended up working in every other area of the library over the next few years—cataloging, acquisitions, the bindery, circulation, periodicals, pretty much anywhere I was needed. I even got to be the interim head of acquisitions after my boss left one summer.

What was your FIRST car?

A Mercury Capri that I lowered, chopped, and basically turned into a Frankenstein car. It never got out of primer. It was great.

Hahaha. Yeah, it was cool. It looked like it belonged in some sci-fi movie or something.

Yeah. It wasn’t the one of the early model Capris, though. It was the 1979 model.

I guess my first car would be our first car together—the 1955 oval window ragtop bug. Blue. Just like our current car, only a lot less reliable. Although the way our car has been acting lately, maybe not so much.

Haha.

Your FIRST air ride?

Hmm. That’s hard, because I started flying back East to visit relatives every summer by myself starting in third grade, I think. But before that, I was probably about two or three when we flew back to New York to visit my Grandma Alice. She was dying of lung cancer, and we visited her in the hospital. I barely remember it, but I do remember being by the hospital bed looking up at her, and she was very kind. I think she gave me a ragdoll. My mom told me she talked about how beautiful I was. I remember how heartbroken my mom was because she had really connected with Alice in a way she hadn’t with the rest of Danny’s family. They were both introverted, artistic, sensitive souls. I wish I had been able to get to know her better.

Mine would be with the second family I was living with—Betty and Don. Two of her natural children, Jon and Elizabeth, and I flew with Betty to Indianapolis to see her sister. She was married without children and had two Siamese cats. They were very quiet people, so we were told we couldn’t make too much noise while we were there. My fondest memories of the place were the huge backyards with no fences and watching the black-and-white version of Superman. It made it almost seem like I had gone back in time to a quieter place.

Like Willoughby? Only with television.

Who was the FIRST person to text you today?

We don’t text. Ever.

Haha.

Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning?

That would be you, again, Michael. I was worried you had forgotten to eat, and I heard you heating up the macaroni and beans, so I was relieved you were eating, even if it was your usual crap.

Well, my morning would’ve been last night when I got up, and I’m not sure if it was you or Christine, because I remember asking if you’d finished sending the corrections for her manuscript.

Right. And I had!

Yay!

Who was your FIRST-grade teacher?

My first first-grade was interrupted only a few days into it, and the name of the teacher at my second first-grade completely escapes me. At least I remember the name of the girl I had a crush on!

The name of my first-grade teacher was Mrs. Hunt. I don’t really remember that much about her. It was the only year of school I spent in Long Beach, but I went to the same school my mom had gone to as a child. Birney Elementary. My favorite thing about it was the rings. I would spend all my recess time hanging and swinging from ring to ring, like a monkey.

You also liked pullup bars. I remember that.

Yeah, that’s how I split my chin open when I was about five. I was swinging on the bar in our kitchen doorway and fell. My mom did a butterfly bandage, and it healed quite well. I probably got right back up on the bar and started swinging again. I was addicted. That’s probably why I always beat everyone, including the boys, at pullup exercises and even situps, too. And running.

You make yourself sound like quite an athlete!

Haha. That’s funny, because I was mostly an academic and never really got involved in sports. But at recess, I loved playing and just doing athletic things on my own, not with a team or anything.

I guess you are kind of Pippi-like. Without the magical powers, that is. Or are you keeping something from me?

Hahaha.

Who was your FIRST best friend & do you still talk?

My first best friend was named Stephen, and the thing I remember most about him was us making up a song together in my room while I laid on the top bunk and he laid on the bottom bunk. It went something like this:

     (sings) And when you get down there, whaddyou see?

     And Stephen said, “A picture of . . . a doozle!”

     We both laughed so hard at that.

That’s where that comes from?!

Uh-huh. I lost touch with him after my grandmother died and we moved away.

Mine would be Laura, who was about three years older than me. I always had friends who were older than me, probably because I was more mature than most of my peers. Laura and her cousin Dee Dee lived down the street from me in Long Beach at their grandmother’s house. Dee Dee’s mom, Boo Boo, and dad were usually in prison, so that’s why she lived with her grandparents. Laura divided her time between living with her grandparents and her mom and dad, who I think had problems with alcoholism (although I remember her mom being quite sweet). So Laura and Dee Dee came as a package, but I was always much closer to Laura. I was so upset when my mom finally gave in and married Danny and we had to move away from Long Beach.

Did you ever see her again?

Yeah, she visited me years later, and I remember going to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at the movies with her. The house featured in the movie actually belonged to one of her classmates. That was the last time I was in touch with her. But I remember looking her up online a couple of years ago, and I think I may have found her. I remember her saying something about having a daughter and working in a bowling alley. I never tried to contact her.

Where was your FIRST sleepover?

My first sleepover was not at a friend’s house, but our next-door neighbor’s house. My grandparents had to go somewhere, I forget where, if I ever knew. And the three things I remember about the neighbors were: (1) my grandparents lent them $2,000 that they never repaid and instead sent a note saying they hoped God would bless them with the money; (2) I laughed when the mother told me her children were afraid to sit on the toilet because they believed Satan would reach up and grab them; and (3) (and this is related to #2) she slapped me. For laughing.

Wow. Was that the first time anything like that had ever happened to you before?

Yes. Whenever my grandmother punished me (my grandfather never did), she would paddle me with a wooden spoon.

Ouch. So my first sleepover would be Laura and Dee Dee’s. I remember being terribly homesick, even though my mom was right down the street. I was definitely a Mommy’s girl.

Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Later, I did have quite a few sleepovers there and had a lot of fun. I remember their grandma Pauline kept jars of candy in the livingroom, which I always found so exotic. We didn’t tend to have a lot of candy and crap at home, so I indulged when I visited friends who did. I also remember staying up late and secretly watching cable movies while their uncle sat in the recliner and drank beer. And I remember being traumatized when we were snooping one time and found black-and-white pictures of Dee Dee’s parents naked. It was very disturbing and embarrassing.

Who was the FIRST person you talked to today?

Each other.

Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time?

I was in my grandfather and Pat’s wedding. I was the ring bearer.

Did you realize at the time how horrible she was, or did you only find that out after they got married?

Only after. She went from being so very nice to ugly step-grandmother overnight. Although she insisted on being called “Mom.” She said she wasn’t old enough to be called a grandmother yet.

Did you actually call her “Mom”? I can’t imagine you doing that, just like I can’t imagine calling Danny “Dad.”

Well, right after the wedding, when we went back to the condominium my grandfather and I had been living in, my grandfather whispered to me, “Call her ‘Mom’.” I remember going into the darkened kitchen and trying to work up the nerve to do that. Suddenly, a welling of love filled me, and I went back in and called her “Mom.” It was a very happy time for all of us. A very rare time indeed.

Mmm. The first wedding I was in was my mom’s and Danny’s. I was six and a half, and I was the flower girl. I remember actually crying, but I didn’t understand why. Like you, I didn’t realize at the time how much I was going to hate living with Danny. Didn’t matter that he was my real father. I never thought of him that way. He was just this stranger who was interfering with our life. I just wanted to keep living with my mom and grandma. I never saw the need for a father, really.

That need was in your mom, invisible to you.

No, I don’t get the sense that she felt that way. I think she just decided to finally give in to his marriage proposals after seven or eight years of resisting, maybe because it seemed like time for her to have her own home. She should’ve stuck with her intuition.

What was the FIRST thing you did this morning?

Waved hello to you, Melissa.

Yes, and I guess I did the same to you when I got up this morning. Then I went and said “Hi” to the birdies.

I don’t think you waved to me. I think you kissed me on the cheek.

Oh, you’re right.

What was the FIRST concert you ever went to?

The first and only concert I’ve ever been to was a KISS concert at the Anaheim Convention Center during my senior year of high school. It was a dream of a group of friends of mine, each identifying with one of the personas of KISS (mine was Gene Simmons). I remember a kid from my woodshop class I didn’t know very well walked up to us while we were talking about going and asked if he could go, too. And I said, “Sure!” He wrote in my yearbook how much that whole experience meant to him. I’m always touched when I read that. I’m so glad I said “Yes” that day. Have you ever been to a concert?

Yes, two! The Moody Blues and the Beach Boys.

You’re kidding? I had no idea. Do you remember those experiences very well?

Barely. I can’t remember which one was first. I was probably around six. It was with my mom, of course. I think the Moody Blues left the biggest impact because I always found their music so moving. “Tuesday Afternoon,” especially.

Yes. During the darkest days of living with my grandfather and Pat, “Nights in White Satin” was playing on the radio, and I memorized the poem that was read along with that song. It began, “Breathe deep, the gathering gloom, watch lights fade from every room.”

Mmm. They stopped playing that poem with the song later on, but I remember it from my mom’s reel-to-reel tapes. She used to tape all of the radio programs, and so I think she even had Wolfman Jack on some of those. I wonder if she still has that reel-to-reel player, and if any of those tapes are still playable. That would be an amazing time capsule.

Yes, and now I’m wondering if you didn’t get this recording obsession from your mom.

Oooh, I never thought of that, but I bet you’re right.

Is she obsessive about recording anything else?

Yes, when she was younger and had a lot more energy. She used to take meticulous notes in her calendars and stuff. I asked her recently if she still had those, and she laughed and said, “No.” I told her I wished she had kept those, and she said they were just silly girl things. But I know a lot of it had to do with the Beatles and Lord of the Rings.

Did your mom have a favorite Beatle? I bet it was George.

Wow, I’m not actually sure. You’re probably right, though. Or it could easily be John Lennon. I’ll have to ask her. I remember her talking about being around after a Monkees concert—is that what it was?

Well, first of all, The Monkees aren’t a real group. Although there are some people who would vehemently argue otherwise. They are, in fact, actors hired to play musicians in a group.

Did they actually give concerts?

How could they? They weren’t musicians. They would’ve had to fake it.

Oh!!! I just realized! It was actually the Moody Blues! Their first concert after coming to the U.S. I remember my mom said something about them having visa problems or something. I think it was Justin, my mom’s favorite, who asked if he could have a sip of her Pepsi. Or was it Coke? Either way, I remember she kept the can for years. She may even still have it. I really need to ask her about this again. But that also made me remember it was at a Moody Blues concert that my mom met Danny. So the Moody Blues had a lot to do with my being born.

Your FIRST tattoo?

Hahaha!

(smiles) Why don’t you go first?

Haha. Okay, that’ll be easy, since I don’t have any. But I’ve thought about getting one on my back someday to cover up the acne scars. Okay, that was embarrassing, so yours shouldn’t be too bad, now.

Ppptt!

Remember when the nurse in the hospital asked you about it after your gall bladder surgery? That was funny.

I don’t. What did she ask?

I can’t remember exactly, but I explained this actually happened in the eighties, hence the unicorn and the rainbow. And the name of another woman.

(silence)

Hahaha.

Actually, since this is about firsts, I got the unicorn with the name first. I only added the rainbow and the cloud—and you forgot the little lightning bolt—

Hahahaha!

—after I saw one of my Marine friends with a much fuller tattoo than my original unicorn. The funny thing was, I asked for a white unicorn, which I guess is impossible, so the one I have looks kind of bluish-green. But it looks blue enough to look like a blue unicorn, which at the time was a popular kind of acid. I’ve never taken it, of course.

Haha. Did anyone ever ask you about that?

Of course not. It’s just my paranoia.

FIRST piercing?

My first and only piercing is in my left earlobe. I got it at the mall.

Don’t forget to add that it was in the eighties!

The fecking eighties.

Hahaha!

What happened to our minds?!

Yes, I used to make fun of the seventies for their poor taste, but I’d take chartreuse-and-orange paisley over salmon-and-turquoise flipflops anyday. Although just as I came to love the orange and green I once hated as a child, I’m now coming to appreciate the coral and turquoise I despised in the nineties. I think it’s all relative. Whatever you get sick of, you later get nostalgic for. And the corporate media plays on those cycles of nostalgia.

Have you even answered your question yet?

Whoops. So my only piercing is my ears. I think it was sixth grade. I got mine at the mall, too. Afterthoughts or some creepy girly store like that.

We both got our ears piereced at the mall? Are you sure we’re interesting enough to be writing this?

Oh, come on.

The FIRST foreign country you've been to?

The only foreign country I’ve been to is Mexico, and that was late in my life. I went with some friends, and we did normal American touristy things—drank, visited shops, bought nunchucks. Well, I guess that last one isn’t so normal. The nunchucks got confiscated at the border, and we were let go with a warning. Those nunchucks were so cool, too. They were made out of a black, lightweight metal that screwed together to form one piece. I’d learned to do nunchucks from the maître d’ at that steakhouse I worked at. I got pretty good at them, too. I made a pair in my woodshop class. I told my woodshop teacher they were handles (a lie) for the snowsled a friend and I were making (which we were). Of course, he didn’t believe a word of it, but he knew I didn’t mean any harm with them, so he just smiled and walked away.

I think my first was Mexico, too. Although most Mexicans I know don’t really consider Tijuana Mexico. I was probably about seven or eight. I just stayed in the car most of the time while we drove around the colorful streets. I remember thinking it was weird that they confiscated something as innocent as fruit and vegetables. I couldn’t understand at the time why they’d do that.

Well, you know, once the nunchucks fail you, you can begin throwing cantaloupes and avocados. It’s martial produce arts.

Hahaha.

And the FIRST movie you remember seeing in the theater?

I remember mine. It was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. A Saturday matinee. Lots of screaming kids, who halfway through the movie became bored and began roaming the theater. It was kid heaven.

Haha. I don’t know if this is the first, but it’s the first I remember. Star Wars.

I think I just recently read someone else who mentioned that Star Wars was their first movie. I don’t remember who, though.

I’ll have to ask my mom to make sure, but that seems right. And I don’t know if it was after that movie, but it could be, when we came home and learned our cat Pippin had been hit by a car. That was our first Pippin. We had two more—all of them gray shorthairs—and they all came to similarly tragic ends. I wonder if it’s because they blend into the asphalt more easily, which makes them vulnerable to getting hit by cars. I was devastated each time.

FIRST Detention you had?

I can’t remember ever getting a detention of any kind.

I was constantly getting in trouble in the fourth grade, when I found out how much attention I got for being funny or disruptive. But one time, I did something bad enough to get me sent to the principal’s office.

Really? What was it?

I can’t remember. I’m sure it was something minor. I didn’t get a literal detention, but I was detained.

Haha.

What was the FIRST state you lived in?

California.

If you had three wishes, what would the FIRST one be?

I remember getting questions like this when I was little, and of course, I would always try to figure out some clever way to answer so I would end up getting an infinite number of wishes. But that does seem like cheating. I guess if I put aside all of the obvious like the eradication of bigotry and hatred and the joining together of humankind to end global destruction, then I would say I wish all of our pending creative projects would finally be completed, and we could begin working on new ones!

Well, I was going to say I wish the hopes and dreams of the sixties would’ve come to fruition, but you pretty much covered that with your eradication of bigotry and hatred and joining together of humankind. So I guess I would say I wish one of our projects would be successful enough that we could begin to help financially all of those people we’ve been having to stand by and watch struggle all these years.

What is the FIRST thing you would learn if you had the chance?

How to play the piano.

Really? I was going to say the cello.

Well, at least we’re both musically minded!

Yes, learning an instrument is the one thing I never really got a chance to do. Except for the little bit my grandma taught me on an out-of-tune hand-me-down piano.

Which brings us to the end of metaness’s firsts post. Try saying that five times fast, why don’t you?

That was actually kind of fun. Thanks, Nabina!

Yes, thanks for the motivation.

L  E  G  E  N  D
letters = sequential meta conversations
                   (C occurred after B, B after A, etc.)
numbers = mini-meta tangents within meta conversations
quoted letters = prior meta conversations

You Know What I Just Realized Our Apartment Is Like?

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 22:07:55 -0400

Here, at last, is the long-ago–promised Tinkerbell post. It was written almost two months ago, before we had formalized our lettering system. We apologize in advance for the extreme metaness of this post.

(scratching nails down sliding glass door)

Oh my gosh. She has the most irritating way of getting attention possible.

She’s a genius.

We’re gonna have to stop feeding her.

But she always seems so starving.

Don’t her real Mama and Daddy ever feed her?

I wonder what happened to her sister. I never see her anymore.

I was thinking the same thing a while back. I thought maybe she just likes to stay indoors, or maybe the couple separated and split the kitties up.

Possible. Hopeful.

Yes, I have to think of happy reasons why we haven’t seen her.

     (H) I always think it’s funny that we think a couple splitting up is happy, hopeful here.

(H) Hahaha!

     (H1) I said three “Haha”s, but that would actually be, “Haha Haha Haha!”

     (H1) Hahahahahaha!

     This is becoming morose.

     See what happens when we give up subjects?

     (N) This happened so long ago. I would never talk about subjects now, love.

(N) I know. I was just about to interject with an explanation. I—

(N) No! No explanations.

(later)

You know what I just realized our apartment is like? A miniature junkyard. Let me be more specific. It’s like the scene of all these miniature junkyards. Like a miniature junkyard museum.

     (H) I still feel like a giant every time I look at these diecast cars. I mean, I don’t know what the scale difference is between them, exactly.

     (I) Okay, I think we need to clarify, because I don’t want people thinking I’m having trouble distinguishing between this HotWheels car and a full-sized car. No, no. These are small-scale versions of—and we’ll have to verify this—a 1/24 scale version of show cars designed by Tom Daniel.

(J) What you’re saying here is even more confusing to me, so I don’t know if it’s going to be very helpful to our reader.

(J) (head pendulating)

(J) Tinkerbell’s back. She’s trying to peek around the swinging vertical blind.

(J) (laughing)

(J) We’ve lost it.

     (H) And even accounting for the normal difference between what you perceive as an adult and what you perceived as a child—in other words, that fence out front that you looked up at when you were a child and thought was so high, to you as an adult might just break over your knees.

(B) Which would make you a really tiny child!

(B) Melissa. Children are this tall! (holding hand about two feet off the ground)

     (J) Okay, I’m not going to say, “Children are this tall.” That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Children only coming in one size.

(B) That would make them a toddler.

(A) [ . . . might just break over your knees.] A completely different interpretation of the same thing that you’re looking at. The only difference is that you’ve grown up. You’re now physically taller.

     (K) What’s that bracket business? I am just mystified every time you read it.

(K) I’m about to explain it!

     (G) Okay, I’ve sort of just introduced a new convention. If one of our asides from the future interrupts what we’re in the middle of saying, and it’s too hard to figure out what’s being said when you jump into the next part, we can bracket the last part of what was said before the interruption at the beginning of the part where it picks up. Does that sound okay?

(G) Guess so.

     (K) Yeah, it sounds good, but I have absolutely no idea what it means! I mean, you’d have to read that again a couple times. Did you actually say that? This is insane.

(K) It’s only confusing because I’m reading it out loud to you, and you’re not looking at the actual brackets. If you were reading it, it would be obvious.

(K) Really? Because when you’ve read it, and you’ve read it out a couple of times, I keep thinking, “What does this mean?”

(G) Okay, good.

(A) I think I’ve figured it out. I think they’re one-and-a-half times smaller. So that means it would make it seem to me like I’m one-and-a-half times bigger. So if I’m six feet, one-and-a-half times bigger would make me nine feet tall! And so I’m looking at this little car, and I’m saying, “How the hell did I get so big?”

(a bit later)

I have a life of the imagination. When I’m sitting somewhere, I’m not there. I’m somewhere else. I may be in the middle of a piece of code, trying to figure out why it’s not working. Or I may be in a story, seeing what the protagonist will do next. Or I may even be earlier in the day, thinking about how something could have gone so much better.

So when you’re there in that moment, you’re not there.

Right.

But, when you’re there later, in your head, you’re THERE!

Right! When I just discussed it now, I’m discussing the time there, and I find myself transported back to that time. Now, here’s the funny thing. That time didn’t really exist. There was no there to go back to. It’s ’cuz I imagined the time itself as just an aspect of a story I was creating in my own mind to place myself in a something—

     Wow, I just had that in my mind. And then it vaporized.

That’s ’cuz you realized you were on.

Maybe. . . . Darn it. Oh well.

I can read it back to you!

     (reads back)

Yeah! That is exactly where I was. Very good.

     So there are definitely certain benefits to this, to record exactly what we were saying. But the pauses that are necessary to capture it can sometimes become distracting. Admittedly, though, it lets you think a little more quickly on your feet.

     (C) I got an experiment for us to do.

(C) What?

(C) The next time the birdies are fussing, we turn on the downstairs bathroom fan and see if it calms them down.

(C) How come?

(C) Well, because I realized I had left the downstairs bathroom fan on almost all day, forgetting about it, and the birdies were uncharacteristically quiet. When I would check on them, they would just be sitting there happily snoozing or preening or whatever—

     (C) If we’re going to keep doing this, we’ll need to get you one of those court recorder machines.

(C) Court reporter machines?

(C) Court recorder.

(C) Court re-port-er. Yeah, but then I’d have to learn that technology—isn’t it different from the standard keyboard?

(C) Yeah. It’s not a court recorder? ’Cuz then you could be confused with a reporter from a newspaper or something. “Yeah, I’m a court reporter. I report from the court.”

(C) (reads from Wikipedia) “A court reporter, stenotype reporter, voice writer or stenomask writer”—

(C) Yeah, that’s that thing we’re seeing in The Sweet Hereafter—a stenomask.

(C) And it’s always so perplexing to watch, it really distracts from the scene ’cuz it’s so bizarre-looking.

(C) Yes, it does surprise me that Atom would put it there, especially at that moment.

(C) Well, like he said in one of his interviews, he was just being authentic. That’s the way the setup would be in a standard deposition.

(C) Okay, I know. But it’s like how a GUI is most perfect when it is most transparent to the user.

(C) Yes, so you actually have to fake some things to make it seem more real.

(C) Dang it, I’ve got the hiccups!

(C) I know! I was just about to tell you to drink some water upside-down.

(C) I don’t, I try not to do that. Because all those water-drinking techniques just end up making me have a bursting tummy and hiccups.

(C) You just aren’t doing it right.

(C) Well, my hiccups are gone now. And I didn’t have to do any technique. Seems like if you catch them quickly enough before they have a chance to set in that rhythm of theirs, then you can actually kind of carefully—hmm. This is hard to describe—

(C) So it is a technique?

(C) I suppose. Perhaps I just haven’t examined it before. I mean, I used to use a technique that I could tell you about. It was something I laughingly called “willing them away,” where you tense every muscle of your upper body while holding your breath. It seems like all the best techniques involve something about breathing. It probably has something to do with—well, I don’t know. Who knows? I don’t know. You know. I think we may have slightly gotten off track, again.

(C) Okay, so we went from the bizarre stenographer in The Sweet Hereafter—

(C) Yes.

(C) To the transparent GUI.

     (C) And then I said something about having to fake something to make it look real—which I was really still thinking about that scene from The Sweet Hereafter. In other words, I was saying, in order to make the scene more transparent—like you’re saying occurs in a good GUI—

(C) Okay.

(C) Atom would have had to fake the scene a bit. I mean, remove the bizarre stenographer or take away that mask and replace it with some more traditional-looking court-reporting equipment.

     (F) I realize this is funny what I’m saying. That a director would have to “fake” a scene—as if what he’s doing isn’t already faking it. But he really is trying to capture the situation as authentically as possible, so what I mean is he would intentionally have to make it not as authentic in order to make it more believable to people. Like how in that early radio program, they used a real pistol shot, and people laughed at it because it sounded ridiculous. Like caps going off. So they started using special effects to make it sound like how we expect it to sound.

(C) That wouldn’t be necessary. All that would be needed is some introductory scene earlier in the film where we see this court reporter getting her equipment out, then setting up so that toward the end when this occurs, we are not so distracted by this odd-looking thing.

     (C) Okay now, for instance, this—

(C) Meow!

(C) (to Tinkerbell) Whatchyoudoin’?

     (C) Contrast this with the burning easy chair in Box of Moonlight.

     (K) Now, do you think we need to indicate that I’m saying this part to you?

(K) No—

(K) That would be funny to think that I would be saying that line to Tinkerbell.

(C) Meooow!

(C) (to Tinkerbell) Bad girl.

     (C) That’s another remarkable scene. But it doesn’t throw us off at all, it’s just incorporated into what we see. In the director’s commentary, DeCillo said this is something that was just occurring—he didn’t start the fire himself.

(C) I wonder how aware he was of how perfect a symbol that easy chair was for Al’s transformation—from the staid, reliable, hardworking Al Fountain to the more playful, wild, and even a bit dangerous Al under the influence of the Kid.

(K) Wait a minute. Did you say “dangerous”?

(K) I meant “dangerous” in the sense of—

(K) I would just say “reckless,” he became more reckless. That’s all. He became more of a thrillseeker, but he probably ended up settling back into his life somewhat. There’re still these aspects of it—I’m not sure. Like things unaddressed.

     (L) Who are we talking about?

     (L) Is this the next thread? Oh my God.

     (L) Melissa. “(L)” . . . “(M)”—we’re only one away from halfway through the alphabet! I thought we agreed that if we get to “(M)”, we’ve gone too far.

(L) Oh no! You can’t say that.

(L) Why not?

(L) Because I accidentally skipped the “(D)”s and now we have to go back and adjust all the letters, so what you’re referring to as “(L)” is actually “(K)”—

(L) Oh, I see!

     (L) So it’s only one back. We’re two away.

     (L) Still. Help us.

(C) Meow! Meoow!

(C) (to Tinkerbell) What is it? You’re kidding. Do you realize what time it is? Don’t you need to go home? We’re gonna have to close the door. We’re gonna have to close the door. I just feel bad about it.

(C) (dragging claw down aluminum screen door frame)

(C) (to Tinkerbell) Don’t. Don’t. You must know how obnoxious that is.

     (C) Is there any way of landing this one back down to earth?

     (C) Does this ever get more than four layers deep? I hope not. We never get back to our original things.

     (E) What’re you doing?

(E) Adding all the meta layers. We need to get them straight before . . .

(M) Okay, you will be making a very fatal error if you don’t keep the consistency.

     (M) Can you not say a “fatal” error? I wanna soften that. I’m saying that, but I guess I’m saying that in a programming way. I’m saying if you were to code that up the way it is, you would be producing a fatal error. Why? Because you would be producing an error that would cause the program to no longer work.

     (M) We must finish this post.

(M) I got it!

(M) Wow. You said that like Charlie! I hope it’s as good as a golden ticket.

(M) Um, no. But I realize the missing “(D)” is going to be like the missing thirteenth floor in a hotel building. It’s really technically there. I mean the thirteenth floor doesn’t cease to exist just because it’s called the fourteenth floor.

(M) Okay, I see where you’re going with this. But to me, that’s just us being lazy. I mean yes, there may be a ton of these that have to be changed, but we’re using a text editor. We can just replace them. It’s not that big of a deal. This kind of stuff is done while programming all the time.

(M) No, it’s not that. It’s that we’ve referred to specific letters—like this is “(J)” or this is “(L)”—

(M) Okay, first of all, we need to know what to call these. Because we keep saying threads. But I’m not sure that’s the right term. Maybe they should be called “passes.” They are passes through the text, and each letter represents a different pass. But is that technically accurate? Because before we finish the whole thing, we’ll already start metaing—“(A)”, “(B)”, “(C)” . . .

(C) So after I said, “isn’t it different from the standard keyboard?”, what did you say?

(C) That’s too far back for me to remember.

L  E  G  E  N  D
letters = sequential meta conversations
                   (C occurred after B, B after A, etc.)
numbers = mini-meta tangents within meta conversations
quoted letters = prior meta conversations

OS 2016: Swinging Dicks & Bouncing Boobies (with Puppies!!!)

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 18:07:42 -0400

The post that finally displaced Kaysong’s “My Sexiest Men Living” was titled “Swinging Dicks & Bouncing Boobies (with Puppies!!!)”. It got a 5000 rating and stayed at number one in the Most Viewed column for so long that everyone’s monitor suffered screen burn where the name appeared. The post featured a nude image of Obama that had been surreptitiously captured during a sacred firewalk when Obama was in his late teens. Things were moving around so much that it was hard to get a clear picture, but young Barack seemed happy.

The bouncing boobies belonged to . . .

It has to be someone you’d wanna see but wouldn’t expect. If you thought of Barbara Bush, it’d be like, euhhh, I don’t wanna see that. I’d have to bleach my eyes. You’d rather see . . . Oprah’s boobs! And not just any way. Bouncing boobs.

The bouncing boobies belonged to Oprah, who was secretly videotaped while brushing her teeth and singing her morning songs. It opens with her happily doing the Bakersfield Titty Dance and humming the lyrics to “Fame.” “Hm hmhm hm hmhmhmm! Hm hmhm hm hm hm hmm. High!” After a final spit and rinse, Oprah, as a grand finale, sings, “Oh, you know it’s my thang, woo-woo-woo.”

Sadly, the video was removed because nobody fecks with Oprah and survives. In its place is an image created by twelve-year–old Thomas Decker, a local paperboy/digital artist who euphorically accepted $11.35, a bright green Slurpee, and a dead junebug in exchange for his masterpiece. (The 35¢ is a bribe promised to his little brother, Brian, as a “shut-up” fee. Brian only received a quarter, though, because he kept sitting on Thomas’s empty Spider-Man trash can and farting.)

And the puppies, well, we’ve all seen the puppies. Awww. With their cute little noses and their I-wuv-you personalities. “Whos-a-wittle-wuv-scrum-scrum? Whos-a-wittle-wuvvie-wuv-scrum-scru—”

(clears throat) Ahem, sorry. The post did not budge from its position until seven years later, when President Sarah Palin banned all images of Barack Obama from Sarahpalinland.

No post about OS would be complete without news of its latest row. It revolved around the mandatory inclusion of the ad paralyzer and a TOS stipulation that all content is, to quote Propaganda Minister Kerry “Bring on the Sexy” Lauerman, “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

I’m not even in here!

L E G E N D
letters = sequential meta conversations
(C occurred after B, B after A, etc.)
numbers = mini-meta tangents within meta conversations
quoted letters = prior meta conversations

The Boogeyman Is Keepin’ a Diary

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 01:07:17 -0400

(A) I’ve just decided I’m gonna be in a perpetual state of quitting OS.

(A) Haha.

(A) Every morning I wake up, and I read the front page and I see what people are commenting on and reading and spending their time on, and I get so depressed. I just really wonder if I wanna help contribute to this or not. I mean I’m not gonna change if I stop posting here. I’m just gonna be exactly who I am. But maybe a little happier. Then another part of me says, “But what about all those great friends you’ve made? I can’t let them down.” And the pull of that brings you back. So rather than be surprised every morning, “I’m quitting today!” I’m just gonna be in a perpetual state of quitting.

(A) But in a way, I think that gets at something more profound about how artists do actually have to sacrifice a little bit of themselves to share their light with the world. It’s no longer just about the artist. It’s about the people who are being affected by that art. You suffer a little bit for their sake. But you also gain something meaningful in return.

(A) Yes, but sometimes it’s those same people who cause you to despair. Like that line in the Creedence song, “Lodi”: “Every time, I had to play / while people sat there drunk.” This idea that you are giving as an artist but at the same time, for the people experiencing it, it’s like a given, it’s just something they accept, not anything they actually have to show appreciation for. And for the artists who aren’t doing it for money, it’s even more important that there be some kind of reward.

(C) Yes, and I think that’s why we’ve been particularly blessed to find the sensitive group of readers we have at OS.

(C) Definitely. All of the people we’ve met through here are wonderful. They’re gifted, funny, and real.

(C) Yes, I feel like, by sharing our work with this community of fellow creatives, we’re avoiding the toxic suffocation of writing in a vacuum. It makes me think of that quote by May Sarton: “The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.”

(C) This is interesting. Because while I see this as true in my own art, especially music, I see that it’s true also for how I feel about people. The love and kindness I’m prevented from showing others because I don’t look like a loving and kind person does feel like a heavy burden, and it is becoming a poison.

(C) Right. That quote actually led me to another quote I had forgotten by Marcel Duchamp: “All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world.”

(A) Sometimes, I’ll go through the listing of all the posts, and I’ll see so many people who have only a few views, no ratings, no comments, so many of them. It’s just . . . I don’t know if it’s just me, but I can’t help always noticing the sadnesses in life. It’s not that I don’t see the happinesses. And you and I are very happy together. It’s just I can’t be completely happy when I know that other people are suffering. And if I think about my brothers and sisters in Iraq and Afghanistan—both the military and the civilians who live there—I can’t be happy. And when I think of women who are being treated like a resource, a commodity, like Rolling is describing, I can’t be happy. And when I think of people who because of the way they look or the way they sound or the way they act, they’re despised, ignored, reviled. How can I be happy?

     (A) They’re the least. And I can’t be happy because they’re not allowed to be.

     (A) It must be Sunday. I’m preaching.

(A) On Friday, you were ranting, and on Sunday, you preach.

(A) Well, is there really much difference between ranting and preaching?

(A) Hahaha.

(A) I’m not talking about the great preachers of history, but still, I’m really not in favor of selling God. Let people find God as God wants them to. I don’t think people need the prodding and bashing over the head that some people think they need. Mind your own business. Lead a quiet life. Answer love for love. And love for hate. You win.

(A) Amen.

(sings)

     The boogeyman is keepin’ a diary

     This was his entry for yesterday

     “I bought two ears of corn

     And two bottles of that grape juice I like so much

     Because it was on sale”



     The boogeyman is just like you and me

     The boogeyman has aspirations

     The boogeyman wants to write a great novel

     But he’s been turned down before

     Yes, he’s been turned down before



     The boogeyman’s book’s on grilling

     His favorite are the fish

     But tonight he’s gonna grill some ears of corn

     And visit a girl named Trish



     Trish is only five years old

     And she’s scared of only one thing

     You’re right. It’s him. The old boogeyman.

     But only because he’s vain.

     He’ll talk and talk about his book

     An hour, even two.

     And Trish must wake at strike of eight

     Oh, what is she to do?



     The boogeyman is keepin’ a diary

     This was his entry for today

     “Visited Trish. Happy to see me.

     We talked about the book

     And though she begged

     I had to go

     But not before I killed her.”



     The boogeyman is just like you and me

     The boogeyman has aspirations

     The boogeyman is writing a great novel

     And he just got accepted by Farrar, Straus, and Giroux

     Yes, he just got accepted by Farrar, Straus, and Giroux

(laughing)

(next day)

That term is so creepy. “The Family.” Who else used that term? Jim Jones and Charlie Manson. What did they have in common? Lots of dead people around them.

     (performing)

     “Hey! You’ll love them, World. You cess-pool swilling agents of sin.”

     “Let’s follow them out into the desert! Let’s cut off all ties with our loved ones. Let’s give him all our money and possessions! Let’s completely subvert our own will to follow a madman. What could go wrong?!”

Hahaha.

This reminds me of Safe. That enigmatic movie.

That’s a good word for it. That’s one of the few films I think we had to watch multiple times before really getting a sense of the director’s feelings toward the characters.

Yes. It’s very sophisticated.

Exactly. It’s one of the most subtle and understated films, and yet, when we went back and watched it a second time, I realized how overpoweringly sinister the whole cult experience was. The Leader—

Ah, but see, that’s the thing. Never so sinister that you even wonder sometimes if the director is somewhat sympathetic. That’s what so interesting. It was that brief shot up at the Leader’s mansion, that sinister shot of that mansion on the hill. The director isn’t a part of this—he is just quietly filming it all. Letting the story itself just tell the story, without trying to be so manipulative and giving the audience enough credit to make up our own minds. Very few films let you do that. Movie-making is so manipulative.

Right. That’s why it really needs to be treated by the director with that degree of respect for the audience and sensitivity to the affect of their films on the viewer. Which is why it feels like rape when the director violates that sacred trust.

Yes, don’t even get me started with that “human paraquat” Lars von whatshisfuck. He is a cinematic rapist. (performs) “If I get ever get my hands on him, I’m gonna make him perform sexual acts on strangers for my gratification. But that’s okay, I’m gonna play bells out at sea for him when he dies.”

Haha. Yes, that was brutal. I don’t even want to link to that film because it makes me feel dirty inside.

No fecking way.

(later)

One summer afternoon, when eternity was real to you, and everything was right with the world, and you were probably about eight . . .

(B) Do you remember what you were saying here? I only got that fragment, but it sounded interesting.

(B) Not at all.

(B) Haha.

(B) But it did have to do with something we all experience, usually when we’re young, when we intrinsically understood eternity. Time did not exist for you.

(later)

Getting pissed on. It makes your light go out.

(later)

Those who know the language master the words. Those who know storytelling master the minds.

(later)

Oh! Oh! Can you ask Meryl what her favorite kind of cookie is? I just really need to know.

I bet it’s oatmeal raisin. Or snickerdoodle. Maybe peanut butter chocolate chip.

Melissa, as she would fail to learn, was wrong. Meryl’s favorite cookie, although she is reluctant to admit it—even to herself—is the humble Oreo. With a nice tall glass of milk, of course.

Mmmm.

     I do not talk to well-known people. That is against my religion.

What happens if someone we know becomes well-known?

Who could that happen to?

I don’t know. Us? It could happen. Then we couldn’t talk to ourselves.

I never wanna be famous because that requires you to have to spend too much time appearing a certain way to people. It’s like, once you become larger than life, you need to become that, and the truth is no one is larger than life, and it usually ends up destroying everyone who tries. That’s why you get those depressing “rockumentaries” with the mind-numbing predictability of the rise and fall and rise from the ashes of these biographies. But at heart, you started with someone who had some kernel of something that made them special. And then, the whole thing blows up for them, so they enter this freak world. Where people are treated like no one else in the world. You’re a superstar. But the thing is, you’re that person. You’re that person who had a little spark of something. The same thing everyone has. But now you can’t handle the disappointment of people when you see that “Oh, you’re just a person” look. So you start wearing those platforms, and you start making your hair as tall as it can be, and you glitter as much as you can, and you just try to exude total confidence. But the thing is, you can only fly that close to the sun for so long. Your wings melt. Because it’s all fake. The lifts, the hair, the glitter, the confidence. And so you come sailing back to earth in the form of heavy drug addiction, heavy sex addiction, addiction of some kind. But you come crashing down nevertheless. And then of course, you’ve got your ten years later, your comeback, the happy ending to these things. I remember just finishing watching one of these “rockumentaries” once. I think it was on the lead singer for Motley Crue.

Euuh, that must’ve been pathetic.

Well, what’s more pathetic? I think I’m more pathetic for sitting there and watching the thing.

Hahaha.

And I just remember feeling so thoroughly depressed because the truth of the matter was there was no light in that story. No people’s lives were enriched in any meaningful way. No children were rescued from an orphanage, no mountain lions were saved from extinction. It’s just one sad tragicomedy after another. And it’s like we’re all living inside a machine, and we are the fuel.

     I’m done.

Haha.

I’m surprised I didn’t sing something.

     I guess I’m in rant mode. Because of that fecking Lars!

     I hope someday he’s filming, and the camera tips over and the lens goes in his anus, and he has a really hard time getting it out, and it’s painful. Because that’s how I feel. I feel raped by him, and it would be nice if the same medium he used to rape us would rape him, too! If you’ve ever seen that guy who gets a microphone jammed down his throat at some wedding reception, you know exactly what I’m talking about here. I think the reason people would have trouble getting it unstuck is they would be laughing so hard. (performing) “Hey, Lars has a camera stuck in his ass. Come help get it out!”

Hahaha. Help.

It’s just fair. It’s just life. It makes a perfect kind of black-and-white sense. And there’s a purity of it that’s undeniable. But it’s an insane purity. Like the insanity of wanting a pure master race. Or a pure ideological system.

Yes, I think that’s precisely the danger of fundamentalism. That fascistic obsession over purity, completely at the expense of humanity.

(later)

This guy likes trucks. (performs) “I like trucks!”

Does he just have a bunch of pictures of trucks?

Yes, old ones, new ones. . . . Wow, I never thought of this before. That there could be famous truckers. A former country western star is now a truck driver. That’s very apropros. That’s very believable. I wonder if he ever sang about being a truck driver. I wonder if he likes being one as much as he liked singing about it.

“He does trucker poems.”

That’s right. Today, I am the serpent, and all I have is poison.

     (performing) “That’s a sweet right rig there, man. Got the extra breathing unit.” . . . I definitely do not make fun of people like this, though. They give me faith in humanity.

Yes. Once again, the least.

I find self-indulgently happy people really annoying. I’m not talking about people who are happy because their life is turned around. I mean people who are happy because they don’t think about the bad things that are happening to other people. For them, life is swell. (performs) “I don’t know why anyone doesn’t embrace life!” I don’t know, maybe because some people find life is like embracing a rosebush. Painful. You suffer from it.

It’s like the obliviously happy people are going around and picking all the roses. And they don’t understand why some other person is hurt because all they ended up with was a bunch of thorny stems.

Right. What most people seem to admire so much in other people, I can’t even relate to. I don’t even have the capacity to relate to it. And this isn’t just some later manifestation in my older age. This is something I remember thinking even as a child. That the things that people invest so much psychic energy in just don’t fecking matter. And I could never understand why a person who loved someone couldn’t tell that other someone that they love them. It would be “awkward.” I don’t know, I think it’s more awkward that we can’t show each other our humanity. I think that’s awkward. I am definitely with Robert Frost. That I am going to my grave having lost a lover’s quarrel with the world. I have had nothing but love for people, but because of how most people respond to that, very negatively, that love turns to something else.

“It turns to steaming piss.”

Yep. My extreme hypersensitivity prevents me from getting too close to people. You know, it’s like inviting people to a dart game when you are a hemophiliac.

Getting too close to anyone you think would respond negatively, right? Not everyone in general.

I mean displaying affection toward people who seem lonely or hurt or desperate or scared. They rightly mistrust you. But because of that, I would be hurt. So I can’t do it. I can’t help people the way I would like. I wish I could go to retirement homes and visit with them. I know they’re lonely. I wish I could visit with special children and play games with them and make sure they know how important they are. I wish I could visit prisons and hospitals, but I can’t. My AS is an emotional prison, but it protects me, too. Like a fortress.

That fortress keeps you from being able to experience love, just as much as it protects you from potential harm. I know you have to be extra-careful because of your AS, but I think you would be surprised at how overwhelmingly positive the responses would be if you were to go into any one of those communities you described and offer to share something of yourself.

I have no doubt how overwhelmingly positive it would be. It’s that overwhelming part that’s the problem. The tiniest little thing will break my heart. I would do no good to anyone sitting there balling like a little child. I am too emotional. I am too sensitive to do any of those things.

Ah, but I think if you practiced it more often, you would become more acclimated, and therefore it wouldn’t be quite so painful.

You must think you’re talking to one of the able-minded people here at OS. You certainly aren’t talking to me.

I am, while knowing it sounds unrealistic to you now. But—

No, it sounds impossible. I know how I am. Think of Erin, how she cares for those birds. I could never do that because it requires her to handle them in ways I would find harsh. It’s like a doctor. A doctor is willing to do things that normal people are not. Cut you open, for instance. But without them, a lot of them would die needlessly.

But think about Alex. We spent time with him, and that didn’t bother you. It uplifted your spirit.

Alex is special! Of course, I was completely fine with him. I’m talking about regular people who judge you and make fun of you and mock you and dismiss you. Special people don’t do that.

But of course, you’re focusing on all the negative things that people can do.

Look, I don’t blame you for being an optimist. Don’t blame me for being a pessimist.

Haha! But the thing is, the risk you take in caring for someone is the very definition of love. Making yourself vulnerable to hurt also means making yourself open to love. It’s the closed fist versus the open palm. I choose the open palm. And I think that’s ultimately what you’re doing every day when you wake up, decide you’re quitting, and then get to work on our latest post. You’re opening yourself up to devastating heartbreak, as well as surprisingly joyful friendships. But that risk you ultimately take is done out of love.

L  E  G  E  N  D
letters = sequential meta conversations
                   (C occurred after B, B after A, etc.)
numbers = mini-meta tangents within meta conversations
quoted letters = prior meta conversations

You Mean Like Our Little Floating Heads by the Text?

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 04:07:20 -0400

(sings)

     Where Was Elvis when he died?

     He was poopin’, poopin’, poopin’!

(laughs)

I wish songs could just be that long. I could make a million of them.

     (A) Elvis-lovers are gonna wanna lynch me.

(B) The smallest bit Of Elvis shit was in the possession of a woman who lived in a modest two-bedroom home in Garden Grove, California. Her name was Carol, and she graduated twenty-first out of a class of twenty-eight, an accomplishment for which she received a Velvet Elvis Pin. Thus began her obsession with the “King”. Her Prized Elvis shit was contained in a little green-capped vile filled with a mixture of vodka and Listerine, and it was the size of a pepper flake. It floated there like a potato chip in space, gracefully performing somersaults as Carol waved it to and fro. It was a piece taken from the sample obtained from the doctor who performed the chemical analysis on it to see what was In Elvis’s bloodstream.

(E) Why is that capitalized?

(E) Because it’s a law. Every word that Precedes “Elvis” has to be capitalized.

(E) Hahaha.

(B) (performing) “Oh, hey, wow, you wanna buy a speck Of Elvis shit? I got it from my sister who knows this guy who knew the woman who got it from the guy who took the original piece from the original shit that was in the original toilet That Elvis was sitting on when he originally died. But you can only buy today, ’cuz I’m not gonna be around tomorrow.”

     (C) We’re not gonna do our post tonight, are we? The birds know it. And I know it, too.

(C) I think this is our post.

(C) What?!

(C) If we can actually avoid too much metaing, we have a chance of this being our shortest piece yet.

     (C) That’ll give us more time to finish the epic post in which we work out our new system.

     (C) And after that, we’ll finally be able to publish the Tinkerbell post!

(C) (sings)

     (C) Do-do-do-doo-doo-do do-do-doo-doo

     (C) We sat on bean chairs and sampled sounds

     (C) Slowly destroying our backs, as we soon found

     (C) But still, when I look back on those days,

     (C) I realized the progress we made

     (C) The things that were become, what was to become, too late

     (C) Do-do-do-doo-doo-do do-do-doo-doo

(weeks later)

(D) Corporations have usurped culture. They are the ones who deliver culture to us, and it’s not culture that we’ve created. It’s culture that’s been manufactured for us. Corporations decide who rises, and who gets left behind. And the ones who rise are the ones who are not going to be a threat to them. Corporations are interested in making money, and so they’re always gonna pick somebody who’s gonna make a lot money. But someone like Bob Dylan can fuck their shit up, while someone like Madonna causes everything to sail right along. If anything, she became her own personal corporation. They discuss this in that Hal Hartley film.

(D) Simple Men.

(D) Yes. How Madonna has progressed because, rather than being exploited by others, she was exploiting herself. That was progress.

(D) Only a misogynistic society would think a woman being exploited—whether by others or supposedly by herself—is progress.

(D) Do you think Hal Hartley’s misogynistic?

(D) No, that’s not what I’m saying. He isn’t even saying that. One of his characters is.

(D) But there is really no disagreement to this. I think it is the conclusion of the movie that Madonna has succeeded because she is no longer being used by others; she is using herself. And that reminded me of what we were talking about.

(D) Which was?

(D) It’s interesting, because I can’t even remember now, my train of thought is just so fragile. It’s so easy for me to become lost in my own fantasies, the stories that I create in my mind and relate to you.

     (D) I guess they’re really scenarios, but I always imagine them finding a place in a story somewhere.

(D) Maybe they are all part of one lifelong story. They’re all characters in our collective narrative.

(D) Mmm, I don’t know. What I’m talking about are the things I will speak of and then promptly forget. I don’t see how that’s a part of our life. It’s more like jotting down a note, but for me, it’s storytelling, and so notes for me would be something like, “A person who has a faucet fetish.”

(D) Eeeiu.

(D) Well, that’s not something you may have thought of before. I just now picked it because I was searching my mind for something. I knew it was gonna be a fetish of some kind, because, of course, in storytelling, you have to use titillation to hold interest sometimes. And I just imagined an outdoor faucet and a person looking at it longingly. If I was making a movie, I would wanna show from that person’s perspective that they aren’t just looking at this, this person is in love with this thing. You would hear the love music playing. He would look at the curves of it the way a person looks at the curves of their lover. And then I imagine the wife coming out and almost catching him, and him having to explain it away. You see, that’s just a note to me. If I was ever writing a story, I would like to dip into those notes, giving the characters in the story life through multitudinous human eccentricities.

(F) Hey, if we’ve got titillating content, maybe we’ll get on the cover!

(D) I just thought of an idea.

(D) What?

(D) I want us to test something. We do know that color is possible, is that not true?

(D) That’s true.

(D) I would like us to try color for this metaness. Each meta’s a different color. That way we can get rid of the labels—

(D) Errr—

(D) We’d still have to have the legend, because we’d have to say what the order of the colors is. It occurred to me that when I read metaness, I really see how much enjoyment would come from it only if you could clearly see the metaness of it. A perfect example would be someting like where I say, “Let’s just do a short one,” and then I immediately say “Ha!” Now, that’s not funny in and of itself, but if we notice that the “Ha!” is the letter “(P)”, we know this metaness has gotten out of hand. It is just very meta-high.

(D) And that is precisely why we can’t do away with the letters! The colors don’t indicate any kind of chronology or progression.

(D) Okay, you’re right, I agree. It was just . . . I saw it . . . that by having the text be a completely different color, it would be harder to overlook the fact that it comes from a different time.

     (D) Let’s put it this way, I think an ideal system would be the idea that older text is fainter, and darker text is the most recent thing said. So the original text would be the faintest text, hopefully still legible. Like you said, you would still have to have the letters, but it would give you more of a visual clue as to how early in the conversation this was said or how late it was said. Because it’s not just a superfluous detail. Sometimes the humor relies on noticing the metaness.

(D) Right, but there aren’t anywhere near enough gradations to represent the—

(D) I know but, Melissa. I know that, I understand that. I was just saying how I could see it would be nice.

     (D) I know what the solution would be. I just don’t know if we could implement it at OS. And I think it would be the size of the text. You can see that, can’t you? The bigger the text, the more recently it was said, or what. Even that, I can see having problems. We might as well face it, we’ve probably settled on our system. And so we should stop tinkering for a while and just see how it works.

(D) That’s what we’ve been doing and why we’ve finally been able to start having substantive discussions that don’t center around the development of the system! But the problem is, we’ve got that one ginormous monstrosity of a post we’ve promised mamoore because we just happen to talk about the art in there.

     (G) She’s gonna be disappointed when she sees how little we actually say about it.

(D) I doubt very seriously we’ll ever be able to make that piece postable. It’s just too . . . it’s become like spaghetti prose.

     (H) How about this. What if instead of “Michael:” and “Melissa:”, we just had our pictures?

(H) You mean like our little floating heads by the text?

(H) Why not?

(H) (two hours later)

(H) Look at this!

(H) Hahahahahaha!

(H) (beams)

L  E  G  E  N  D
letters = sequential meta conversations
                   (C occurred after B, B after A, etc.)
numbers = mini-meta tangents within meta conversations
quoted letters = prior meta conversations