During my french fry reverie, oblivious to the crowds passing across from me away from Goliath, and to the booming noise of the one running Superman: Escape from Krypton train, my cell phone buzzed. It was Meridith, saying that she, Mom and Dad were at the souvenir shop across from the Golden Bear Theatre, and they were still selling Thomas the Tank Engine items, this time for 75%, way up from half off when we went to that shop last year. Upon Six Flags giving up its licensing for Terminator and Thomas the Tank Engine, the Terminator rollercoaster became Apocalypse, and Thomas Town, which had Thomas the Tank Engine as a train kids could ride, became Whistlestop Park, the most generic-looking train station you will ever see anywhere. Six Flags is not good at in-house creativity, also evidenced by the pre-show videos passed by on the way to the Apocalypse loading station. More on that fresh hell later.
After finishing the fries, collecting the unused mustard packets (and there were many, since I'm always overzealous for mustard), and putting them back in the container behind the front counter, through the open window, I began walking past the food court, past Goliath, toward the Golden Bear Theatre.
The problem with this particular shop is that if it's doors aren't open, you miss it completely, pass right by it. The double doors were open this time, yet I still didn't notice it. I thought it was further up than where it was, and called Meridith to ask where the heck I had to go. She told me not past the arcade, I turned around, walked past the huge fake tree that you can walk through into Looney Tunes World, and saw Dad standing in front of the shop. I went in, saw the Thomas the Tank Engine toys still unclaimed, and noticed that the park's also still trying to get rid of Superman: The Escape t-shirts, which could be collectors' items if the ride hadn't been so rickety toward the end of its operation.
I also looked at the Batman, Superman and Green Lantern merchandise on display (The latter because of the opening of the Green Lantern: First Flight rollercoaster in the D.C. Universe section of the park), and then spotted a three-tiered metal display case full of toy cars, including fire trucks and school buses. I have an aversion to police and fire vehicles because they're fairly typical of any community, expected, and therefore not really all that unique to my working vehicles collection. I wanted the school bus, though, picked one up, determined that all the parts were intact, and paid for it at the counter.
One of the things to love at Magic Mountain as a once-in-a-great-while visitor is that they have package pickup, which means you can have your purchases sent to the Looney Tunes store right near the entrance and exit gates of the park, and pick them up later, though not until after 3 p.m. And that's what I did: I had a toy school bus sent over there to pick up later.
After Mom and Meridith had looked around, and determined that we had enough toy Thomas trains for our dog Tigger that we bought during our visit last year, we walked to Cyclone Bay, which most visitors don't seem to bother checking out unless they're there to ride Apocalypse, or drive go-karts, or try bungee jumping. There's also carnival-style games that require little effort, such as one you pay $5 for to hit a round metal platform with a mallet to try to make the bell ring at the top. You do that twice, and then you can pick any prize that they have there. Meridith did it and choose a Tweety cape for Mom that she had been eyeing for her last year.
Then came hell. Apocalypse. Meridith wanted to go on it since it was a wooden rollercoaster. You enter under the sign, then walk through a maze of a queue before reaching the first part of the building that has a pre-show video running of people under attack by some vicious force, and psyching themselves up to defend themselves and their families against it, but it's not really clear what it is, and, at this point in its operation after switching from being a Terminator rollercoaster to this, which required new pre-show videos to be shot, no one really cares. No one is required to watch the pre-show video. Once you're allowed in (We had to wait a few minutes while the small crowd in front of us cycled through the building), you just walk past those monitors and loud noises emanating from the sound system, pass through another room that used to have the top half of Terminator robot bodies, ignore another flat-screen monitor with more of that pre-show video, and then walk up a set of stairs to the loading station for the ride, choosing which "sector" you want to be in, meaning which part of the ride vehicle.
Also here, the ride vehicle currently in use rushes overhead and the screams are LOUD. I wish I had taken that as a clue to what I was getting into, because Apocalypse has major anger-management issues. You speed to the first lift hill, go swiftly up it, and then zoom right down and the speed never lets up. It's vicious. There's one really wide turn that's hell to go through, and there's also the turns that go through narrow wooden tunnels that let thin shafts of light through. It leaves you extremely shaken up.
After we got off and walked out of the Apocalypse area, I told Meridith that Apocalypse is one rollercoaster that could use some serious therapy to smooth out whatever makes it pissed off at the world. It should be torn down to make way for something different, but considering the major cost likely involved in building the thing, they're probably going to keep it. To me, it's a waste of space, but I guess it appeals to thrill-seekers much younger than me. Even when I was that young a decade ago, I didn't go for that kind of rollercoaster. I was satisfied and happy enough with the Hurricane rollercoaster at Boomers in Dania Beach, Florida, which closed a few months ago. That was a wooden rollercoaster too but it wasn't as abusive as Apocalypse. It was fast, but it didn't jolt you, and going down those short hills was pure sugar for the pleasure center of the brain.
After leaving the Apocalypse area, we found that Dad had gone on ahead of us and was in the Coaster Candy Company shop, where truffles are sold at the counter, and there's displays of various candy, including huge lollipops that are actually holders for 12 much smaller lollipops. M&Ms are prominently featured, and there's also bags of candy with the Coaster Candy Company label on them, most of it brittle, including peanut and cashew. What caught my eye was almond brittle, I was thinking of getting it, and I have no idea what stopped me. My attention was focused on getting a quesadilla at Los Cuates Mexican Grill nearby. As Mom and Meridith looked over the chocolates at the counter, and Meridith found a large chipotle-accented pickle in a pouch, I decided to go over there and get my quesadilla, but after standing in line for a few minutes, I had a closer look in the kitchen, and it didn't look all that great. Not that it wasn't safely made, but it didn't look like my kind of quesadilla.
After Mom, Dad and Meridith came out of the candy store, Meridith told me she had the pickle pouch sent for package pickup. Meridith's always been one to do the most wonderfully weird things, and this was one of them. A school bus and a pickle at package pickup. I still smile at that.
Dad remembered that Guillermo, one of the teachers at his school, works part-time at the Mexican food counter in the food court building near Goliath, so we trekked over here, walking under the part of the Superman track, that shattering noise out and about again, and Mom covered her ears as we walked under it. We got to the food court, and no Guillermo, as well as no quesadillas. Just burritos. Then, Mom decided on something better: Because of my generosity in buying the toys that we donated to get the free tickets, we'd stop at Chronic Tacos to pick up dinner on the way home. This meant a guaranteed great quesadilla for me, and I was thinking about a chicken-and-cheese one.
We crossed the courtyard near which is a three-point basket contest setup with prizes such as jerseys, and finally went into DC Universe for the roasted corn that we all worship. But first, The Flash: Speed Force, in which you sit in connected vehicles that spin around and around and around, the G-forces growing and pressing you against the left side of your vehicle. It used to be Atom Smasher back when the area was called Gotham City Backlot, and the two rides at the front (including what is now called Wonder Woman's Golden Lasso of Truth) were themed to Looney Tunes. It looks a lot better now with the DC Comics theming, brighter, with much more to see, and ever since refurbishing the Flash ride, it's a lot smoother.
The roasted corn stand was remodeled and expanded, and is now called Kent Farms, after Clark Kent and his earth parents. There's a large oven on the right side, the top door of which can be opened, revealing a revolving rack of corn in their husks, the ends of the husks blackened. The person behind the counter tears off the husk, and it's a beautiful, slightly crunchy, oh-so-good sight, especially when the corn is wrapped in paper, the majority of it dipped in butter, and many options with which to season it, including lemon-pepper seasoning, salt, pepper, barbecue seasoning (That one was new to me), as much as you want.
We were behind someone ordering, and the guy behind the counter opened the lid of a rectangular storage fridge, putting something on the corn, but I couldn't tell what. All I cared about at that moment was that the lemon-pepper seasoning was on the side counter and I needed it right away. Once we got our corn, and Meridith went to find out what Dad wanted on his (At the circular table we found with the Superman logo on it, across from Green Lantern: First Flight, so we got to watch the craziness of the spinning double seating), that's exactly where I went, but first surprised to find barbecue seasoning, and suddenly conflicted. Did I want lemon-pepper seasoning all over my corn this time? How much barbecue seasoning? I soon decided on half-and-half by the time Meridith came back and told me that Dad wanted seasoning salt and pepper on his, and Mom wanted part lemon-pepper, part barbecue seasoning. Meridith had lemon-pepper, and became very full by the time she was done with her corn, and I decided I wanted another.
After deciding to get one for Dad too (When he looks like he wants something, he always says "No, I don't want it," though I have no idea why and I don't have ample time in my world to analyze that one), I asked the guy at the counter what it was he dipped into for those other customers, and he said it was parmesan cheese. The kind you shake out of the container onto pizza and pasta, and what was going to make Meridith's jaw drop, because after she had seen parmesan cheese on roasted corn on some kind of food truck show, she wanted it, and said that if this roasted corn stand had parmesan cheese, she'd dump it all over her corn, give back the container, and say that they ran out and to refill it, after which she'd do it again.
The lemon-pepper seasoning wasn't as appealing to me now as it had been last year, so I asked for parmesan cheese on my corn. The guy poured it on, I asked him how much he was able to put on, and he replied, "As much as you want." I'm not as greedy as Meridith would be in such a situation (Though her greed is justified since she loves cheese as much as I love books), so I asked for it to the end of the corn and that was it. After I got back to our table, I showed Meridith what I had found, she asked shocked questions about where it was, and I let her have as much as she wanted, which wasn't much, since she was full.
And oh god was it wonderful! The roasted corn was still hot enough that the sprinkle parmesan cheese melted on it and in between the kernels, and while I knew that the parmesan cheese had not been available at the roasted corn stand's previous incarnation, I wish it had been, because I would have gone for this every time. Quite fitting for a final visit to Magic Mountain to discover the really good stuff. Only when we're getting ready to move do we get the nice things. It happened in Florida too. That's not to say that Florida was an awful state to live in (I will forever love it for growing up partly at Walt Disney World, and to be a dreamer where dreamers are always welcome), but we'd always find what hadn't been apparent when we'd lived in a particular area for a few years.
It was beginning to get dark, and I told Meridith I wanted her to have a picture in front of the Superman: Escape from Krypton logo before nightfall. We all trekked up the steep hill leading to Samurai Summit, which took longer for Mom and Dad, so Meridith and I hustled up the hill, and reached the Superman area. There were kids climbing on the fake ice crystals directly underneath the sign, where I wanted her to stand, so she stood in front of one of the ice crystals, almost under the Superman sign. I took a picture with her cell phone camera, and then she stood next to one of the red S logos which are on either side of the area in front of the ride. Then a picture of the huge "S" on the ground, and we were done. Time for the Sky Tower.
This time, it was getting darker when we got to the Sky Tower, where the elevator ride up takes 5-6 minutes, and this was the first time we had been up there at dusk. It has always been in the daytime, bright enough to see absolutely everything throughout the park, and there was the symbolism of our time in Santa Clarita hopefully ending. Inside the tower is the museum, which features costumes and maps and props from Magic Mountain in decades' past, including a time where there were many shows, such as a dolphin show, animal show, and many comedy shows. Had they kept all that, it would be a much better park than it is, more to do for others who don't want to ride rollercoasters all the time.
I looked out all the windows at all the sections of the park, paying special attention to where Ninja was located. If I had had a season pass this year, I would have been able to enjoy this sight all the time, get a different perspective, and see the Santa Clarita Valley differently, at least in location in the distance. My feelings on it wouldn't have changed, but to get a skewed sort of view of it would have helped me tolerate it more.
(I worked again today, and am feeling bushed. Final part of this day tomorrow.)
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Bliss for the Next Two Years
With a lot of time to walk around the La Mesa campus as a substitute campus supervisor, there's a lot of time to think.
I did a lot of that today, and you should forget what I said before about the next book I was working on (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/11/can-i-write-books-like-this-forever.html). That won't be my next book, because even those I was excited about it at that moment, I never acted much on the research. One week, then two, then three passed, and still I was reading what I wanted to read and not what I had to read for that project. I may still write it one day, but I need this one to determine where I go as a writer, what else I want to do, and to reacquaint myself with detailed research, which will happen often.
When I did research for What If They Lived?, I couldn't read any books about Brad Renfro, Aaliyah and Heath Ledger because there were none. Every fact in those essays came from newspaper and magazine articles I found online. I loved putting the puzzle pieces together, which today is just like sweeping up garbage on the campus grounds after brunch and lunch (One of the things the La Mesa campus supervisors are required to do), and organizing my DVD collection into a binder, which I did all day and most of the evening Monday and still ran out of room in that binder. I have to get another 400-slot binder the next time we go to Fry's.
I want to put more puzzle pieces together. With this project, I've found the opportunity because very little is likely to come from books. Maybe for background, such as with some actors who died in the early '90s after very long lives, but mostly, my research has to come from interviews, and these interviews will be bigger than what I did before. It's going to require a lot more finesse, and hope that the people I want to contact are willing to be interviewed about this particular point in their lives. There'll be nothing untoward about this and I'm not seeking anything controversial to juice up my book. I'm planning a straightforward history of the making of a series of movies I was obsessed with when I was a teenager.
Over the years, there are bits and pieces I've learned about this particular series that I filed away, and a memoir by an actor who was in all of those movies revealed yet another tidbit that was the impetus for this project. It stuck in my mind until today when it spread faster and faster through my mind, showing me that if I want to be published again by the time I'm 30, I have to be happy with what I'm writing. There is no greater motivation than that. This is that book. I know I'm being very vague about it, but I can't be more specific until I'm well into research and interviews. And even then I can give only little tidbits because I want to keep this close to myself. I have no publisher. It's just me now. But I know that I can write a pitch letter for this one. I can see many of the thoughts in that letter already about why a publisher should bring my book into the world. I'm really excited about this, and that helps the most in telling people what I set out to do with this book, for them to want to know more, to want to see the manuscript.
The next two years are going to be a lot of fun, and to kick off the research for this project, I get to watch that movie series again, taking notes this time to determine what questions I want to ask the actors, directors (One died in 2003, but his son is a director), screenwriters, production designers, composers (The music in the opening scene of one of the movies is an ominous, metallic throb that I love and I want to know how this composer did that), special effects people, and others who participated in the production of these movies. There's a story in all of it. I know it and I can feel it stronger than anything else I recently considered writing. I'm ready.
I did a lot of that today, and you should forget what I said before about the next book I was working on (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/11/can-i-write-books-like-this-forever.html). That won't be my next book, because even those I was excited about it at that moment, I never acted much on the research. One week, then two, then three passed, and still I was reading what I wanted to read and not what I had to read for that project. I may still write it one day, but I need this one to determine where I go as a writer, what else I want to do, and to reacquaint myself with detailed research, which will happen often.
When I did research for What If They Lived?, I couldn't read any books about Brad Renfro, Aaliyah and Heath Ledger because there were none. Every fact in those essays came from newspaper and magazine articles I found online. I loved putting the puzzle pieces together, which today is just like sweeping up garbage on the campus grounds after brunch and lunch (One of the things the La Mesa campus supervisors are required to do), and organizing my DVD collection into a binder, which I did all day and most of the evening Monday and still ran out of room in that binder. I have to get another 400-slot binder the next time we go to Fry's.
I want to put more puzzle pieces together. With this project, I've found the opportunity because very little is likely to come from books. Maybe for background, such as with some actors who died in the early '90s after very long lives, but mostly, my research has to come from interviews, and these interviews will be bigger than what I did before. It's going to require a lot more finesse, and hope that the people I want to contact are willing to be interviewed about this particular point in their lives. There'll be nothing untoward about this and I'm not seeking anything controversial to juice up my book. I'm planning a straightforward history of the making of a series of movies I was obsessed with when I was a teenager.
Over the years, there are bits and pieces I've learned about this particular series that I filed away, and a memoir by an actor who was in all of those movies revealed yet another tidbit that was the impetus for this project. It stuck in my mind until today when it spread faster and faster through my mind, showing me that if I want to be published again by the time I'm 30, I have to be happy with what I'm writing. There is no greater motivation than that. This is that book. I know I'm being very vague about it, but I can't be more specific until I'm well into research and interviews. And even then I can give only little tidbits because I want to keep this close to myself. I have no publisher. It's just me now. But I know that I can write a pitch letter for this one. I can see many of the thoughts in that letter already about why a publisher should bring my book into the world. I'm really excited about this, and that helps the most in telling people what I set out to do with this book, for them to want to know more, to want to see the manuscript.
The next two years are going to be a lot of fun, and to kick off the research for this project, I get to watch that movie series again, taking notes this time to determine what questions I want to ask the actors, directors (One died in 2003, but his son is a director), screenwriters, production designers, composers (The music in the opening scene of one of the movies is an ominous, metallic throb that I love and I want to know how this composer did that), special effects people, and others who participated in the production of these movies. There's a story in all of it. I know it and I can feel it stronger than anything else I recently considered writing. I'm ready.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Day 2, Part 1 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise: Would It Have Been Better If...?
The prevalent question during my Saturday at Six Flags Magic Mountain was: Would it have been better if I had gotten a season pass this year, readily able to disconnect myself from this valley? I'm not as incensed by the vapidness and plasticity of Santa Clarita as I used to be because you eventually resign yourself to this being what there is. It'll never change. What once may have been unique in this valley, whatever that might be, was paved over long ago.
Had I gotten the season pass, I wouldn't have needed to ride the rollercoasters all the time, because there is so much else to explore. There's the perpetually empty Golden Bear Theatre, of which I can see a section of the rows of rising benches while walking nearby. There's the front facade, a much smaller stage, with swinging saloon doors, and a reddish curtain behind that, what may have been suitable for comedy acts, or singers, or any other kind of act that the park used to have often a few decades ago, but no more. The rollercoasters will suffice.
There's also the trees all around, a lot to look at. Not only those that zoom by while riding Ninja, but also the ones you see while you walk up Samurai Summit and a relative nature-centered stretch of them while walking to the stairs that lead to just under the loading station of Tatsu where you can watch the trains being dispatched. It's also a shortcut to Ninja without having to walk the steep Samurai Summit hill. If you ever walk that hill, don't trip. You'll just keep rolling.
I stopped a few times on my way to those stairs, just looking at those thick and thin trees, thinking that I might be a better writer if I had had that scenery around me as often as I wanted, whenever the park was open. I felt completely at peace there, finding it remarkable that the only thing Six Flags Magic Mountain shares with the Santa Clarita Valley is its Valencia designation. That's part of its address, but that's it. No plasticity. Nothing shallow. What you see is what you get, from the cracks in the sidewalk, to Superman: Escape from Krypton running one track and train, and only later upon becoming more crowded, running both tracks and trains. It's a welcome change from when the previous Superman: The Escape used to run only one train and the adjacent track was used for storage. Back then, those trains were the most rickety things you could ever ride in an amusement park. Fortunately, times change.
After Mom, Dad, Meridith and I had given the toys over to the Toys for Tots toy drive, gotten our tickets, and walked through the metal detectors, the park gates opened (10:30 a.m. exactly) and Meridith wanted her funnel cake right away at the bakery right near the gate. I had had breakfast before we left, and so I began my trek to Ninja, first with a detour at the biggest souvenir shop near the main gates to get a Superman cape. Last year, I wore a Batman cape just because it was a cape and who wouldn't want to be a superhero for a day? My deepening interest in Superman in recent weeks compelled me to get the right cape this time, and $10 immediately went to Magic Mountain without hesitation. It was apparently a cape that played music if you pushed a button on it, but I noticed no button and nothing slightly bulky to indicate one. I thought that the paper tag that indicated that there was music was just put there for no reason at all. Maybe a mistake in the packing, but there was the same tag on the other Superman capes in the same section. Logic didn't apply at this moment because I just wanted to get to Ninja.
On the path to the shortcut of stairs past Tatsu and into Samurai Summit, I saw that Viper looked empty. No line jutting out on the stairs leading up to the loading station. One more time then. One more time so I could say goodbye.
Viper is a rollercoaster that's secure with itself. It has two vertical loops, a corkscrew toward the end, and it takes all of this in stride. The ride up the hill before the first major dip is easygoing, and even if you're toward the back, where it's expected to go faster because the cars in front of you have already gone over it, there's still that one moment of calm for all before the speed begins. Yet, it's not a frightening oh god-oh-god-please-make-it-stop-or-just-pluck-me-from-this-earth-so-I-don't-have-to-suffer-through-this-anymore speed, not like the hell I experienced twice, mid-afternoon and early evening. Going through the vertical loops is like gliding through an intersection. It doesn't seem that way when you're watching it from the ground, but it has that effect up there. This rollercoaster's just glad to have your time and if you want to go on it, it'll be here. I loved it for a few years because it was honest about what it was. Still is, but my tastes changed.
After the ride ended back in the loading station, I got out, gave it a farewell pat, and that was it. On to Ninja.
While walking to the shortcut to Samurai Summit, I thought about the season pass question, and it would have been nice to have one just because I would have been able to go on Ninja as many times as I wanted. I love Ninja because, as a suspended rollercoaster, it gives off a kind-of, sort-of effect of gliding through a forest. Tatsu gives the full effect of flying, but I could never do it like that, facing downward. All I need is to pass the trees, not look down on them.
As if it was apparent why I was there, I came to a completely empty loading station. I was the only one on the train for my first ride. No screaming from fellow riders. Just me rushing past the trees, enjoying that cold breeze coming off the waters of Jetstream, a water ride that Ninja seems to barely pass right over.
All in all, I rode Ninja seven times in a row, never screaming like the other riders, because I know it so well. I know where the two tight G-Force-laden turns are that trip the same pleasure center in the brain that produces the orgasm. I look forward to those every time, though strangely, those are the ones that evoke screams from fellow riders. After the seventh time, I needed a break, intending to go back on later in the day.
I needed my legs back, and definitely a restroom. I found it near Superman: Escape from Krypton, went quickly, and discovered that it didn't look like much of a line for Superman. This ride shoots you out of the loading station at 100mph, up the tower, and then back down, simulating the storyline of the infant Kal-El escaping from the exploding planet Krypton. Oh, and the ride vehicles launch backwards, so once you get to the highest point on the tower, you're looking down. Way down, before the vehicle speeds down and back into the station. This is also the loudest ride in the park, close to being a sonic boom without the actual boom. When you pass under the track while walking from the Colossus County Fair area that houses Goliath, you have to close your ears quickly if you hear it approaching. So yes, I'd do this. For Superman. It would undoubtedly be much safer than its previous incarnation which looked so run down, and without the red-and-blue paint scheme the tower now has. Before, it was white.
A few feet away from the entrance is a huge "S" shield. Across from it, on either side, are benches. With a season pass, I could have sat on one of those benches, watching people head to Superman, the line sometimes getting longer, interested in how long people are willing to wait for a ride that lasts 28 seconds. Strapping yourself in and waiting for the attendants to make sure everyone is strapped in takes longer.
Entering the Superman: Escape from Krypton structure is entering the Fortress of Solitude. That's the theming, with lighting that glows green above the doors that open into the loading station. Four people per row, three in the front row, for a total of 15 people in one vehicle. It takes some serious waiting for this.
I eventually reached the door to the second row, still wearing my Superman cape. Before I continue, I should say that I apparently have this effect on people that makes them want to talk to me. Whether it's by way of a calming presence or just something that they sense about me that they're curious about, I don't know. But it's always been there.
When I wait in a line somewhere, or I'm just walking past people, or supervising kids at La Mesa during brunch and lunch, I'm always listening. I hear snatches of conversations, weighing whether they benefit me in any way, possibly something to include in a book or a play one day, or something to include in a novel if I ever decide to write one. Hence, in those situations, I have become really good at listening without making it seem like I'm listening.
Behind me, two guys and a girl were chatting. I didn't listen much to their conversation, and in fact, I can't remember a thing from it. But my attention perked up when I heard, "Look, a new Superman," a reference to my cape. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around, and the guy who had tapped me joked that he had Kryptonite. "Circumcision after birth is a Jewish person's Kryptonite," I joked back. I meant it as if a person got it done long after their birth. Mine was done barely a few days after I arrived.
Then he asked me why Superman, and I told him that Batman doesn't interest me because he's gloomy, depressed, and Gotham City is just gray and joyless, whereas Superman came from a different planet, has to discover who he is and where he fits in, and to me, there's more of a story in that, more to explore. The guy reminded me that Bruce Wayne lost both his parents on the same day, and I jokingly replied, "Eventually, a therapist." We also talked about if Bruce Wayne has any relatives, and I said the only person who comes close to being a relative is Alfred.
The friend of his chimed in occasionally, as good-natured as he was, but I didn't notice much compared to that girl, who must have been his friend's girlfriend. She was incredibly beautiful, with a soft face and demeanor about her, who could easily joke with the guys. Many comments and jokes I made got her smiling, reminding me of Emmy Rossum. Truly, the female sex can surprise you when you're not looking.
When the doors opened and we got into the ride vehicle, she had to put her pocketbook on the other side, and I didn't mind getting up and standing to the side at all. Sitting next to her was an honor, though I didn't let on about it. I'm subtle in my appreciations, not so subtle in my appreciation for a much better restraint system in this new incarnation. This time, the ride vehicle has over-the-shoulder restraints that are very heavy, and therefore a bit of a chore to put down, though very necessary so no one flies out. And once that restraint is resting on you (I was at the end of my row, so there was the added bonus of more protection next to me, like half a box made of fabric and metal, which sounds strange, but is the only way I can think of describing it), you take the seat belt buckle hanging down and insert it into the clasp, which is located right over your crotch. Like I said, excellent protection.
I don't have any fear of looking down 415 feet below me. It only lasts for about four seconds, and the way down is smooth. No jerks, no curves. I agreeably felt the wind rushing past me, and then the slowdown into the station, and that was it.
I didn't make a new set of friends with those three. It was one of those conversations that only lasts as long as you're waiting. Lucky guy with that girl. I could also tell that they were avid readers, not only by that same guy noticing my t-shirt, which says, "All You Need is Books," and commenting, "So true, and so many problems could be avoided if that were commonplace." Comments on wars and presidents inevitably followed. Plus, the girl obviously had a vast collection of books where she lives. There's just that look, sharpened, amused, passionate. She had it.
Next, I found out that Mom, Dad and Meridith were heading for Cyclone Bay, where there's bungee jumping ($35 for a single person, $25 for double, $20 for three people, who all can fit in one harness), go karts, and a few lost-looking carnival games, including throwing something into the hole of a vase that turns out to be very far away (It always seems that way), and hitting the circular platform with the mallet to try to make the bell ring.
I wasn't going to start out for Cyclone Bay so fast. I was hungry, and I needed french fries, one reason I had been excited about this day. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the fries served up at the Fresh-Cut Fries stand in Colossus County Fair plaza, but it's just that they're there, served nacho style with cheese and salsa and jalapenos, or spicier styles, or plain, that makes them appealing.
I ordered the half-pound of regular fries, not minding paying $5.29, and when the guy at the counter put ketchup packets on top of the fries, I told him I didn't need them, because there were mustard packets sitting there. I grabbed a handful, went to a table next to the stand and sat down, focused solely on my fries. I opened packet after packet of mustard to squirt on the fries, made a mess of a few packets, wiped the mess off the table, and dove in.
When I'm eating something I really like, it's only me and the food, as it was with these fries. A steady stream of people were walking out of Colossus County plaza across from me, and I hardly noticed. I had french fries and that's all that mattered. And the mustard. Rarely do I eat fries without mustard; well, fries that aren't from McDonald's or In-N-Out.
Before reaching the french fry stand, I stopped at the food stands at Water Tower Plaza, across from the Gold Rusher rollercoaster, curious about if they sold french fries as well, and whatever else was there. In the order window was an ad for pumpkin pie, $3.25 a slice. Pumpkin pie is my favorite, so I immediately wanted it (especially since the frozen pumpkin pie we put in the oven for Thanksgiving was shoddy, and only mildly good after being refrigerated), but not before I had my fries. I'd have my fries first, and then walk back for pumpkin pie.
(More tomorrow. I was a working man today and I'm a working man again tomorrow, with a shot at a full night's sleep tonight instead of the four and a half hours I got before the automated sub system called with the job at 7 this morning.)
Had I gotten the season pass, I wouldn't have needed to ride the rollercoasters all the time, because there is so much else to explore. There's the perpetually empty Golden Bear Theatre, of which I can see a section of the rows of rising benches while walking nearby. There's the front facade, a much smaller stage, with swinging saloon doors, and a reddish curtain behind that, what may have been suitable for comedy acts, or singers, or any other kind of act that the park used to have often a few decades ago, but no more. The rollercoasters will suffice.
There's also the trees all around, a lot to look at. Not only those that zoom by while riding Ninja, but also the ones you see while you walk up Samurai Summit and a relative nature-centered stretch of them while walking to the stairs that lead to just under the loading station of Tatsu where you can watch the trains being dispatched. It's also a shortcut to Ninja without having to walk the steep Samurai Summit hill. If you ever walk that hill, don't trip. You'll just keep rolling.
I stopped a few times on my way to those stairs, just looking at those thick and thin trees, thinking that I might be a better writer if I had had that scenery around me as often as I wanted, whenever the park was open. I felt completely at peace there, finding it remarkable that the only thing Six Flags Magic Mountain shares with the Santa Clarita Valley is its Valencia designation. That's part of its address, but that's it. No plasticity. Nothing shallow. What you see is what you get, from the cracks in the sidewalk, to Superman: Escape from Krypton running one track and train, and only later upon becoming more crowded, running both tracks and trains. It's a welcome change from when the previous Superman: The Escape used to run only one train and the adjacent track was used for storage. Back then, those trains were the most rickety things you could ever ride in an amusement park. Fortunately, times change.
After Mom, Dad, Meridith and I had given the toys over to the Toys for Tots toy drive, gotten our tickets, and walked through the metal detectors, the park gates opened (10:30 a.m. exactly) and Meridith wanted her funnel cake right away at the bakery right near the gate. I had had breakfast before we left, and so I began my trek to Ninja, first with a detour at the biggest souvenir shop near the main gates to get a Superman cape. Last year, I wore a Batman cape just because it was a cape and who wouldn't want to be a superhero for a day? My deepening interest in Superman in recent weeks compelled me to get the right cape this time, and $10 immediately went to Magic Mountain without hesitation. It was apparently a cape that played music if you pushed a button on it, but I noticed no button and nothing slightly bulky to indicate one. I thought that the paper tag that indicated that there was music was just put there for no reason at all. Maybe a mistake in the packing, but there was the same tag on the other Superman capes in the same section. Logic didn't apply at this moment because I just wanted to get to Ninja.
On the path to the shortcut of stairs past Tatsu and into Samurai Summit, I saw that Viper looked empty. No line jutting out on the stairs leading up to the loading station. One more time then. One more time so I could say goodbye.
Viper is a rollercoaster that's secure with itself. It has two vertical loops, a corkscrew toward the end, and it takes all of this in stride. The ride up the hill before the first major dip is easygoing, and even if you're toward the back, where it's expected to go faster because the cars in front of you have already gone over it, there's still that one moment of calm for all before the speed begins. Yet, it's not a frightening oh god-oh-god-please-make-it-stop-or-just-pluck-me-from-this-earth-so-I-don't-have-to-suffer-through-this-anymore speed, not like the hell I experienced twice, mid-afternoon and early evening. Going through the vertical loops is like gliding through an intersection. It doesn't seem that way when you're watching it from the ground, but it has that effect up there. This rollercoaster's just glad to have your time and if you want to go on it, it'll be here. I loved it for a few years because it was honest about what it was. Still is, but my tastes changed.
After the ride ended back in the loading station, I got out, gave it a farewell pat, and that was it. On to Ninja.
While walking to the shortcut to Samurai Summit, I thought about the season pass question, and it would have been nice to have one just because I would have been able to go on Ninja as many times as I wanted. I love Ninja because, as a suspended rollercoaster, it gives off a kind-of, sort-of effect of gliding through a forest. Tatsu gives the full effect of flying, but I could never do it like that, facing downward. All I need is to pass the trees, not look down on them.
As if it was apparent why I was there, I came to a completely empty loading station. I was the only one on the train for my first ride. No screaming from fellow riders. Just me rushing past the trees, enjoying that cold breeze coming off the waters of Jetstream, a water ride that Ninja seems to barely pass right over.
All in all, I rode Ninja seven times in a row, never screaming like the other riders, because I know it so well. I know where the two tight G-Force-laden turns are that trip the same pleasure center in the brain that produces the orgasm. I look forward to those every time, though strangely, those are the ones that evoke screams from fellow riders. After the seventh time, I needed a break, intending to go back on later in the day.
I needed my legs back, and definitely a restroom. I found it near Superman: Escape from Krypton, went quickly, and discovered that it didn't look like much of a line for Superman. This ride shoots you out of the loading station at 100mph, up the tower, and then back down, simulating the storyline of the infant Kal-El escaping from the exploding planet Krypton. Oh, and the ride vehicles launch backwards, so once you get to the highest point on the tower, you're looking down. Way down, before the vehicle speeds down and back into the station. This is also the loudest ride in the park, close to being a sonic boom without the actual boom. When you pass under the track while walking from the Colossus County Fair area that houses Goliath, you have to close your ears quickly if you hear it approaching. So yes, I'd do this. For Superman. It would undoubtedly be much safer than its previous incarnation which looked so run down, and without the red-and-blue paint scheme the tower now has. Before, it was white.
A few feet away from the entrance is a huge "S" shield. Across from it, on either side, are benches. With a season pass, I could have sat on one of those benches, watching people head to Superman, the line sometimes getting longer, interested in how long people are willing to wait for a ride that lasts 28 seconds. Strapping yourself in and waiting for the attendants to make sure everyone is strapped in takes longer.
Entering the Superman: Escape from Krypton structure is entering the Fortress of Solitude. That's the theming, with lighting that glows green above the doors that open into the loading station. Four people per row, three in the front row, for a total of 15 people in one vehicle. It takes some serious waiting for this.
I eventually reached the door to the second row, still wearing my Superman cape. Before I continue, I should say that I apparently have this effect on people that makes them want to talk to me. Whether it's by way of a calming presence or just something that they sense about me that they're curious about, I don't know. But it's always been there.
When I wait in a line somewhere, or I'm just walking past people, or supervising kids at La Mesa during brunch and lunch, I'm always listening. I hear snatches of conversations, weighing whether they benefit me in any way, possibly something to include in a book or a play one day, or something to include in a novel if I ever decide to write one. Hence, in those situations, I have become really good at listening without making it seem like I'm listening.
Behind me, two guys and a girl were chatting. I didn't listen much to their conversation, and in fact, I can't remember a thing from it. But my attention perked up when I heard, "Look, a new Superman," a reference to my cape. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around, and the guy who had tapped me joked that he had Kryptonite. "Circumcision after birth is a Jewish person's Kryptonite," I joked back. I meant it as if a person got it done long after their birth. Mine was done barely a few days after I arrived.
Then he asked me why Superman, and I told him that Batman doesn't interest me because he's gloomy, depressed, and Gotham City is just gray and joyless, whereas Superman came from a different planet, has to discover who he is and where he fits in, and to me, there's more of a story in that, more to explore. The guy reminded me that Bruce Wayne lost both his parents on the same day, and I jokingly replied, "Eventually, a therapist." We also talked about if Bruce Wayne has any relatives, and I said the only person who comes close to being a relative is Alfred.
The friend of his chimed in occasionally, as good-natured as he was, but I didn't notice much compared to that girl, who must have been his friend's girlfriend. She was incredibly beautiful, with a soft face and demeanor about her, who could easily joke with the guys. Many comments and jokes I made got her smiling, reminding me of Emmy Rossum. Truly, the female sex can surprise you when you're not looking.
When the doors opened and we got into the ride vehicle, she had to put her pocketbook on the other side, and I didn't mind getting up and standing to the side at all. Sitting next to her was an honor, though I didn't let on about it. I'm subtle in my appreciations, not so subtle in my appreciation for a much better restraint system in this new incarnation. This time, the ride vehicle has over-the-shoulder restraints that are very heavy, and therefore a bit of a chore to put down, though very necessary so no one flies out. And once that restraint is resting on you (I was at the end of my row, so there was the added bonus of more protection next to me, like half a box made of fabric and metal, which sounds strange, but is the only way I can think of describing it), you take the seat belt buckle hanging down and insert it into the clasp, which is located right over your crotch. Like I said, excellent protection.
I don't have any fear of looking down 415 feet below me. It only lasts for about four seconds, and the way down is smooth. No jerks, no curves. I agreeably felt the wind rushing past me, and then the slowdown into the station, and that was it.
I didn't make a new set of friends with those three. It was one of those conversations that only lasts as long as you're waiting. Lucky guy with that girl. I could also tell that they were avid readers, not only by that same guy noticing my t-shirt, which says, "All You Need is Books," and commenting, "So true, and so many problems could be avoided if that were commonplace." Comments on wars and presidents inevitably followed. Plus, the girl obviously had a vast collection of books where she lives. There's just that look, sharpened, amused, passionate. She had it.
Next, I found out that Mom, Dad and Meridith were heading for Cyclone Bay, where there's bungee jumping ($35 for a single person, $25 for double, $20 for three people, who all can fit in one harness), go karts, and a few lost-looking carnival games, including throwing something into the hole of a vase that turns out to be very far away (It always seems that way), and hitting the circular platform with the mallet to try to make the bell ring.
I wasn't going to start out for Cyclone Bay so fast. I was hungry, and I needed french fries, one reason I had been excited about this day. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the fries served up at the Fresh-Cut Fries stand in Colossus County Fair plaza, but it's just that they're there, served nacho style with cheese and salsa and jalapenos, or spicier styles, or plain, that makes them appealing.
I ordered the half-pound of regular fries, not minding paying $5.29, and when the guy at the counter put ketchup packets on top of the fries, I told him I didn't need them, because there were mustard packets sitting there. I grabbed a handful, went to a table next to the stand and sat down, focused solely on my fries. I opened packet after packet of mustard to squirt on the fries, made a mess of a few packets, wiped the mess off the table, and dove in.
When I'm eating something I really like, it's only me and the food, as it was with these fries. A steady stream of people were walking out of Colossus County plaza across from me, and I hardly noticed. I had french fries and that's all that mattered. And the mustard. Rarely do I eat fries without mustard; well, fries that aren't from McDonald's or In-N-Out.
Before reaching the french fry stand, I stopped at the food stands at Water Tower Plaza, across from the Gold Rusher rollercoaster, curious about if they sold french fries as well, and whatever else was there. In the order window was an ad for pumpkin pie, $3.25 a slice. Pumpkin pie is my favorite, so I immediately wanted it (especially since the frozen pumpkin pie we put in the oven for Thanksgiving was shoddy, and only mildly good after being refrigerated), but not before I had my fries. I'd have my fries first, and then walk back for pumpkin pie.
(More tomorrow. I was a working man today and I'm a working man again tomorrow, with a shot at a full night's sleep tonight instead of the four and a half hours I got before the automated sub system called with the job at 7 this morning.)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A Sign Pointing Firmly to the Future
Still not ready to write about a weekend that could rival any of my future weekends in Las Vegas and Henderson. Tentacles of pain are still reaching inward from the sides of my feet, the result of basically walking for three days straight (Friday was work, remember), and after I'm done compiling job listings for that freelance writing newsletter, I don't want to move until at least mid-morning tomorrow. I've got three episodes of Jeopardy! Tivo'd (Two from Game Show Network, Saturday and today at 6 in the morning that originally aired a few years ago, and a rerun on my local ABC station last night) and I'm looking forward to vegging out while calling out answers I'm surprised I knew. But this I must mention.
Before going to IKEA, we stopped at Fry's, where Mom and Meridith wanted to look at waffle makers. I thought only about the DVD section, which is a lot of fun to go through because they stock DVDs that you'll never find at Best Buy, such as The Straight Story, and the Ethan Hawke Hamlet for $6. I stood where that DVD was, with that in my left hand, and the Royal Shakespeare Company production of Hamlet, starring David Tennant and Patrick Stewart, released by the BBC, and therefore $14.27, though for a three-hour production, it was somewhat understandable. But if I was to buy either of these, and possibly not like them (I'm nuts for the Kenneth Branagh-directed version, though that wouldn't color my view of either of the other two), then I'm out $20. I can take that risk with books because that's who I am. But for DVDs right now, until I have a library card again, I prefer to only buy DVDs I know I can benefit from because they tap into some interest or that I need back in my DVD collection, such as Dick Tracy, the Warren Beatty one, which I bought. I'll wait for those versions of Hamlet, when I can also have the resource of finding other Shakespearean productions on DVD wherever those libraries have DVDs available.
I stopped in the documentary section of DVDs, finding one called Over Florida that's entirely of footage shot from the air. I was born and happily raised there, with much in the state that fired my imagination and led me to who I am now, who I'm looking to be as a writer. Perhaps it would be nice to watch that footage and remember those landmarks that were so important to me.
That didn't happen. As I always do, I slightly shook the DVD case up and down to make sure the DVD was securely in place and this one wasn't. It rattled. At the same time I decided not to risk $9.95 on a DVD that may be completely scratched up, I found a two-disc DVD set called Vegas: The City the Mob Made, 10 episodes about the history of Las Vegas. Shaking that DVD case, I found that those DVDs didn't move.
I bought it, because from this comes everything else I'd want to read about Las Vegas history. I want to know everything. I will leave nothing out. And it was definitely a sign, not to forget Florida entirely, but to leave it behind now and focus on what will come and make me happy every day. It's like my favorite song from the '90s: Runaway by Janet Jackson. The memories it evokes of growing up in the '90s are still active in my mind, but the impact has faded. I think it's to make room for what's ahead, to be where I truly want to be, and what it can fan out to include, such as my desire to travel to New Mexico, and my eventual presidential library travels. By finally having a home base again, I can add more to what I am in reading, writing, and in living.
Before going to IKEA, we stopped at Fry's, where Mom and Meridith wanted to look at waffle makers. I thought only about the DVD section, which is a lot of fun to go through because they stock DVDs that you'll never find at Best Buy, such as The Straight Story, and the Ethan Hawke Hamlet for $6. I stood where that DVD was, with that in my left hand, and the Royal Shakespeare Company production of Hamlet, starring David Tennant and Patrick Stewart, released by the BBC, and therefore $14.27, though for a three-hour production, it was somewhat understandable. But if I was to buy either of these, and possibly not like them (I'm nuts for the Kenneth Branagh-directed version, though that wouldn't color my view of either of the other two), then I'm out $20. I can take that risk with books because that's who I am. But for DVDs right now, until I have a library card again, I prefer to only buy DVDs I know I can benefit from because they tap into some interest or that I need back in my DVD collection, such as Dick Tracy, the Warren Beatty one, which I bought. I'll wait for those versions of Hamlet, when I can also have the resource of finding other Shakespearean productions on DVD wherever those libraries have DVDs available.
I stopped in the documentary section of DVDs, finding one called Over Florida that's entirely of footage shot from the air. I was born and happily raised there, with much in the state that fired my imagination and led me to who I am now, who I'm looking to be as a writer. Perhaps it would be nice to watch that footage and remember those landmarks that were so important to me.
That didn't happen. As I always do, I slightly shook the DVD case up and down to make sure the DVD was securely in place and this one wasn't. It rattled. At the same time I decided not to risk $9.95 on a DVD that may be completely scratched up, I found a two-disc DVD set called Vegas: The City the Mob Made, 10 episodes about the history of Las Vegas. Shaking that DVD case, I found that those DVDs didn't move.
I bought it, because from this comes everything else I'd want to read about Las Vegas history. I want to know everything. I will leave nothing out. And it was definitely a sign, not to forget Florida entirely, but to leave it behind now and focus on what will come and make me happy every day. It's like my favorite song from the '90s: Runaway by Janet Jackson. The memories it evokes of growing up in the '90s are still active in my mind, but the impact has faded. I think it's to make room for what's ahead, to be where I truly want to be, and what it can fan out to include, such as my desire to travel to New Mexico, and my eventual presidential library travels. By finally having a home base again, I can add more to what I am in reading, writing, and in living.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
My Very First Royalty Check
I'm too tired to write anything about my day at Six Flags Magic Mountain, except to say that I'm done with rollercoasters, save for my personal requirement of riding Desperado when we reach Primm just across the state line into Nevada from California (Home state pride!). Some people are cut out for roller coaster enthusiasm well into their thirties. I won't be one of them, not after the double hell that was Apocalypse and Colossus. But more on that either later Sunday evening or Monday.
The day itself was incredible, everything I expected. Then I came home, got the mail (including the complete series DVD set of Nero Wolfe, starring Maury Chaykin, one of my favorite actors, and Timothy Hutton), and found something momentous: My very first royalty check! This was for What If They Lived?, and it's quite a coincidence because while walking throughout Magic Mountain, I thought about how I don't want to let What If They Lived? be my only book. I have to start moving more swiftly on what I want to write. And then after getting off Colossus and ending my interest in rollercoasters, I thought about how not only am I gradually reaching 30, but I will be getting older and older and I don't want to let the years pass without having books to show for them.
When I saw the envelope in the mail and had an inkling that that's what it might be, I thought to myself, "There's a kick in the ass when you need one." After I showed it to Mom, Dad and Meridith, I loved that feeling not only of them being proud of me, but amazed that after all the work I did, here is this check. Here is money for my work. It's not a bizarro, I-can't-believe-they-pay-me-this-much-for-words amount, but it does make me want to write lots more. It'd be nice to see my name on more checks related to my work.
For now, work. More work. Still more work. It's the only way I'll get to that point again.
The day itself was incredible, everything I expected. Then I came home, got the mail (including the complete series DVD set of Nero Wolfe, starring Maury Chaykin, one of my favorite actors, and Timothy Hutton), and found something momentous: My very first royalty check! This was for What If They Lived?, and it's quite a coincidence because while walking throughout Magic Mountain, I thought about how I don't want to let What If They Lived? be my only book. I have to start moving more swiftly on what I want to write. And then after getting off Colossus and ending my interest in rollercoasters, I thought about how not only am I gradually reaching 30, but I will be getting older and older and I don't want to let the years pass without having books to show for them.
When I saw the envelope in the mail and had an inkling that that's what it might be, I thought to myself, "There's a kick in the ass when you need one." After I showed it to Mom, Dad and Meridith, I loved that feeling not only of them being proud of me, but amazed that after all the work I did, here is this check. Here is money for my work. It's not a bizarro, I-can't-believe-they-pay-me-this-much-for-words amount, but it does make me want to write lots more. It'd be nice to see my name on more checks related to my work.
For now, work. More work. Still more work. It's the only way I'll get to that point again.
Friday, December 9, 2011
A Friday with Pay and Then Rollercoasters
This morning was a surprise. I went to bed toward 3, completely failing at trying to get to bed much earlier on Wednesday night and Thursday night so I could ease into getting up early tomorrow morning for Six Flags Magic Mountain.
Mom woke me up at 10 minutes before 6. John, the head campus supervisor, put a call into the automated sub system, which called me. He needed a sub. Did I want the job?
I always want the job, no matter who I'm subbing for, because there's money. I need money. I love money. I need to let my savings account rise more, and I love buying books (at least until Henderson, when I'll have a library to go to again).
I wish John had decided this last night so I could have had time to get lunch ready and to get to bed earlier. That's not how this always works, though, so I went to the dining room table to get Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel (I finished The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue a little after 1 this morning), went back to my room, saw that my clock said 5:52, and got back into bed for a few minutes. I was fully awake, but knew that I have to take it easy today. I'll do the job as professionally as I always do (I'm at the school right now), but I'll walk around the campus a little less during the class periods when there's not any calls to answer on the radio. I need my exercise, and I'll get that, but I also need to be sharp for the brunch and lunch periods, supervising the kids, since I'll be walking around. It's not like subbing for Alex and Carmen, standing near the lunch lines, making sure no one cuts in at the front of the line.
I didn't open Lady Luck's Map of Vegas. I just lay there wondering how I was going to make it through the day on little sleep, but I remembered that I had slept nine hours the previous day, and when I'm at home during the school week, I do a few chores after I get up, then spend my time on the couch reading, as I did yesterday. So there's not a whole lot of exertion there. That serves me well today.
I looked over at the clock again, saw that it was 6, and thought about if I should wait to take a shower after I got home, which actually wouldn't be until after we come home from school, pick up Meridith, go to $5 Friday at Pavilions (in which many items are $5 each, including fried chicken this week), and go home again. That wasn't going to work. It was time to just get it done. I don't think I would be able to think about one after all that activity, and I needed one.
What a relief a shower is when you're trying to wake up. It sets up a good mood for the rest of the day. I don't consume caffeine anymore, so I needed this.
During the shower, I remembered that today is the holiday luncheon for faculty and staff in the library. No need to make lunch to bring with me. Just three oatmeal raisin granola bars and three bottles of Arrowhead water. I had breakfast before Dad and I left the house. I hope for egg nog during this luncheon, but I doubt it. That reminds me that I still want my one carton of regular egg nog for the year. I've been drinking Silk Nog occasionally from the end of October to now, and I'll only partake of regular egg nog once this year. Copious amounts of regular egg nog, even the low-fat kind, is part of what got me fat over the years. Not again. Total moderation.
John's hours are 8:30-4:30, and even though it's later than I usually work, I'm very happy with it. 8 hours instead of 6. Money earned, and then Six Flags Magic Mountain tomorrow. It works out perfectly because I'll definitely crash later tonight and then be up by 7:30 or 8 tomorrow morning, well ahead of 10:30 when the park opens. We're all going anyway, not just Meridith and I, so we'll need to find a parking spot too. The weather is going to be warmer tomorrow, which means I can wear my "All You Need is Books" t-shirt (http://www.unshelved.com/store/Shirts/AllYouNeedIsBooks) with a white t-shirt underneath and a jacket.
So now I can buy my slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt tomorrow without feeling like I'm pushing my financial limit. And if they have a t-shirt that actually has the Ninja rollercoaster on it and not just an outline of a section of the park (as it is with the Ninja t-shirt I already have), I'll grab that too.
I just remembered that the Sky Tower Museum is open as well, in which you take an elevator up that orange tower to the first floor (The second floor is for storage, I imagine, though I heard rumors that there's a kitchen up there too) and there's memorabilia from decades past at Magic Mountain, in glass cases, on hangers, and even an old ride vehicle from one rollercoaster and a seat from another. It's a tradition of sorts for all of us, and before that, when that floor was entirely devoid of anything, we'd just go up there to see the view of the Santa Clarita Valley, which looks far better than the reality. We'll still do that, because that's really the main reason to go up there, and for me to see the Ninja track obscured by trees.
It's just like our tradition to go on "It's a Small World" together whenever we go to Disneyland, though that's not likely to happen again before we move because those tickets are so damn expensive now. When we went to Walt Disney World every weekend when I was a tyke, we went on "It's a Small World" often, and that carried over to when we visited the Magic Kingdom once in a while when we lived in South Florida years later. (Never EPCOT or then-Disney-MGM Studios. Magic Kingdom had enough for all of us, including Tomorrowland for me with Space Mountain (my favorite attraction there), Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress. I only needed those, and the arcade next to Space Mountain, and I stayed there the entire day.)
Work is good, especially this work which lets me read at lunch, completely unperturbed. With Magic Mountain tomorrow, it's even nicer.
(Addendum at 8:11 a.m.: Dad came back from the office before going coffee-hunting to tell me that I have Alex's hours of 9:30-3:30. On days when John is absent, Alex takes his hours. I'm not disappointed, because 6 hours is better than no hours. Plus, that gives me an hour to lay on the couch upstairs in the teachers' lounge and rest up and read before I have to start. I think I'll be better, more awake than I thought I'd be when we got here.)
Mom woke me up at 10 minutes before 6. John, the head campus supervisor, put a call into the automated sub system, which called me. He needed a sub. Did I want the job?
I always want the job, no matter who I'm subbing for, because there's money. I need money. I love money. I need to let my savings account rise more, and I love buying books (at least until Henderson, when I'll have a library to go to again).
I wish John had decided this last night so I could have had time to get lunch ready and to get to bed earlier. That's not how this always works, though, so I went to the dining room table to get Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel (I finished The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue a little after 1 this morning), went back to my room, saw that my clock said 5:52, and got back into bed for a few minutes. I was fully awake, but knew that I have to take it easy today. I'll do the job as professionally as I always do (I'm at the school right now), but I'll walk around the campus a little less during the class periods when there's not any calls to answer on the radio. I need my exercise, and I'll get that, but I also need to be sharp for the brunch and lunch periods, supervising the kids, since I'll be walking around. It's not like subbing for Alex and Carmen, standing near the lunch lines, making sure no one cuts in at the front of the line.
I didn't open Lady Luck's Map of Vegas. I just lay there wondering how I was going to make it through the day on little sleep, but I remembered that I had slept nine hours the previous day, and when I'm at home during the school week, I do a few chores after I get up, then spend my time on the couch reading, as I did yesterday. So there's not a whole lot of exertion there. That serves me well today.
I looked over at the clock again, saw that it was 6, and thought about if I should wait to take a shower after I got home, which actually wouldn't be until after we come home from school, pick up Meridith, go to $5 Friday at Pavilions (in which many items are $5 each, including fried chicken this week), and go home again. That wasn't going to work. It was time to just get it done. I don't think I would be able to think about one after all that activity, and I needed one.
What a relief a shower is when you're trying to wake up. It sets up a good mood for the rest of the day. I don't consume caffeine anymore, so I needed this.
During the shower, I remembered that today is the holiday luncheon for faculty and staff in the library. No need to make lunch to bring with me. Just three oatmeal raisin granola bars and three bottles of Arrowhead water. I had breakfast before Dad and I left the house. I hope for egg nog during this luncheon, but I doubt it. That reminds me that I still want my one carton of regular egg nog for the year. I've been drinking Silk Nog occasionally from the end of October to now, and I'll only partake of regular egg nog once this year. Copious amounts of regular egg nog, even the low-fat kind, is part of what got me fat over the years. Not again. Total moderation.
John's hours are 8:30-4:30, and even though it's later than I usually work, I'm very happy with it. 8 hours instead of 6. Money earned, and then Six Flags Magic Mountain tomorrow. It works out perfectly because I'll definitely crash later tonight and then be up by 7:30 or 8 tomorrow morning, well ahead of 10:30 when the park opens. We're all going anyway, not just Meridith and I, so we'll need to find a parking spot too. The weather is going to be warmer tomorrow, which means I can wear my "All You Need is Books" t-shirt (http://www.unshelved.com/store/Shirts/AllYouNeedIsBooks) with a white t-shirt underneath and a jacket.
So now I can buy my slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt tomorrow without feeling like I'm pushing my financial limit. And if they have a t-shirt that actually has the Ninja rollercoaster on it and not just an outline of a section of the park (as it is with the Ninja t-shirt I already have), I'll grab that too.
I just remembered that the Sky Tower Museum is open as well, in which you take an elevator up that orange tower to the first floor (The second floor is for storage, I imagine, though I heard rumors that there's a kitchen up there too) and there's memorabilia from decades past at Magic Mountain, in glass cases, on hangers, and even an old ride vehicle from one rollercoaster and a seat from another. It's a tradition of sorts for all of us, and before that, when that floor was entirely devoid of anything, we'd just go up there to see the view of the Santa Clarita Valley, which looks far better than the reality. We'll still do that, because that's really the main reason to go up there, and for me to see the Ninja track obscured by trees.
It's just like our tradition to go on "It's a Small World" together whenever we go to Disneyland, though that's not likely to happen again before we move because those tickets are so damn expensive now. When we went to Walt Disney World every weekend when I was a tyke, we went on "It's a Small World" often, and that carried over to when we visited the Magic Kingdom once in a while when we lived in South Florida years later. (Never EPCOT or then-Disney-MGM Studios. Magic Kingdom had enough for all of us, including Tomorrowland for me with Space Mountain (my favorite attraction there), Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress. I only needed those, and the arcade next to Space Mountain, and I stayed there the entire day.)
Work is good, especially this work which lets me read at lunch, completely unperturbed. With Magic Mountain tomorrow, it's even nicer.
(Addendum at 8:11 a.m.: Dad came back from the office before going coffee-hunting to tell me that I have Alex's hours of 9:30-3:30. On days when John is absent, Alex takes his hours. I'm not disappointed, because 6 hours is better than no hours. Plus, that gives me an hour to lay on the couch upstairs in the teachers' lounge and rest up and read before I have to start. I think I'll be better, more awake than I thought I'd be when we got here.)
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Banana Splits and Advice for the Next Generation
For me, a perfect day at work is having a lot of time to walk the La Mesa campus, a lull in between calls, an opportunity to read while at lunch, and spending most of the time by myself, save for supervising the kids at brunch and lunch and making sure they get to class in between periods. I don't talk much with my fellow campus supervisors because there's not that much to say. I'm there to do a job well, to get paid, and go home. And I still love that once the day's work is done, it's done. There's no overtime, nothing to think about at home. I have the rest of the day and night for myself, to read and to write.
Yesterday was a perfect day because of all of that and more. I was subbing for Carmen, who had to take her daughter to a few appointments, since her husband had done it the past few times. I'll take any hours I can get, though Carmen's aren't my favorite because it's five hours and 30 minutes, and not a full six hours as I get with one of the two Alexes and Liz.
Nevertheless, it felt like a Friday, looking straight at the weekend, even though it was a Wednesday. It had that easygoing feeling that aligned the universe. Plus, Meridith was working too as a substitute in the kitchen. The last time she and I were at the same school was a year at Riverside Elementary in Coral Springs, Florida, when I was in fifth grade and she was in kindergarten.
Meridith and I graduated high school in 2007 (Valencia High) and 2002 (Hollywood High), respectively, and spent a few years each at College of the Canyons. We're at a campus again because we don't have to learn anything anymore. We have jobs that are a requirement on a middle-school level (and elementary and high school, though neither of us want to work at a high school): Kids have to eat and there needs to be supervision. In fact, once we get to Henderson, Meridith's thinking about working in the cafeteria of an elementary school, since she loves little kids. I want to stay on the middle school level because in high school, to drag out the moldy cliche (though it is true, I know), those students so obviously know everything. I like to be in that gray, in-between area, which middle school is. There's room for more ambiguity than there is in high school. Plus, it appeals to one of my major interests in my writing: Self-contained worlds. La Mesa is part of a school district, but it is by itself during school hours. No actions by any other middle school can affect it. Tom Flores, one of the assistant principals, splits his time between there and Sierra Vista, but the dynamics in each campus are most assuredly different.
Plus, with weekends off, holidays off, and teacher workdays off, no other job can possibly match that. And because Meridith and I have been at Silver Trail as students when Dad taught there, and just in general when he had to be there at night for various happenings such as open houses; and I have been at Flanagan High and Hollywood Hills High as a student when Mom worked at each campus, we know all about the inner workings of administrations, what helps the school run. From student to employee, it was an easy transition for us to make.
In the kitchen yesterday, there was also a birthday celebration for one of the women, so at one point in the day, Meridith was making banana splits for them. I had come in just when I had started my shift to say hello to Meridith, and then before lunch, I popped in again before the rush began and Meridith asked if I wanted a banana split. Mindful of the roasted corn and french fries to come at Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday (I may have one order of each or more than one. I'm not sure yet), I said no, but Meridith is deaf to the word "No" unless you keep remaining firm enough to show that you don't want whatever's being offered. So she said, "Ok, I'll make you one," and who am I to argue when a banana split is being offered on a Wednesday afternoon during work hours.
After lunch was over and I had swept my share of the campus free of lunch debris (La Mesa is the only campus in the district in which the campus supervisors also sweep up trash after brunch and lunch. If a custodial job involved only sweeping, I'd apply for it, but I don't want to do all else that's involved, such as shampooing carpets, staying late into the evening, and sometimes cleaning up puke. So a campus supervisor I'll happily be), I went into the kitchen, Meridith gave me my banana split, and when I took it from her, I was floored because that freezer in that kitchen works so much better than what we've got at home. I know it's an industrial freezer and it has to work properly for reasons of food safety, but even so, while I was taking my banana split to my favorite spot toward the back of the school to sit down and have it, there was no threat of it melting, even with the day having become warmer.
In this banana split were three long sections of banana, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and walnuts. The walnuts were an unexpected surprise, since I don't see walnuts that often anyway because of how much they cost in the bulk aisles at Sprouts.
I sat down, tucked under the bowl the napkins Meridith gave me, and tucked in. Imagine that anywhere else: Eating a banana split on a Wednesday afternoon at work. The radio was quiet, no one to pick up to bring to the office, so I had plenty of time to eat the entire banana split. I know there probably won't be banana splits at whatever middle school in the Clark County School District will have me as a full-time campus supervisor, not very often anyway, but this is truly the job for me, for moments like this that are so incongruous to what we think of as work during the day. But you know, a job's a job because it brings in a paycheck. It pays the bills. At least for this weekend, part of it gets me a slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt at Six Flags (From the check I deposited yesterday that was from two days of work a few weeks ago).
Before the banana split, at about 11:30, I went to lunch. Carmen's hours, as well as Liz's, and one of the Alexes, puts lunch at 11:30-12:15, which gives a 19-minute leeway before lunch begins for the kids.
I keep my lunch in my dad's fridge in his classroom (in a small room off the classroom, where he also keeps boxes of crackers in a cabinet and assorted other snacks), and I wish I didn't have to. The temperature control in that fridge is so out of whack that spinach and shredded carrots I store in there in a plastic container are always frozen whenever I open it up in the teachers' lounge upstairs. I can eat a few leaves and a few carrots, but have to wait until nearly the end of lunch for the rest of it to defrost. Fortunately, I'm the sort who can go from dessert back to lunch, and since I always have a banana for dessert, it makes no difference. But it's still plenty annoying when there's 45 minutes for lunch that I don't want to rush through at any point.
Later in the day, the head of the kitchen said to Meridith that whenever I'm working, I can have whatever I want from the kitchen. I wondered if this meant I could put my lunch in one of those fridges so I don't have to chisel spinach leaves apart. Yet, I'm iffy about taking advantage of such an offer when Meridith's not working in the kitchen. I don't feel it polite to impose if I don't have a connection to the kitchen. I don't take advantage of that connection anyway, since I have my own lunch, but it just seems easier to go about it when Meridith's there.
Dad's classroom. Lunchtime. I walked in, going to the tote bag I kept under the table near Dad's desk, getting out the plastic shopping bags in which I brought my lunch, to bring to the fridge and load it up. Dad saw me, stopped me, and said he wanted to introduce me to a student, and was going to have me paged on the radio if I hadn't shown up.
The student he introduced me to wanted to write books and poetry, and he told me to talk to her and give her some advice. It was a brand-new situation for me. I've always been on my own with my writing. I've never imparted any experience of mine to anyone curious about what I do, because there's been no one curious about what I do. Yet, here was someone.
She told me that she wanted to write poems of sadness and despair. I don't know if any aspect of her life brought her to want to write those, nor was I going to ask. I figured that maybe she thought those were deep poems, and therefore more likely to be remembered. That didn't matter to me, because she asked, and that was most important to me.
I told her to read often and read a lot. Read enough poetry to get a feel for how others do it, how they form their thoughts into whatever style they choose. Type out favorite poems to get a deeper feeling for them. Always try.
She asked for poets that matched what she wanted to write. On the computer she was using, I steered her to Sylvia Plath. In Google, I typed "sadness and despair poems" and told her to read through those, and if she found a poet she liked, to read everything that poet wrote. It's most important that she follows what interests her. I emphasized over and over to her the importance of reading, that in order to write well, you have to read. You have to know what has come before and from there, you can figure out what you want to do, but also never to be intimidated by what came before that seems great, because you can still do it too.
She went back to Dad later in the day to say thank you, because I had changed her life. What she had learned from me was much, much more than any guidance department or set of English teachers so far had done for her. I hope in high school, she has an English teacher like Roberta Little, who I had in 11th grade, who introduced me to Tennessee Williams through The Glass Menagerie (My favorite play), who showed Mark Twain Tonight! starring Hal Holbrook in conjunction with a unit about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and which I not only bought on DVD years later, but I saw Holbrook perform it live at the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center. She sought our opinions about works, fostered great discussions, and never believed her own opinion to be greater than any of ours. In literature, we were all on an equal level, all exploring together.
By the way, she's 12. There's a potentially good future for this country.
I had done my mitzvah for the day. Totally unexpected, and it's best that the young ones learn what those of us in the trenches have done so far and apply it to how they want to do it.
None of the rest of my day compared to that, though it was just as peaceful as it had been from the start. At one point, Mr. Kerman, one of the guidance counselors called at five-minute intervals to bring three girls into the office of Mr. Patterson, one of the assistant principals. I answered all three calls, figuring something had transpired that took some time to sort out. Not my place to know and I didn't want to know. I'm there to help make the day run a little bit smoother for the administration and the running of the school, and that's enough for me.
Today, there's been a new development. There will be five days in the four-week pleasure cruise instead of four. Dad got a call today that an influential bigwig at K12, the online school he works for, is flying to Burbank for business and wants to meet him on Sunday. This means going to Burbank, where Dad will likely drop us off at IKEA, before meeting this guy at whatever restaurant he chooses. This is most important because it could bring us closer to becoming residents of Henderson, being that the job Dad's seeking at K12 is in Las Vegas.
For Mom, Meridith and I, this means Swedish meatballs at IKEA, plus there's a mall within walking distance where Mom's wanted to go to the Macy's, but there's never been enough time on past visits. There's also Barnes & Noble across the street from IKEA, but I don't feel an urge to buy any books since I've been ordering the ones I want online. Yet I say that without having been there yet, and with a burgeoning interest in Steampunk and a deepening interest in Superman. Plus, they've got a vast collection of magazines, and it was at that Barnes & Noble that I discovered The Normal School (http://www.thenormalschool.com/index.html), a literary magazine run from the Fresno campus of California State University. Just from the issue I found there (http://www.thenormalschool.com/images/TNS5_FrontCover.gif), I went to the website, found out where to send a check for a subscription, wrote one, and sent it off. And I will happily renew my subscription once the third issue in my four-issue subscription arrives. They publish twice a year in the spring and the fall, so I have time.
I've also been thinking about the $1-only used bookstore that we went to in downtown Burbank in January (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/01/lost-my-dream-girl-i-hope-theres.html), but considering how many books there already are in my room, that may not be wise. And yet, there may be an author there I've never discovered before who I just have to read. And yet, I already have many of those in my room. And yet, maybe there's one or a few there who could inspire me further as I work on my second book. And yet, maybe it's best to shrink some of the stacks first before I go nuts again for more. And yet, isn't that what being a bibliophile is about? For the sake of space, no. For the love of reading, yes.
Besides, Dad's meeting is happening later in the day, so by the time he's done, we'll have to get home anyway because Dad has to go to work on Monday. It's no great loss to me if we don't, but there's always something about those used bookstores, going in, not knowing what you're looking for, but always finding it.
I've also found immense pleasure in The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue by Barbara Samuel, who writes as Barbara O'Neal now, and whose The Secret of Everything makes me want to visit New Mexico one day. I'm impatiently waiting for her The Garden of Happy Endings, which is coming out in April, so I ordered this, Lady Luck's Map of Vegas (which arrived today), and A Piece of Heaven, to pass some of the time until April when I can finally dive into that one. I haven't yet ordered No Place Like Home and Madame Mirabou's School of Love because I wanted to see how these first three go, but just on page 146 of The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue, I'm seriously thinking about bringing those two in. I can't go wrong with any of her works. Plus, I intend to re-read The Secret of Everything before April.
The pleasure cruise continues.
Yesterday was a perfect day because of all of that and more. I was subbing for Carmen, who had to take her daughter to a few appointments, since her husband had done it the past few times. I'll take any hours I can get, though Carmen's aren't my favorite because it's five hours and 30 minutes, and not a full six hours as I get with one of the two Alexes and Liz.
Nevertheless, it felt like a Friday, looking straight at the weekend, even though it was a Wednesday. It had that easygoing feeling that aligned the universe. Plus, Meridith was working too as a substitute in the kitchen. The last time she and I were at the same school was a year at Riverside Elementary in Coral Springs, Florida, when I was in fifth grade and she was in kindergarten.
Meridith and I graduated high school in 2007 (Valencia High) and 2002 (Hollywood High), respectively, and spent a few years each at College of the Canyons. We're at a campus again because we don't have to learn anything anymore. We have jobs that are a requirement on a middle-school level (and elementary and high school, though neither of us want to work at a high school): Kids have to eat and there needs to be supervision. In fact, once we get to Henderson, Meridith's thinking about working in the cafeteria of an elementary school, since she loves little kids. I want to stay on the middle school level because in high school, to drag out the moldy cliche (though it is true, I know), those students so obviously know everything. I like to be in that gray, in-between area, which middle school is. There's room for more ambiguity than there is in high school. Plus, it appeals to one of my major interests in my writing: Self-contained worlds. La Mesa is part of a school district, but it is by itself during school hours. No actions by any other middle school can affect it. Tom Flores, one of the assistant principals, splits his time between there and Sierra Vista, but the dynamics in each campus are most assuredly different.
Plus, with weekends off, holidays off, and teacher workdays off, no other job can possibly match that. And because Meridith and I have been at Silver Trail as students when Dad taught there, and just in general when he had to be there at night for various happenings such as open houses; and I have been at Flanagan High and Hollywood Hills High as a student when Mom worked at each campus, we know all about the inner workings of administrations, what helps the school run. From student to employee, it was an easy transition for us to make.
In the kitchen yesterday, there was also a birthday celebration for one of the women, so at one point in the day, Meridith was making banana splits for them. I had come in just when I had started my shift to say hello to Meridith, and then before lunch, I popped in again before the rush began and Meridith asked if I wanted a banana split. Mindful of the roasted corn and french fries to come at Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday (I may have one order of each or more than one. I'm not sure yet), I said no, but Meridith is deaf to the word "No" unless you keep remaining firm enough to show that you don't want whatever's being offered. So she said, "Ok, I'll make you one," and who am I to argue when a banana split is being offered on a Wednesday afternoon during work hours.
After lunch was over and I had swept my share of the campus free of lunch debris (La Mesa is the only campus in the district in which the campus supervisors also sweep up trash after brunch and lunch. If a custodial job involved only sweeping, I'd apply for it, but I don't want to do all else that's involved, such as shampooing carpets, staying late into the evening, and sometimes cleaning up puke. So a campus supervisor I'll happily be), I went into the kitchen, Meridith gave me my banana split, and when I took it from her, I was floored because that freezer in that kitchen works so much better than what we've got at home. I know it's an industrial freezer and it has to work properly for reasons of food safety, but even so, while I was taking my banana split to my favorite spot toward the back of the school to sit down and have it, there was no threat of it melting, even with the day having become warmer.
In this banana split were three long sections of banana, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and walnuts. The walnuts were an unexpected surprise, since I don't see walnuts that often anyway because of how much they cost in the bulk aisles at Sprouts.
I sat down, tucked under the bowl the napkins Meridith gave me, and tucked in. Imagine that anywhere else: Eating a banana split on a Wednesday afternoon at work. The radio was quiet, no one to pick up to bring to the office, so I had plenty of time to eat the entire banana split. I know there probably won't be banana splits at whatever middle school in the Clark County School District will have me as a full-time campus supervisor, not very often anyway, but this is truly the job for me, for moments like this that are so incongruous to what we think of as work during the day. But you know, a job's a job because it brings in a paycheck. It pays the bills. At least for this weekend, part of it gets me a slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt at Six Flags (From the check I deposited yesterday that was from two days of work a few weeks ago).
Before the banana split, at about 11:30, I went to lunch. Carmen's hours, as well as Liz's, and one of the Alexes, puts lunch at 11:30-12:15, which gives a 19-minute leeway before lunch begins for the kids.
I keep my lunch in my dad's fridge in his classroom (in a small room off the classroom, where he also keeps boxes of crackers in a cabinet and assorted other snacks), and I wish I didn't have to. The temperature control in that fridge is so out of whack that spinach and shredded carrots I store in there in a plastic container are always frozen whenever I open it up in the teachers' lounge upstairs. I can eat a few leaves and a few carrots, but have to wait until nearly the end of lunch for the rest of it to defrost. Fortunately, I'm the sort who can go from dessert back to lunch, and since I always have a banana for dessert, it makes no difference. But it's still plenty annoying when there's 45 minutes for lunch that I don't want to rush through at any point.
Later in the day, the head of the kitchen said to Meridith that whenever I'm working, I can have whatever I want from the kitchen. I wondered if this meant I could put my lunch in one of those fridges so I don't have to chisel spinach leaves apart. Yet, I'm iffy about taking advantage of such an offer when Meridith's not working in the kitchen. I don't feel it polite to impose if I don't have a connection to the kitchen. I don't take advantage of that connection anyway, since I have my own lunch, but it just seems easier to go about it when Meridith's there.
Dad's classroom. Lunchtime. I walked in, going to the tote bag I kept under the table near Dad's desk, getting out the plastic shopping bags in which I brought my lunch, to bring to the fridge and load it up. Dad saw me, stopped me, and said he wanted to introduce me to a student, and was going to have me paged on the radio if I hadn't shown up.
The student he introduced me to wanted to write books and poetry, and he told me to talk to her and give her some advice. It was a brand-new situation for me. I've always been on my own with my writing. I've never imparted any experience of mine to anyone curious about what I do, because there's been no one curious about what I do. Yet, here was someone.
She told me that she wanted to write poems of sadness and despair. I don't know if any aspect of her life brought her to want to write those, nor was I going to ask. I figured that maybe she thought those were deep poems, and therefore more likely to be remembered. That didn't matter to me, because she asked, and that was most important to me.
I told her to read often and read a lot. Read enough poetry to get a feel for how others do it, how they form their thoughts into whatever style they choose. Type out favorite poems to get a deeper feeling for them. Always try.
She asked for poets that matched what she wanted to write. On the computer she was using, I steered her to Sylvia Plath. In Google, I typed "sadness and despair poems" and told her to read through those, and if she found a poet she liked, to read everything that poet wrote. It's most important that she follows what interests her. I emphasized over and over to her the importance of reading, that in order to write well, you have to read. You have to know what has come before and from there, you can figure out what you want to do, but also never to be intimidated by what came before that seems great, because you can still do it too.
She went back to Dad later in the day to say thank you, because I had changed her life. What she had learned from me was much, much more than any guidance department or set of English teachers so far had done for her. I hope in high school, she has an English teacher like Roberta Little, who I had in 11th grade, who introduced me to Tennessee Williams through The Glass Menagerie (My favorite play), who showed Mark Twain Tonight! starring Hal Holbrook in conjunction with a unit about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and which I not only bought on DVD years later, but I saw Holbrook perform it live at the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center. She sought our opinions about works, fostered great discussions, and never believed her own opinion to be greater than any of ours. In literature, we were all on an equal level, all exploring together.
By the way, she's 12. There's a potentially good future for this country.
I had done my mitzvah for the day. Totally unexpected, and it's best that the young ones learn what those of us in the trenches have done so far and apply it to how they want to do it.
None of the rest of my day compared to that, though it was just as peaceful as it had been from the start. At one point, Mr. Kerman, one of the guidance counselors called at five-minute intervals to bring three girls into the office of Mr. Patterson, one of the assistant principals. I answered all three calls, figuring something had transpired that took some time to sort out. Not my place to know and I didn't want to know. I'm there to help make the day run a little bit smoother for the administration and the running of the school, and that's enough for me.
Today, there's been a new development. There will be five days in the four-week pleasure cruise instead of four. Dad got a call today that an influential bigwig at K12, the online school he works for, is flying to Burbank for business and wants to meet him on Sunday. This means going to Burbank, where Dad will likely drop us off at IKEA, before meeting this guy at whatever restaurant he chooses. This is most important because it could bring us closer to becoming residents of Henderson, being that the job Dad's seeking at K12 is in Las Vegas.
For Mom, Meridith and I, this means Swedish meatballs at IKEA, plus there's a mall within walking distance where Mom's wanted to go to the Macy's, but there's never been enough time on past visits. There's also Barnes & Noble across the street from IKEA, but I don't feel an urge to buy any books since I've been ordering the ones I want online. Yet I say that without having been there yet, and with a burgeoning interest in Steampunk and a deepening interest in Superman. Plus, they've got a vast collection of magazines, and it was at that Barnes & Noble that I discovered The Normal School (http://www.thenormalschool.com/index.html), a literary magazine run from the Fresno campus of California State University. Just from the issue I found there (http://www.thenormalschool.com/images/TNS5_FrontCover.gif), I went to the website, found out where to send a check for a subscription, wrote one, and sent it off. And I will happily renew my subscription once the third issue in my four-issue subscription arrives. They publish twice a year in the spring and the fall, so I have time.
I've also been thinking about the $1-only used bookstore that we went to in downtown Burbank in January (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/01/lost-my-dream-girl-i-hope-theres.html), but considering how many books there already are in my room, that may not be wise. And yet, there may be an author there I've never discovered before who I just have to read. And yet, I already have many of those in my room. And yet, maybe there's one or a few there who could inspire me further as I work on my second book. And yet, maybe it's best to shrink some of the stacks first before I go nuts again for more. And yet, isn't that what being a bibliophile is about? For the sake of space, no. For the love of reading, yes.
Besides, Dad's meeting is happening later in the day, so by the time he's done, we'll have to get home anyway because Dad has to go to work on Monday. It's no great loss to me if we don't, but there's always something about those used bookstores, going in, not knowing what you're looking for, but always finding it.
I've also found immense pleasure in The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue by Barbara Samuel, who writes as Barbara O'Neal now, and whose The Secret of Everything makes me want to visit New Mexico one day. I'm impatiently waiting for her The Garden of Happy Endings, which is coming out in April, so I ordered this, Lady Luck's Map of Vegas (which arrived today), and A Piece of Heaven, to pass some of the time until April when I can finally dive into that one. I haven't yet ordered No Place Like Home and Madame Mirabou's School of Love because I wanted to see how these first three go, but just on page 146 of The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue, I'm seriously thinking about bringing those two in. I can't go wrong with any of her works. Plus, I intend to re-read The Secret of Everything before April.
The pleasure cruise continues.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)