Every time my parents fight, I think back to all the times they've previously done so, and at times, it's a blur. There are specific jagged-glass moments I remember, explosive verbal sparring and loud voices that I was sure would not end well. But in these latest fights, at the end of last week and last Sunday morning, I've thought more about a moment in 2005, when my mom, my sister Meridith and I went to the Paseo Colorado shopping center in Pasadena while my dad went to some meeting related to his work, though how it related has long faded from my memory. We went to Gelson's, which there at least was a relatively tiny, yet significantly-priced supermarket, to get some things for lunch (The Gelson's in Encino is an equal shock in price-checking, but with more to offer, though I suspect with the area it's in, those who shop there don't worry about the prices). On the way there by foot, Mom told Meridith and I that she and Dad were done fighting. Days before, there had been yet another verbal battle that made our collective futures unknown. There are words and considerations related to those fights that I don't want to think about right now because of the near-silence of the house in this night, but they always cause great stress, even when doing one's damndest to ignore them.
I don't really remember the severity of that fight, but I do remember a cooling flood of relief when she told us that, so it must have been one of their worst. I think I had more faith in that statement than most other times they had stopped fighting, because I thought it would last. I hoped it would last. Naturally, it didn't last. There have been what must by now be hundreds of fights ever since we moved to Southern California in near-to-late August 2003. Some last only a few minutes; some, as you've learned, last for a few days. When Mom spoke those golden words, I wondered what had caused it to cease. I've always thought there might be some invisible, frayed string still holding them together, but then there are some details not suitable for this entry that make me wonder just how in the hell they've managed to stay together all these years. I've sometimes thought divine intervention caused them to stop, but God would have needed to pay attention all the time to make that happen. I always go back to the invisible string.
I know the fight will continue later today. Whether early in the morning, preventing me from falling asleep until Dad leaves for work, or later in the afternoon when he gets home, I'm not sure yet. Dad never seems to want to make an effort anymore to improve relations, not that he really tried before. Over the years, he's been downright vindictive, nasty, uncaring, you name it. But as before, I don't want to get into those parts right now. Rather, to push out of my mind whatever the possibilities might be today, I want to curl up into a memory. I want to go back to March 21st, my birthday, and one place in particular: The Buena Park Mall, formally called Buena Park Downtown.
We'd come from Downtown Disney, where we spent the day, and Mom asked me if I wanted to stop at the mall. Buena Park, adjacent to Anaheim and near Disneyland, is nice to visit, but if you lived there, you'd notice how depressed it looks. That depression actually gives it an advantage. It directly offers you whatever you might want without ostentation or fanfare, which was the case in this mall. Walking downstairs, you'll find one large store devoted to work uniforms for nurses, for chefs, you name it, they have it. Or at least they had it when I was there. There was a major clothing chain there called Steve & Barry's, which went out of business after it was revealed that they hadn't been paying their vendors, but they had incredible t-shirts. I lost count on how many "M*A*S*H" shirts I bought from there.
I quickly knew the reason I wanted to go to the mall, which was part curiosity about what was there now, but also because we passed by a storefront currently occupied by a liquidation company selling off books from a failed small chain. Huge discounts. I needed to go in. And when I went in, I froze. This was a long-sized store, with tables and tables of books piled on top, the price stickers firmly on the covers. As I discovered after scouring the entire store, not all the books seemed worthwhile. But when I walked in, I was ready to put a bed inside, my 46-inch widescreen TV, and continual transportation service to Disneyland. I felt such joy at seeing all those books that I didn't bother walking the rest of the mall, as my parents and sister did, preferring to look at each stack and see what I might want. Books for $3 and under. There had to be something there and there was, including a book of Spalding Gray's last monologue along with reminiscences by friends and fellow great writers, such as Eric Bogosian. I felt a small pang of sadness, knowing that these books would not be read more widely, but hey, I was there, and my brain was all that mattered. I would read them and that was good enough for me.
I loved being left alone in this makeshift bookstore. The only other person there was the girl at the register, reading something. Some other people walked in, two weren't impressed and walked out. I loved not being asked if I needed help, or not being able to immediately find what I wanted. I didn't know what I wanted. I would only know if I saw it. I considered a few literary anthologies, but there were many years of books for one particular title and chances are I'd just read them and possibly not get anything out of them. They were inexpensive, but my room was already filled with a lot of books, 80% not read. I wanted to give those unread ones a chance.
At one point, I saw "Here at the New Yorker" by Brendan Gill and my hands shot out reflexively and grabbed it. I love "The New Yorker" and had then wanted to read everything about the history of The New Yorker. I believed that one might have been up to the task of poring over part of the magazine's history through the experience of that writer working there. Still haven't read it, but I'll get there.
I spent what must have been at least an hour and a half there, to where we almost didn't get to Po Folks, a Southern style restaurant I grew up on in Florida. I wanted to go there for the country fried steak, red beans and rice, macaroni and cheese, the biscuits, and peach cobbler. Especially the peach cobbler, because we once got there near closing time and by the time we finished, they really wanted to be closed and we had to take home the peach cobbler, which is not advisable. It belongs with vanilla ice cream. Their vanilla ice cream. Not Breyer's. Not Ben & Jerry's. I'm sure it's not their own vanilla ice cream, but it blends well with the peaches.
To me, Buena Park is one of the most honest locales in Southern California. What you see there is exactly what you get. The people you meet there don't take on any airs. They are who they are. It's not exactly a matter of pride, considering the state of many of the neighborhoods in the area. I'm sure some live that way because it's all they have, only themselves, only their personalities, only their honesty. You work what you have. Buena Park Downtown feels exactly the same way, despite being owned by the same company that owns the Paseo Colorado. I prefer honesty over any other trait because you know where you stand right away. There's too little time to be had on earth to be any other way. The only time Disneyland ever achieves this state (not that it should be realistic, because it's Disneyland after all) is at night, when the trams take guests to the parking garage and parking lots. They're tired, their feet hurt, it's time to go home. It's been a swell time, but there isn't anything more. If you're ever on one of those trams, take in the gasoline smell emanating a little bit from the tram when it gets going and look around. Suddenly, this part of the Disneyland property feels exactly like Buena Park. It's the only time they firmly connect.
It's 48 degrees outside, and I'm still thinking about that temporary bookstore. All those wordy possibilities, all that excitement I relish every time I open a book. I doubt it's still there, but at least it gave me that immense pleasure when I was there. That's what I love.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
My Method for Reading "The New Yorker"
(This entry is in honor of my first issue of "The New Yorker" arriving in the mail yesterday)
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Hey, Maybe The New Yorker Will....Nope. Maybe Tomorrow. Nada. Maybe Next Week.
Logically, my subscription to The New Yorker has been a long time coming. I discovered it while working at The Signal in my second year, for John Boston, eminent, funny, and important columnist. He was what kept The Signal alive, what gave it a true sense of community. After he left, it got worse. People with really no sense of the history of this valley or no interest in it began to inhabit the desks in the newsroom. Some weren't even locals, but then, in a valley of nearly 200,000, not every one of them are qualified newspaper writers. I admit that.
During the time I worked for John, I always eyed the bookshelves he had against the cubicle wall next to his desk. A lot of magazines. Writer's Digest, a few issues of Time Magazine, and a whole lot of New Yorkers. I'd never heard of it before this, but once I tucked into an issue, I loved it. I loved the expanse of culture within the pages, the goings-on in New York City I couldn't attend. I read about restaurants I probably wouldn't go to, Broadway shows that would probably be closed by the time I got there, jazz musicians who would likely be far from New York if I could attend some concert. I also loved the articles, detailed, thoroughly-researched pieces on whatever topic caught the fancy of the editors that week. It's still the only magazine to actually make me interested in the intricacies of finance and the inner workings of the Supreme Court.
Many times, he'd give me the issues he was done reading. I let too many sit around, never read them, but I just liked the feeling of them being there, especially the covers and the cartoons, though those have never been the only reasons I like The New Yorker. I remember one day, about two years ago, when my sister had been at College of the Canyons, and she'd always check the free magazine table at the library there at my persistent request. She came home that day with 42 issues in her backpack.
Any time I find old issues at the Valencia library, I buy them. 10 cents per magazine, 15 for a dollar. A good deal, until they pile up too fast for me to read then ditch.
About a year ago (I think), I decided to pay $179 for the Complete New Yorker Hard Drive, containing all the issues from 1925 to April 2007, bundled with an update disc that would put more issues into the drive, up to April 2008. Amazing stuff, with all the pages of every issue scanned in and a searchable database, along with the function of creating your own reading lists. About a month ago, nearly burned out on this book project (I have got to stop working on it every day, now that the manuscript deadline's been extended to April), I searched the database for "pinball," "Florida," "Mark Twain," and what I think were dozens of other terms related to my interests. It's an outstanding program which I wish I could spend more time on, if not for all the books I want to read, some New Yorker-related, such as Secret Ingredients, a compilation of food and drink-related writing.
You'd think these would be the reasons I decided to subscribe to The New Yorker. Certainly there was enough motivation. However, none of those were the reason for subscribing. It happened in June, when my mom, my sister, and I went with my dad on his middle school's 8th grade end-of-the-year trip to Disneyland. At that time, I didn't think of subscribing to The New Yorker, but recently, thinking back to that day, this is what made me do it:
The night before, I was debating whether to bring any books with me. Maybe "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in paperback, maybe "Cold Fire," my favorite Dean Koontz novel. But I thought of the risk of possibly losing the books. Not that the school buses to Disneyland were insecure. I remembered from the year before last how what you brought on the bus remained on the bus. But I still didn't want to take any chances, so I took two issues of The New Yorker with me. Coupled with the newspapers to be had from the copy room at my dad's school, there'd be enough reading material to tide me over until we got there, particularly because I hadn't been roped into being a chaperone this year. My sister was, though, but she didn't mind.
On the way to Anaheim, I flipped through the newspapers (The Daily News, Los Angeles Times), comics, TV listings, and an occasional article, finishing that in about 10 minutes. I opened one of the New Yorkers, from June 11, 2007 (their "Summer Fiction" issue) and hit upon an article that would sustain me until we got there. It was by D.T. Max, about the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin, and the literary treasures stored there, as well as Tom Staley, current director of the center.
It may not seem like much reading when seen on the New Yorker website: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/06/11/070611fa_fact_max?currentPage=all
But in the magazine, there were pages and pages, and while reading, I re-read certain passages I liked, admiring the word usage and the story as well. D.T. Max pulls readers right into his story, never letting you go until you're done. And by the time I was done, we were nearing Disneyland. It wasn't so much that the article had taken away the obstacle of time for me in waiting to get to Disneyland, but that I didn't even entirely notice I was on the bus. I glanced out the window at the freeway, saw some cars turn on to the exits, but didn't pay as much attention as I usually do. I was inside this article, with Staley as he sought rare, prized writerly items, such as 130 letters Graham Greene had written to a foreign correspondent.
I want more of those experiences. I love my hard drive, I like the Digital Edition on the New Yorker website that allows me to peruse the latest issue while I wait impatiently for my first issue to arrive in the mail, but it's not a habit I could maintain. I know I can't get issues from 1925 at all, and that's fine. The New Yorker hard drive program's windows are big enough to envelope me in whatever article I'm reading. But I love the print edition because of that one article. I like holding the magazine, circling book titles that interest me, circling synopses of plays that interest me, source material that I want to seek out, hoping that it's in print. I don't anticipate much in the mail anymore, since I know what'll be in those Netflix envelopes, and I don't request many DVDs anymore from PR firms representing the studios and other DVD labels for reviewing. But this, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. I want my first issue to come in the mail already. For now, I hope the mailman will be careful with it when he puts it in the mailbox, but I want to open the mailbox already and find it there and experience that same excitement I had when I read that article on the bus. I know it's possible with The New Yorker. Really, anything's possible with The New Yorker.
Addendum: D.T. Max's article got me to the entrance of the parking garage at Disneyland. "Wildwood," Junot Diaz's short story in that issue, got me past the booths in one section of the garage (where the security people give the necessary parking passes), and out to the bus parking area, keeping me occupied until we parked and all the kids had gotten off the bus.
During the time I worked for John, I always eyed the bookshelves he had against the cubicle wall next to his desk. A lot of magazines. Writer's Digest, a few issues of Time Magazine, and a whole lot of New Yorkers. I'd never heard of it before this, but once I tucked into an issue, I loved it. I loved the expanse of culture within the pages, the goings-on in New York City I couldn't attend. I read about restaurants I probably wouldn't go to, Broadway shows that would probably be closed by the time I got there, jazz musicians who would likely be far from New York if I could attend some concert. I also loved the articles, detailed, thoroughly-researched pieces on whatever topic caught the fancy of the editors that week. It's still the only magazine to actually make me interested in the intricacies of finance and the inner workings of the Supreme Court.
Many times, he'd give me the issues he was done reading. I let too many sit around, never read them, but I just liked the feeling of them being there, especially the covers and the cartoons, though those have never been the only reasons I like The New Yorker. I remember one day, about two years ago, when my sister had been at College of the Canyons, and she'd always check the free magazine table at the library there at my persistent request. She came home that day with 42 issues in her backpack.
Any time I find old issues at the Valencia library, I buy them. 10 cents per magazine, 15 for a dollar. A good deal, until they pile up too fast for me to read then ditch.
About a year ago (I think), I decided to pay $179 for the Complete New Yorker Hard Drive, containing all the issues from 1925 to April 2007, bundled with an update disc that would put more issues into the drive, up to April 2008. Amazing stuff, with all the pages of every issue scanned in and a searchable database, along with the function of creating your own reading lists. About a month ago, nearly burned out on this book project (I have got to stop working on it every day, now that the manuscript deadline's been extended to April), I searched the database for "pinball," "Florida," "Mark Twain," and what I think were dozens of other terms related to my interests. It's an outstanding program which I wish I could spend more time on, if not for all the books I want to read, some New Yorker-related, such as Secret Ingredients, a compilation of food and drink-related writing.
You'd think these would be the reasons I decided to subscribe to The New Yorker. Certainly there was enough motivation. However, none of those were the reason for subscribing. It happened in June, when my mom, my sister, and I went with my dad on his middle school's 8th grade end-of-the-year trip to Disneyland. At that time, I didn't think of subscribing to The New Yorker, but recently, thinking back to that day, this is what made me do it:
The night before, I was debating whether to bring any books with me. Maybe "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in paperback, maybe "Cold Fire," my favorite Dean Koontz novel. But I thought of the risk of possibly losing the books. Not that the school buses to Disneyland were insecure. I remembered from the year before last how what you brought on the bus remained on the bus. But I still didn't want to take any chances, so I took two issues of The New Yorker with me. Coupled with the newspapers to be had from the copy room at my dad's school, there'd be enough reading material to tide me over until we got there, particularly because I hadn't been roped into being a chaperone this year. My sister was, though, but she didn't mind.
On the way to Anaheim, I flipped through the newspapers (The Daily News, Los Angeles Times), comics, TV listings, and an occasional article, finishing that in about 10 minutes. I opened one of the New Yorkers, from June 11, 2007 (their "Summer Fiction" issue) and hit upon an article that would sustain me until we got there. It was by D.T. Max, about the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin, and the literary treasures stored there, as well as Tom Staley, current director of the center.
It may not seem like much reading when seen on the New Yorker website: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/06/11/070611fa_fact_max?currentPage=all
But in the magazine, there were pages and pages, and while reading, I re-read certain passages I liked, admiring the word usage and the story as well. D.T. Max pulls readers right into his story, never letting you go until you're done. And by the time I was done, we were nearing Disneyland. It wasn't so much that the article had taken away the obstacle of time for me in waiting to get to Disneyland, but that I didn't even entirely notice I was on the bus. I glanced out the window at the freeway, saw some cars turn on to the exits, but didn't pay as much attention as I usually do. I was inside this article, with Staley as he sought rare, prized writerly items, such as 130 letters Graham Greene had written to a foreign correspondent.
I want more of those experiences. I love my hard drive, I like the Digital Edition on the New Yorker website that allows me to peruse the latest issue while I wait impatiently for my first issue to arrive in the mail, but it's not a habit I could maintain. I know I can't get issues from 1925 at all, and that's fine. The New Yorker hard drive program's windows are big enough to envelope me in whatever article I'm reading. But I love the print edition because of that one article. I like holding the magazine, circling book titles that interest me, circling synopses of plays that interest me, source material that I want to seek out, hoping that it's in print. I don't anticipate much in the mail anymore, since I know what'll be in those Netflix envelopes, and I don't request many DVDs anymore from PR firms representing the studios and other DVD labels for reviewing. But this, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. I want my first issue to come in the mail already. For now, I hope the mailman will be careful with it when he puts it in the mailbox, but I want to open the mailbox already and find it there and experience that same excitement I had when I read that article on the bus. I know it's possible with The New Yorker. Really, anything's possible with The New Yorker.
Addendum: D.T. Max's article got me to the entrance of the parking garage at Disneyland. "Wildwood," Junot Diaz's short story in that issue, got me past the booths in one section of the garage (where the security people give the necessary parking passes), and out to the bus parking area, keeping me occupied until we parked and all the kids had gotten off the bus.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Still Here
Still here. Still thinking too much. Still reading. Still watching movies. Still trying to inch my way through this project. For now, still not enjoying it. Still knowing this is the fastest way to my first credit as an author. Still trying to get back into it without thinking that it's a huge, loud, vacuum-powered vortex that will grab everything away from me that I enjoy so much, such as reading and watching movies. Still trying to spend less time on this computer. Still wishing I wrote more on this blog than just this entry. Surprising, though, that the latest entry before this one was from August 9th. I thought it was earlier than that, considering that it's only September 25th. A month's separation isn't so bad, well, not so bad in short time.
Still here. I want to be here more and I will. Maybe it's the key to getting back to writing the essays for this book and not dreading it so acutely. I'll find out over the weekend.
Still here. I want to be here more and I will. Maybe it's the key to getting back to writing the essays for this book and not dreading it so acutely. I'll find out over the weekend.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Your Snoring Makes Me Despair of My Life
In July, at the official start of steady heat, my next-door neighbor's sliding glass door would be open, and when I was outside towards midnight, either having the dogs do their business in the patio (remember, the pebbles that cover the ground there are a good simulation of the desert terrain in Las Vegas and nearby Henderson, where we'll likely live soon enough) or in the darkness at two in the morning staring at the risen mountain with all the houses dotted across it, I'd hear him snoring. He's heavy enough that I think he sleeps downstairs, in the living room, so he doesn't have to trek upstairs every evening. His wife likely sleeps upstairs. I'm not about to speculate on that marriage, but I think they've gotten used to this as a piece of the routine of their lives.
When I heard him snoring in July, forgetting yet again that he did that last year too, I took it as a comfort of the neighborhood. Granted, this isn't my neighborhood, I don't feel like I belong here, but for the time I'm still here, I felt like I needed markers of what I'd perceive as this neighborhood just doing what it always has. And maybe that's the problem. Now, in August, I don't feel that way. It's not so much annoying, it just makes me worry that this is what life might be. No, that's not quite right. I know I can change my life. I know I look forward to changing my life once I'm done writing this book. Right now, I'm so frustrated over it, but I put faith in the experts and authorities that I still need to talk to, that maybe there's some things in those future conversations and e-mails that will inspire new beginnings for the essays I'm not confident about yet, or that will change what I've stuck to all this time.
But it's not the book that's rotting my thoughts. It's looking back on six years in the Santa Clarita Valley, in Los Angeles County and finding very few events that I could describe as special, enlightening, memorable. I want more and I need more. At least there are lots of happenings to be found in Vegas, lots of personalities that you can count on to be different every day. The man in the open shirt, jingling change in his right pocket, limping a little as he looks for a slot machine that he hopes will do a magic disappearing act with his debts may be at the MGM Grand or at Hooters today, but tomorrow, he could be gone. He could be a resident of Las Vegas who visits a different casino every day or every week, or he could be a tourist, on his way back to Chicago in the morning. There is life in Vegas. There's not the same snoring every night, the same routine. I'm not looking to try to convince my next-door neighbor to change his life, to maybe snore differently after doing something utterly satisfying, because first, I don't care. But secondly, I don't know what he likes and I'm not looking to know. I want to know more about that beautiful barista at that Starbucks off the Strip in Vegas. I want to know if there's ever a time when that pit boss looks less imposing, even for a moment. I want to know where the Vegas historians are, because I'll gladly join them. Las Vegas is the only city I've ever felt close to right away, because it's honest. It knows what it is, on the surface it doesn't try to hide its many facets, even the individually unsavory ones. You want poker, you want blackjack, here it is. You don't want poker, you don't want blackjack, there's all the shows on the Strip for you. You don't want any of that, you just want to walk the Strip and see what energy you can feel, there's that too.
My neighbor's snoring only does enough to remind me that I have another night here, another night to think about my future, another night to work on this book, another night to wait and wonder. But when I get to Vegas, those nights will become the exploration I've always craved, those moments where I see other people, not at all for snoring, and I can sense at least a little bit of what they're after. In Vegas, you have to know what you want. You can't wander too aimlessly. Those are my kind of people.
When I heard him snoring in July, forgetting yet again that he did that last year too, I took it as a comfort of the neighborhood. Granted, this isn't my neighborhood, I don't feel like I belong here, but for the time I'm still here, I felt like I needed markers of what I'd perceive as this neighborhood just doing what it always has. And maybe that's the problem. Now, in August, I don't feel that way. It's not so much annoying, it just makes me worry that this is what life might be. No, that's not quite right. I know I can change my life. I know I look forward to changing my life once I'm done writing this book. Right now, I'm so frustrated over it, but I put faith in the experts and authorities that I still need to talk to, that maybe there's some things in those future conversations and e-mails that will inspire new beginnings for the essays I'm not confident about yet, or that will change what I've stuck to all this time.
But it's not the book that's rotting my thoughts. It's looking back on six years in the Santa Clarita Valley, in Los Angeles County and finding very few events that I could describe as special, enlightening, memorable. I want more and I need more. At least there are lots of happenings to be found in Vegas, lots of personalities that you can count on to be different every day. The man in the open shirt, jingling change in his right pocket, limping a little as he looks for a slot machine that he hopes will do a magic disappearing act with his debts may be at the MGM Grand or at Hooters today, but tomorrow, he could be gone. He could be a resident of Las Vegas who visits a different casino every day or every week, or he could be a tourist, on his way back to Chicago in the morning. There is life in Vegas. There's not the same snoring every night, the same routine. I'm not looking to try to convince my next-door neighbor to change his life, to maybe snore differently after doing something utterly satisfying, because first, I don't care. But secondly, I don't know what he likes and I'm not looking to know. I want to know more about that beautiful barista at that Starbucks off the Strip in Vegas. I want to know if there's ever a time when that pit boss looks less imposing, even for a moment. I want to know where the Vegas historians are, because I'll gladly join them. Las Vegas is the only city I've ever felt close to right away, because it's honest. It knows what it is, on the surface it doesn't try to hide its many facets, even the individually unsavory ones. You want poker, you want blackjack, here it is. You don't want poker, you don't want blackjack, there's all the shows on the Strip for you. You don't want any of that, you just want to walk the Strip and see what energy you can feel, there's that too.
My neighbor's snoring only does enough to remind me that I have another night here, another night to think about my future, another night to work on this book, another night to wait and wonder. But when I get to Vegas, those nights will become the exploration I've always craved, those moments where I see other people, not at all for snoring, and I can sense at least a little bit of what they're after. In Vegas, you have to know what you want. You can't wander too aimlessly. Those are my kind of people.
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Pleasures of a Coca-Cola Glass
A few weeks ago, my family and I went to McDonald's in Valencia before heading out to Venice Beach and then Santa Monica. It was a visit that nearly followed a day trip to Disneyland with the graduated 8th graders at my dad's middle school, and not too long after Venice Beach and Santa Monica, we would go to Universal CityWalk to celebrate my sister's graduation from College of the Canyons, since the school snobbishly does not let people attend who are only earning certificates, as my sister was in culinary arts.
Walking to the entrance of the Santa Monica Pier, I told my sister that it felt like we were tourists again. Disneyland previously, Santa Monica then, and I suggested that all we needed to do was visit Hollywood, go on one of those guided, driven tours of the area, possibly go to Universal Studios Hollywood and then fly back home. It's one of the quirks of California: You can live in the state, in one of its many regions, but you're always a tourist somewhere in the state. It was true of San Francisco when we were there (or at least when I was there with the family, because there was one time I couldn't go due to working diligently and ultimately uselessly for The Signal), and it was also true when we went to Universal CityWalk because it had been four years since we were last there.
Anyway, the Coca-Cola glasses at McDonald's.
An extra-large Value Meal gets you a Coca-Cola Collectible glass. I go for the extra-large meal anyway because I like the fries and a bigger Coca-Cola is always good. So I got a Coca-Cola glass. My sister got the purple one and I got the green one, which looked like blue when the manager took it out from under the counter. My sister still claims that it looks blue, but a photo of the glasses in a row shows that I clearly did not get the blue one. Not a major meltdown type of event because I see enough variations of blue every day. The menu bar at the bottom of the screen on this computer is blue.
I like this glass anyway, regardless of the color. The contour of it makes it very friendly toward the type of bagged ice we buy. The ice, when it falls into the glass, makes a very satisfying, determined clink, and the ice doesn't always fill up the top completely, so I like to dig into the freezer, finding just those right pieces for that exact fit. It's also that time of year when I favor iced tea over hot tea, which means not only do I make the Lipton Cold Brew tea in the Arrowhead gallon jugs, I also brew my usual Bigelow Lemon Lift tea and Twining's Lady Grey tea, pouring them into an ice-filled glass. I haven't yet tried that in this Coca-Cola glass, but I know so far that I'm impatient waiting for the tea to cool down a bit. Once I pour it through the ice in the glass, about 60% of the ice melts right away. I need tea. I don't like to wait that long. At the same time, I should be a little more patient because so far, despite melting nearly all of the ice right away, those teas are also good iced. I'll try it again, when I'm sure I can take a few minutes for it.
I just looked at the photo of the Coca-Cola glasses again, and held my glass up to the computer monitor: That's definitely tinted green. But this is one of those instances where the item and its use is more important than the color.
Walking to the entrance of the Santa Monica Pier, I told my sister that it felt like we were tourists again. Disneyland previously, Santa Monica then, and I suggested that all we needed to do was visit Hollywood, go on one of those guided, driven tours of the area, possibly go to Universal Studios Hollywood and then fly back home. It's one of the quirks of California: You can live in the state, in one of its many regions, but you're always a tourist somewhere in the state. It was true of San Francisco when we were there (or at least when I was there with the family, because there was one time I couldn't go due to working diligently and ultimately uselessly for The Signal), and it was also true when we went to Universal CityWalk because it had been four years since we were last there.
Anyway, the Coca-Cola glasses at McDonald's.
An extra-large Value Meal gets you a Coca-Cola Collectible glass. I go for the extra-large meal anyway because I like the fries and a bigger Coca-Cola is always good. So I got a Coca-Cola glass. My sister got the purple one and I got the green one, which looked like blue when the manager took it out from under the counter. My sister still claims that it looks blue, but a photo of the glasses in a row shows that I clearly did not get the blue one. Not a major meltdown type of event because I see enough variations of blue every day. The menu bar at the bottom of the screen on this computer is blue.
I like this glass anyway, regardless of the color. The contour of it makes it very friendly toward the type of bagged ice we buy. The ice, when it falls into the glass, makes a very satisfying, determined clink, and the ice doesn't always fill up the top completely, so I like to dig into the freezer, finding just those right pieces for that exact fit. It's also that time of year when I favor iced tea over hot tea, which means not only do I make the Lipton Cold Brew tea in the Arrowhead gallon jugs, I also brew my usual Bigelow Lemon Lift tea and Twining's Lady Grey tea, pouring them into an ice-filled glass. I haven't yet tried that in this Coca-Cola glass, but I know so far that I'm impatient waiting for the tea to cool down a bit. Once I pour it through the ice in the glass, about 60% of the ice melts right away. I need tea. I don't like to wait that long. At the same time, I should be a little more patient because so far, despite melting nearly all of the ice right away, those teas are also good iced. I'll try it again, when I'm sure I can take a few minutes for it.
I just looked at the photo of the Coca-Cola glasses again, and held my glass up to the computer monitor: That's definitely tinted green. But this is one of those instances where the item and its use is more important than the color.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
An Apple Carrot Fruit Sauce Crushers Packet Will Do It Every Time
Late yesterday afternoon, on the way home from what I think is the final day of work for the school year, Dad and Meridith stopped at Trader Joe's to pick up some things for dinner as well as some non-dinner-related items. My sister, with an everlasting unique soul, picked up a box of Apple Carrot Fruit Sauce Crushers. You twist the top off and squeeze into your mouth a combination of apples, carrot juice, pumpkin juice, and acerola juice. Novel packaging too; you squeeze it and the concoction easily comes out. No rolling it up from the bottom to try to get the rest because when you've finally squeezed it tight enough, that's it. That's all there is.
The back of the packaging has a small block of text framed within drawings of a carrot in front of apple:
"CAP WARNING: Not suitable for children under 3 years of age.
Always make sure a responsible person is present when your child is eating. Please unsure that the cap and seal are completely removed from the pouch before giving to your child."
Well, ok, pouch. I call it a packet because of it being significantly smaller than a Capri Sun pouch. I read the second set of words and I started thinking about a child. Not me when I was little, not any cousins when they were little, not any faces I might remember from La Petit Academy in Casselberry, Florida. Just a random kid eating at a table, plate, utensils, all of that. I thought about that first line in the second set and I wondered: Do I want kids? Do I want to have a little someone in my life who partially came from me? Do I want that life?
Years ago, I thought of what I'd want to name my kids if I had any. A boy would definitely be Rory Leighton Aronsky II. I'd want to continue my name. If a girl, Rachel. That's what my parents said they were going to name me if I had been a girl.
I've gotten older, though. If I want kids, then that means getting to know someone, forming a relationship, and all the little details that come with it that can't possibly be conveyed in this one sentence. I know about the messiness of it. Today my parents celebrate their 27th or 28th wedding anniversary. I don't have to know that, since I've been an innocent bystander in the whole thing. I'm impressed and also frustrated that they've made it to this many years. All the fights I heard, all the uncertainty in silence at the dinner table, all the worry, and the few times Mom threatened to walk out on Dad, twice and nearly three times with luggage packed. Oh, I've gone through it all and having turned 25 this year and working on my own future, I've come to terms that if the worst should ever happen, if they ever do split up, then it happens. I can't control it, I can't know what they know, feel what they feel, so be it. It was hard enough during the many, many times each year when the fights would get so bad verbally, I'd try to find something to do to ignore it, but knew that the fight would still hover over the household. When we lived in the apartment in Valencia, there were times when I'd take a walk outside, sometimes with one of my dogs, and try to relish the freedom from the fight for that moment, but I'd always also think about how even though I was outside, even though it was peaceful, I'd still have to go back inside and there they'd be, still sometimes viciously arguing.
I know that any relationship I may be in may not be that bad. But I think it's ok to just want a different future for myself. I've been witness to my parents' marriage for 22 years. I think that's my marriage limit. I want a life that includes a satisfying career that I can earn enough money from to pay bills and have a little extra for myself. I'm not sure I want the responsibilities of being a parent. The money you have to save, the money you have to use for necessities for them, the times you have to deny yourself something so you can give to them. I don't think I have it in me. For this book I'm co-writing, I have to order off Amazon a few books I can't find in the County of Los Angeles library system. I don't have a choice. I also have books I recently bookmarked in my personal "Favorites" folder in Internet Explorer, six of them, including "Ask the Pilot" by Patrick Smith, an airline pilot who has a column of the same name on Salon.com.
Last Sunday, I checked out "The Pajama Game" on DVD from the library, the 6th time I've done it, and that's my sign that it's time to buy it outright. I've got a few other DVDs on a wishlist, including "Frost/Nixon," and I know, I know, these are just things. I know that there is also the belief that people matter more than things. Well, of course! How the hell else could we arrive on the Earth? How else could the books I want have been written? How else could I want "The Pajama Game" if it hadn't been made? All people-powered.
So, then, the real question, the big question would be: What do I want in my life?
After many pep talks from my parents, steering me to understand that "What If They Lived?" is a major opportunity that I'll never see handed to me so easily for the rest of my life, I want to do my share for that book as co-writer. I was frustrated, almost to tears with how much research I have to do, but not so much the sheer amount as reading book after book and taking notes, and never getting through each book as swiftly as I thought I should. But after I sought advice from Phil and he told me that the bare facts were all that were needed for each biographical profile (before the pages of speculation on what each actor might have done in his or her career had death not ended the career for them), nothing too elaborate, I felt better. I haven't gotten back to reading any research-related books yet because I returned them all when I felt that I might give up the book. My mom said that with this book, I'll have something solid to my name, something that people can reference, something that may lead to bigger things. I agree with that, and as time stands now in relation to this project, I can also watch movies I've wanted to see or see again for a long time, such as "The Harvey Girls," starring Judy Garland.
I've got six months left to work on this book, and so I will. But after that, what do I want?
I've learned that because I intend to pursue of a bachelor of science degree in professional aeronautics from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, I could qualify for vocational education funds. Anything that substantially lowers the cost of an education that will likely be done entirely online. I'm looking forward to this venture even more, even though it looks like I'll have to take another math course, aviation math this time. I'm trying to get used to the inevitable. It's aviation math, it's related to what I want to do in my life (I don't know exactly what that is yet, but I do know I want to work at an airport), but the numbers again, the graphs. I really don't like sitting down for hours, thinking about numbers that will always be there, while a sunset appears only once a day.
Eventually, we're going to move to Las Vegas. I know I've mentioned this many times before, as well as my declaration that Vegas feels like my true home, but I want to also spend my years getting to know, and having a relationship with Las Vegas. For over a year now, I've been reading about the history of Las Vegas, as well as the current day. I visit the Las Vegas Sun, Las Vegas Review-Journal, and Las Vegas Weekly websites every day. I've even begun mapping out where a sense of home is in Las Vegas. It's not just the house we may one day have, wherever that'll be in nearby Henderson; it's also the Strip itself, certain areas, parts of Fremont Street, Smith's supermarket, and that huge Jewish aisle at the Albertson's on South Rainbow Blvd. I never expected to see that outside of South Florida, and though it's only canned and packaged goods, to me, it's still a sign of respect. So far, I know that home begins in the ornate hotel lobby at the MGM Grand. Then Caesar's Palace, with Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill for my sister (she wants to work there in the kitchen) and the most pleasing cocktail waitress outfits on the Strip. I could sit at a slot machine and watch them walk by for a solid week.
So there it is. I want to work at an airport, most likely McCarran International, I want to earn enough money to easily pay bills and have some for myself, and I want to continue the closeness I have to books and DVDs. Oh, and write more. I don't want "What If They Lived?" to be the only book that I've written, or co-written, as it is. I want to do more. I plan to try playwriting, and I've got some ideas for short stories. I don't know if I have the guts and mettle for a novel, but years ago, I thought I had no ideas for any artforms. It's a start.
A relationship? I don't know. I'd like to enjoy Vegas to the full when I get there, and I don't mind the transient culture there. People come, people go, and that's fine with me. I've moved so many times within Florida with my family, and twice in Southern California that I can understand the need to move, but this time, when that time may happen, I can stay put and observe it in others.
I know I can do more than just these things. But I'd rather just enjoy myself and the things I plan to do in the coming years. That may be enough for me.
The back of the packaging has a small block of text framed within drawings of a carrot in front of apple:
"CAP WARNING: Not suitable for children under 3 years of age.
Always make sure a responsible person is present when your child is eating. Please unsure that the cap and seal are completely removed from the pouch before giving to your child."
Well, ok, pouch. I call it a packet because of it being significantly smaller than a Capri Sun pouch. I read the second set of words and I started thinking about a child. Not me when I was little, not any cousins when they were little, not any faces I might remember from La Petit Academy in Casselberry, Florida. Just a random kid eating at a table, plate, utensils, all of that. I thought about that first line in the second set and I wondered: Do I want kids? Do I want to have a little someone in my life who partially came from me? Do I want that life?
Years ago, I thought of what I'd want to name my kids if I had any. A boy would definitely be Rory Leighton Aronsky II. I'd want to continue my name. If a girl, Rachel. That's what my parents said they were going to name me if I had been a girl.
I've gotten older, though. If I want kids, then that means getting to know someone, forming a relationship, and all the little details that come with it that can't possibly be conveyed in this one sentence. I know about the messiness of it. Today my parents celebrate their 27th or 28th wedding anniversary. I don't have to know that, since I've been an innocent bystander in the whole thing. I'm impressed and also frustrated that they've made it to this many years. All the fights I heard, all the uncertainty in silence at the dinner table, all the worry, and the few times Mom threatened to walk out on Dad, twice and nearly three times with luggage packed. Oh, I've gone through it all and having turned 25 this year and working on my own future, I've come to terms that if the worst should ever happen, if they ever do split up, then it happens. I can't control it, I can't know what they know, feel what they feel, so be it. It was hard enough during the many, many times each year when the fights would get so bad verbally, I'd try to find something to do to ignore it, but knew that the fight would still hover over the household. When we lived in the apartment in Valencia, there were times when I'd take a walk outside, sometimes with one of my dogs, and try to relish the freedom from the fight for that moment, but I'd always also think about how even though I was outside, even though it was peaceful, I'd still have to go back inside and there they'd be, still sometimes viciously arguing.
I know that any relationship I may be in may not be that bad. But I think it's ok to just want a different future for myself. I've been witness to my parents' marriage for 22 years. I think that's my marriage limit. I want a life that includes a satisfying career that I can earn enough money from to pay bills and have a little extra for myself. I'm not sure I want the responsibilities of being a parent. The money you have to save, the money you have to use for necessities for them, the times you have to deny yourself something so you can give to them. I don't think I have it in me. For this book I'm co-writing, I have to order off Amazon a few books I can't find in the County of Los Angeles library system. I don't have a choice. I also have books I recently bookmarked in my personal "Favorites" folder in Internet Explorer, six of them, including "Ask the Pilot" by Patrick Smith, an airline pilot who has a column of the same name on Salon.com.
Last Sunday, I checked out "The Pajama Game" on DVD from the library, the 6th time I've done it, and that's my sign that it's time to buy it outright. I've got a few other DVDs on a wishlist, including "Frost/Nixon," and I know, I know, these are just things. I know that there is also the belief that people matter more than things. Well, of course! How the hell else could we arrive on the Earth? How else could the books I want have been written? How else could I want "The Pajama Game" if it hadn't been made? All people-powered.
So, then, the real question, the big question would be: What do I want in my life?
After many pep talks from my parents, steering me to understand that "What If They Lived?" is a major opportunity that I'll never see handed to me so easily for the rest of my life, I want to do my share for that book as co-writer. I was frustrated, almost to tears with how much research I have to do, but not so much the sheer amount as reading book after book and taking notes, and never getting through each book as swiftly as I thought I should. But after I sought advice from Phil and he told me that the bare facts were all that were needed for each biographical profile (before the pages of speculation on what each actor might have done in his or her career had death not ended the career for them), nothing too elaborate, I felt better. I haven't gotten back to reading any research-related books yet because I returned them all when I felt that I might give up the book. My mom said that with this book, I'll have something solid to my name, something that people can reference, something that may lead to bigger things. I agree with that, and as time stands now in relation to this project, I can also watch movies I've wanted to see or see again for a long time, such as "The Harvey Girls," starring Judy Garland.
I've got six months left to work on this book, and so I will. But after that, what do I want?
I've learned that because I intend to pursue of a bachelor of science degree in professional aeronautics from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, I could qualify for vocational education funds. Anything that substantially lowers the cost of an education that will likely be done entirely online. I'm looking forward to this venture even more, even though it looks like I'll have to take another math course, aviation math this time. I'm trying to get used to the inevitable. It's aviation math, it's related to what I want to do in my life (I don't know exactly what that is yet, but I do know I want to work at an airport), but the numbers again, the graphs. I really don't like sitting down for hours, thinking about numbers that will always be there, while a sunset appears only once a day.
Eventually, we're going to move to Las Vegas. I know I've mentioned this many times before, as well as my declaration that Vegas feels like my true home, but I want to also spend my years getting to know, and having a relationship with Las Vegas. For over a year now, I've been reading about the history of Las Vegas, as well as the current day. I visit the Las Vegas Sun, Las Vegas Review-Journal, and Las Vegas Weekly websites every day. I've even begun mapping out where a sense of home is in Las Vegas. It's not just the house we may one day have, wherever that'll be in nearby Henderson; it's also the Strip itself, certain areas, parts of Fremont Street, Smith's supermarket, and that huge Jewish aisle at the Albertson's on South Rainbow Blvd. I never expected to see that outside of South Florida, and though it's only canned and packaged goods, to me, it's still a sign of respect. So far, I know that home begins in the ornate hotel lobby at the MGM Grand. Then Caesar's Palace, with Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill for my sister (she wants to work there in the kitchen) and the most pleasing cocktail waitress outfits on the Strip. I could sit at a slot machine and watch them walk by for a solid week.
So there it is. I want to work at an airport, most likely McCarran International, I want to earn enough money to easily pay bills and have some for myself, and I want to continue the closeness I have to books and DVDs. Oh, and write more. I don't want "What If They Lived?" to be the only book that I've written, or co-written, as it is. I want to do more. I plan to try playwriting, and I've got some ideas for short stories. I don't know if I have the guts and mettle for a novel, but years ago, I thought I had no ideas for any artforms. It's a start.
A relationship? I don't know. I'd like to enjoy Vegas to the full when I get there, and I don't mind the transient culture there. People come, people go, and that's fine with me. I've moved so many times within Florida with my family, and twice in Southern California that I can understand the need to move, but this time, when that time may happen, I can stay put and observe it in others.
I know I can do more than just these things. But I'd rather just enjoy myself and the things I plan to do in the coming years. That may be enough for me.
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