Another Thursday at the Valencia Town Center Mall, motivated yet again by Dad having to be at a school, though not his own this time. This time it was at Valencia High for a BPA (Business Professionals of America) meeting that included the students he oversaw as a substitute teacher on Tuesday at Valencia, after his day was done at La Mesa, in a business education ROP (Regional Occupational Program) course.
Mom wanted to go somewhere during the time he was at Valencia High, from 5-7 p.m., and immediately thought of the mall again, most of all for Meridith and I to get tickets for The Lion King 3D (for me) and Dolphin Tale 3D (for her), so that way we wouldn't have to get any on Saturday, in case it was sold out. But 2:35 and 2:50, respectively, in the afternoon? I doubt it. Nevertheless, it's always useful to get them ahead of time, to just walk right in.
No Souplantation this time, and for good reason, since it was $40 for Mom, Meridith and I that time, though it was good. But it also didn't feel like the right time for it again. We walked on past after getting the tickets, toward the mall, and then headed for the food court. Mom wanted to try the veggie dog from Hot Dog on a Stick, just like last time; Meridith decided on the Japanese place next to Hot Dog on a Stick, and I decided on a quesadilla from Cabo Cabana Fresh Baja Grill.
It was a decent, large chicken quesadilla, as would be expected for $7.99, but a quesadilla at least in this part of the valley, is just a quesadilla. It's impossible to find a QUESADILLA in Valencia, one that bursts with great flavor. I was just glad to have a chicken quesadilla again, and really, at the mall here, the food court just does as advertised. Nothing more, nothing less. You'll find mediterranean food, and pizza, and grilled subs, but you just eat and move on to whatever else you need at the mall.
After the food court, we stopped at a key duplication vending machine across from a display window at Forever 21, and while Meridith looked at the key colors available, I marveled at the window of the view inside the machine. Someone came up with this design, someone (or a team, perhaps) created the mechanisms by which this machine operates. I wondered who those people were, how often they create such machines, if there's a steady opportunity to come up with new ones for new business ventures.
It was like the painting of food I saw above the old Arby's stand in the food court. It's what's put up when any space there is unoccupied. And I'm curious enough to e-mail whoever's in charge of the mall to see if they know who did it, if that person has any more paintings. I just want to know who that anomymous artwork belongs to.
It's the same thing with corporate architecture. Who designs the malls? Who builds them? Do they go from mall site to mall site throughout the country? When they're watching TV at night, do they mull over designs in their heads, like how big store space should be, if the mall anchors such as Sears have enough space? These are the things that go through my head at any mall, really. Unless there's a bookstore, or a library branch like the Henderson Galleria has. Mom also told me that they have books for sale out front. Then I'm not thinking of questions like those, but rather hoping for some decent finds, and I can't wait to devour that when I'm there.
At Puzzle Zoo, which stocks dolls and toys and model planes and Star Wars figurines, the guy behind the counter noticed my Beavis & Butthead t-shirt and led me to two boxes toward the back that had Beavis & Butthead bobbleheads in them, newly arrived, timed to the new episodes in October. They were talking bobbleheads and there was one of Cornholio. It's nice to see an important part of the '90s return, and as a fan, I was happy to see new merchandise. Not sure I'd get a bobblehead, but I'd buy figurines of them.
Then we decided to go to Menchie's, which has self-serve frozen yogurt and plenty of toppings, and Dad walked in not even five minutes after we started sampling the different frozen yogurts available, and so we had our concoctions together, mine with chocolate-covered banana frozen yogurt, almond bits, strawberries, bananas, cookie dough bites, cheesecake bites, Heath Bar pieces, and Reese's Cup pieces.
It was yet another peaceful evening at the mall, one of the few places in this valley that can provide the same reliable experience every time, though I suspect only like this on Thursdays. Chances are it'll be a long time before we go to the mall again, if we even go to this mall depending on if the opportunity comes to move soon. But I like that I'll always have those questions in mind as I look around any mall. I always wonder.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
My Southern California Souvenirs
For many entries throughout this blog, I've tried to figure out what Southern California means to me, if anything, going all the way back to when I moved here with my family in August 2003, grabbing every book I could related to the literature and history of Los Angeles to try to extract some meaning that answered so many questions I had, such as the total isolation of the Santa Clarita Valley from Los Angeles; the freeway system; how spread out everything is; how there's a sense of community in certain places, such as Chinatown and Koreatown, but not a sense overall.
I know now that in Los Angeles, people just live. They either love the city or they don't, and they do what they can to make it work for them. I may have been looking for one true meaning, but I had been going about it wrong. There are many meanings, and each member of the population in Los Angeles picks one and goes with it, however the city relates to them. I never got that feeling for myself. In order to keep sane in this valley, only 30 minutes north, but still feeling very far away from that metropolis, I got my associate degree at College of the Canyons, worked at The Signal for two years, and checked out what must have been hundreds of books from the Valencia library. However, to me, those aren't meanings related to where I live. I could have gotten an associate degree basically anywhere. If it hadn't been in the Santa Clarita Valley, it might have been somewhere else. I can find newspapers anywhere else (though I was glad to see that film criticism was not for me after it feeling so much like a hamster wheel in my final year), and libraries anywhere else too. But there was nothing to connect me securely to this valley. The only way that I know any place is worthwhile in some form is the hold it has on its history, and even though there is a historical society within Santa Clarita, this is not a valley that holds on to what it once was, that documents it, that shows it to others and says, "This is what we were long ago. This is how we began." I got that feeling in the times we went to Buena Park, the ghosts of its history lingering heavily over everything. I never got that here.
However, I have been thinking about what I want to take with me from Southern California when we move. Once I'm a resident of Henderson, I'll be swiftly making up for eight years of lost time (Not all of it was lost here, such as discovering the works of Charles Bukowski, and Subways are for Sleeping by Edmund G. Love). But what would I want to take with me to evoke slight memories, to at least remind me of where I had been and what I want for myself there to make life much better?
When I was digging through my permanent collection to figure out what books are my all-time favorites (Part 2 coming soon), I found Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard and This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes. Both books I first checked out at the Valencia library, both in hardcover, both evocative of different sides of Los Angeles.
Chore Whore is a fictionalized account of Howard's experiences as a personal assistant in Hollywood. I've not been involved in the industry in any capacity, but I do get that feeling of Hollywood, that thickness of separation between the Hollywood world and the rest of the world. I remember a friend once took me along to the 20th Century Fox lot in Century City to interview someone on-camera for the making of an independent film, in the office of producer Ralph Winter who, at the time, had pristine copies of the Fantastic Four comic on a glass coffee table, and would soon produce the films. Winter wasn't there, naturally, since it was nearing 8 p.m., but I remember one of his assistants at her desk, and I spied the proverbial script in a drawer. Whether hers or someone else's, I didn't ask, but I imagine it must have been hers. I get the feeling that everyone in Hollywood must have a script in a drawer, their hoped-for future ticket to fame. I also remember, driving nearer to the Fox lot, this thick atmosphere of desperation. I sensed all the future screenwriters tapping out scripts on their laptop, actors preparing for auditions the next day, people wanting more, more, more, but most of all, more exposure. Howard's book has a lot of that feeling, accurately told. I'm not interested in modern-day Hollywood, but am utterly fascinated with 1930s Hollywood, with the chieftains of the system back then, such as Louis B. Mayer of MGM, which reminds me that I want to read Scott Eyman's biography about him one of these days. Hollywood back then was an assembly line, with scripts being pushed out, produced, and the process constantly repeated, much faster than it is today. The pressure on all hands was enormous. That's what I like to study, though I still would like to remember a bit of what I experienced here with that, as a forever-outsider, and know that just like Las Vegas, you cannot find it anywhere else. Not like that.
This Book Will Save Your Life is the parts of Los Angeles I know, but unlike the ending, there is no such apocalypse waiting to take hold, though L.A. always seems on the verge of one. L.A. is at times odd as it is portrayed in this book, and it is not always a city in which you can feel secure. You need to do what you can do, and hope that it works, hope that the next day builds on what you tried to do and forms some kind of cement. What's most interesting about this is that while Richard, a stock trader, tries to put his life back together, people just appear and form a new universe for him. Just like that. People always just seem to appear in Los Angeles, and I don't mean just in the way of always being there, but there is always some soul, some life that stands out on every intersection, every crevice, every parking lot, every high-rise building. L.A. is not the kind of city where you look at length, where you stare to study. You just keep moving. But it's those moments of spotting something, something glimmering, something that catches your interest, even for a second, that adds to the uniqueness of L.A. In Henderson, I have a good read on the area. I know where the supermarkets are, where those places are that I want to be. In L.A., that same certainty isn't possible. You can't know everything. But you can know some things. That's the feeling I always get when I read This Book Will Save Your Life, and that's why it's coming with me when we move.
My last Southern California souvenir will be the DVD of King of California, starring Michael Douglas as a recently-released patient at a mental hospital, a jazz musician, and Evan Rachel Wood as his 16-year-old daughter, who dropped out of school to spend the past two years making a quiet, relatively stable life for herself. Charlie (Douglas) comes back into Miranda's (Wood) life with the enthusiastic notion of buried treasure. There was an explorer named Father Torres who buried gold somewhere in the Santa Clarita Valley, and Charlie studied all that he could possibly find while in the mental hospital, and wants to find the treasure. He knows it's out there.
King of California represents the Santa Clarita I know so well. It is a valley of logos, with McDonald's, 76, Wendy's, Chuck E. Cheese, and Petco all represented on camera. Besides those, we also have Six Flags Magic Mountain, Walmart, Office Depot, Staples, Target, and the list goes on. But despite the shallowness that frustrates me, it is also a valley that still harbors dreams and the search for them, such as Charlie's. It's there, but you just have to wade through the plastic bullshit to find it. There are more wide open spaces in the Santa Clarita Valley than you can find in Los Angeles proper, most noticeable when you look at the Six Flags part of the valley from the Walmart parking lot on Kelly Johnson Parkway. I also remember that when we moved to Saugus a year after our arrival, the mountainside we saw on the way to our new abode was completely empty. Not one light on it. Now it's covered in houses.
Whenever I watch King of California, I see those moments that I have lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, of that one Saturday afternoon in our Valencia apartment, sunlight filtering in through dusty blinds, discovering Charles Bukowski, and amazed that someone could write this raw with simple words. Bukowski always made sure that his writing could be read by the working man, because he was one of them, a mail carrier, and it's said that many who've never read poetry sparked to his.
I remember when Mom and Dad were in Vegas and Meridith and I stopped by this long housing development, full of houses nearly built the same, with differently-designed balconies and porches, and the peace I felt there. I wanted to have one of those porches, one of those balconies. I wanted a house like that. It was odd to me how there was this peaceful architecture and yet the only scenery around were the houses facing each other from across the street. But that's Santa Clarita. They build where there's enough space. Aesthetics need not apply.
I remember when I used to go to bed at 5 in the morning, and in the hours before, I'd stand on the patio, hearing that silence, amazed that an entire valley seemed to shut down. Only the occasional train whistle could be heard, cargo being transported. And I am reminded of those quiet moments in this valley, where things seem possible in life. I'm never sure what they are, but they always seem to be more than we currently are, like we could actually engage ourselves in different parts of this valley, but then it pushes back. It does not want that. It prefers to remain monolithic, styles set only by those who sell cars (Auto Row) or run College of the Canyons or have such a say in the business of this valley that for Valencia, they can come up with a marketing plan that includes rebranding Valencia as "Awesometown." I'm sadly serious. They have tried to make that catch on. But it's like American Idol, during the audition episodes, when a contestant claims that they have the greatest voice, that they are the one America has been waiting for, and then they begin singing, and even though you're not at the audition yourself, you cringe as if you're one of the auditioner's sane family members. That's exactly what calling Valencia "Awesometown" is.
King of California was filmed in parts of Southern California that aren't in the Santa Clarita Valley, but the Costco featured here is the one in this valley. Think about this: Treasure buried under a Costco? It's fiction, of course, but it is possible. Mildly. Even so, the dream is there, a dream that should be more widespread, a dream of anything, anything to make this valley more interesting. But at least in King of California, I have those moments of interesting happenings. They flash through my memory. They never happened often, but they were there. They're what got me through these eight years. And what better record to have of vanished time?
I know now that in Los Angeles, people just live. They either love the city or they don't, and they do what they can to make it work for them. I may have been looking for one true meaning, but I had been going about it wrong. There are many meanings, and each member of the population in Los Angeles picks one and goes with it, however the city relates to them. I never got that feeling for myself. In order to keep sane in this valley, only 30 minutes north, but still feeling very far away from that metropolis, I got my associate degree at College of the Canyons, worked at The Signal for two years, and checked out what must have been hundreds of books from the Valencia library. However, to me, those aren't meanings related to where I live. I could have gotten an associate degree basically anywhere. If it hadn't been in the Santa Clarita Valley, it might have been somewhere else. I can find newspapers anywhere else (though I was glad to see that film criticism was not for me after it feeling so much like a hamster wheel in my final year), and libraries anywhere else too. But there was nothing to connect me securely to this valley. The only way that I know any place is worthwhile in some form is the hold it has on its history, and even though there is a historical society within Santa Clarita, this is not a valley that holds on to what it once was, that documents it, that shows it to others and says, "This is what we were long ago. This is how we began." I got that feeling in the times we went to Buena Park, the ghosts of its history lingering heavily over everything. I never got that here.
However, I have been thinking about what I want to take with me from Southern California when we move. Once I'm a resident of Henderson, I'll be swiftly making up for eight years of lost time (Not all of it was lost here, such as discovering the works of Charles Bukowski, and Subways are for Sleeping by Edmund G. Love). But what would I want to take with me to evoke slight memories, to at least remind me of where I had been and what I want for myself there to make life much better?
When I was digging through my permanent collection to figure out what books are my all-time favorites (Part 2 coming soon), I found Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard and This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes. Both books I first checked out at the Valencia library, both in hardcover, both evocative of different sides of Los Angeles.
Chore Whore is a fictionalized account of Howard's experiences as a personal assistant in Hollywood. I've not been involved in the industry in any capacity, but I do get that feeling of Hollywood, that thickness of separation between the Hollywood world and the rest of the world. I remember a friend once took me along to the 20th Century Fox lot in Century City to interview someone on-camera for the making of an independent film, in the office of producer Ralph Winter who, at the time, had pristine copies of the Fantastic Four comic on a glass coffee table, and would soon produce the films. Winter wasn't there, naturally, since it was nearing 8 p.m., but I remember one of his assistants at her desk, and I spied the proverbial script in a drawer. Whether hers or someone else's, I didn't ask, but I imagine it must have been hers. I get the feeling that everyone in Hollywood must have a script in a drawer, their hoped-for future ticket to fame. I also remember, driving nearer to the Fox lot, this thick atmosphere of desperation. I sensed all the future screenwriters tapping out scripts on their laptop, actors preparing for auditions the next day, people wanting more, more, more, but most of all, more exposure. Howard's book has a lot of that feeling, accurately told. I'm not interested in modern-day Hollywood, but am utterly fascinated with 1930s Hollywood, with the chieftains of the system back then, such as Louis B. Mayer of MGM, which reminds me that I want to read Scott Eyman's biography about him one of these days. Hollywood back then was an assembly line, with scripts being pushed out, produced, and the process constantly repeated, much faster than it is today. The pressure on all hands was enormous. That's what I like to study, though I still would like to remember a bit of what I experienced here with that, as a forever-outsider, and know that just like Las Vegas, you cannot find it anywhere else. Not like that.
This Book Will Save Your Life is the parts of Los Angeles I know, but unlike the ending, there is no such apocalypse waiting to take hold, though L.A. always seems on the verge of one. L.A. is at times odd as it is portrayed in this book, and it is not always a city in which you can feel secure. You need to do what you can do, and hope that it works, hope that the next day builds on what you tried to do and forms some kind of cement. What's most interesting about this is that while Richard, a stock trader, tries to put his life back together, people just appear and form a new universe for him. Just like that. People always just seem to appear in Los Angeles, and I don't mean just in the way of always being there, but there is always some soul, some life that stands out on every intersection, every crevice, every parking lot, every high-rise building. L.A. is not the kind of city where you look at length, where you stare to study. You just keep moving. But it's those moments of spotting something, something glimmering, something that catches your interest, even for a second, that adds to the uniqueness of L.A. In Henderson, I have a good read on the area. I know where the supermarkets are, where those places are that I want to be. In L.A., that same certainty isn't possible. You can't know everything. But you can know some things. That's the feeling I always get when I read This Book Will Save Your Life, and that's why it's coming with me when we move.
My last Southern California souvenir will be the DVD of King of California, starring Michael Douglas as a recently-released patient at a mental hospital, a jazz musician, and Evan Rachel Wood as his 16-year-old daughter, who dropped out of school to spend the past two years making a quiet, relatively stable life for herself. Charlie (Douglas) comes back into Miranda's (Wood) life with the enthusiastic notion of buried treasure. There was an explorer named Father Torres who buried gold somewhere in the Santa Clarita Valley, and Charlie studied all that he could possibly find while in the mental hospital, and wants to find the treasure. He knows it's out there.
King of California represents the Santa Clarita I know so well. It is a valley of logos, with McDonald's, 76, Wendy's, Chuck E. Cheese, and Petco all represented on camera. Besides those, we also have Six Flags Magic Mountain, Walmart, Office Depot, Staples, Target, and the list goes on. But despite the shallowness that frustrates me, it is also a valley that still harbors dreams and the search for them, such as Charlie's. It's there, but you just have to wade through the plastic bullshit to find it. There are more wide open spaces in the Santa Clarita Valley than you can find in Los Angeles proper, most noticeable when you look at the Six Flags part of the valley from the Walmart parking lot on Kelly Johnson Parkway. I also remember that when we moved to Saugus a year after our arrival, the mountainside we saw on the way to our new abode was completely empty. Not one light on it. Now it's covered in houses.
Whenever I watch King of California, I see those moments that I have lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, of that one Saturday afternoon in our Valencia apartment, sunlight filtering in through dusty blinds, discovering Charles Bukowski, and amazed that someone could write this raw with simple words. Bukowski always made sure that his writing could be read by the working man, because he was one of them, a mail carrier, and it's said that many who've never read poetry sparked to his.
I remember when Mom and Dad were in Vegas and Meridith and I stopped by this long housing development, full of houses nearly built the same, with differently-designed balconies and porches, and the peace I felt there. I wanted to have one of those porches, one of those balconies. I wanted a house like that. It was odd to me how there was this peaceful architecture and yet the only scenery around were the houses facing each other from across the street. But that's Santa Clarita. They build where there's enough space. Aesthetics need not apply.
I remember when I used to go to bed at 5 in the morning, and in the hours before, I'd stand on the patio, hearing that silence, amazed that an entire valley seemed to shut down. Only the occasional train whistle could be heard, cargo being transported. And I am reminded of those quiet moments in this valley, where things seem possible in life. I'm never sure what they are, but they always seem to be more than we currently are, like we could actually engage ourselves in different parts of this valley, but then it pushes back. It does not want that. It prefers to remain monolithic, styles set only by those who sell cars (Auto Row) or run College of the Canyons or have such a say in the business of this valley that for Valencia, they can come up with a marketing plan that includes rebranding Valencia as "Awesometown." I'm sadly serious. They have tried to make that catch on. But it's like American Idol, during the audition episodes, when a contestant claims that they have the greatest voice, that they are the one America has been waiting for, and then they begin singing, and even though you're not at the audition yourself, you cringe as if you're one of the auditioner's sane family members. That's exactly what calling Valencia "Awesometown" is.
King of California was filmed in parts of Southern California that aren't in the Santa Clarita Valley, but the Costco featured here is the one in this valley. Think about this: Treasure buried under a Costco? It's fiction, of course, but it is possible. Mildly. Even so, the dream is there, a dream that should be more widespread, a dream of anything, anything to make this valley more interesting. But at least in King of California, I have those moments of interesting happenings. They flash through my memory. They never happened often, but they were there. They're what got me through these eight years. And what better record to have of vanished time?
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Book Jacket On or Off? I'm Going to Try Off.
A few weeks ago, Meridith borrowed my hardcover copy of Toast by Nigel Slater and removed the book jacket because she found it easier to read without it, without having to keep readjusting it to fit the book.
I actually haven't read a hardcover book in a while because I prefer paperback since it's lighter. And throughout the years, I just read hardcover books and adjusted the book jacket as necessary. The words were more important. But there have been some books lately that I've wanted to read right away, not waiting until the paperback edition, such as The GQ Candidate by Keli Goff, which I ordered a few days ago and am reading it right now.
Every time I open it up, though, there's the book jacket, slipping little by little and then I have to push it back to fit evenly with the covers. Three times today, and it got increasingly annoying. So, thinking of what Meridith did with Toast, I decided to try something new, and took off the book jacket, putting it in my room for now. Once I'm done reading, and before I put it in the Goodwill donation box (because though I like it so far, it won't have a spot in my permanent collection), I'll put the book jacket back on. And this is much nicer. I open the book and there's nothing to readjust. My only focus is the story. There's many other hardcover books to come, including Life Itself by Roger Ebert, so this will work perfectly for each.
I actually haven't read a hardcover book in a while because I prefer paperback since it's lighter. And throughout the years, I just read hardcover books and adjusted the book jacket as necessary. The words were more important. But there have been some books lately that I've wanted to read right away, not waiting until the paperback edition, such as The GQ Candidate by Keli Goff, which I ordered a few days ago and am reading it right now.
Every time I open it up, though, there's the book jacket, slipping little by little and then I have to push it back to fit evenly with the covers. Three times today, and it got increasingly annoying. So, thinking of what Meridith did with Toast, I decided to try something new, and took off the book jacket, putting it in my room for now. Once I'm done reading, and before I put it in the Goodwill donation box (because though I like it so far, it won't have a spot in my permanent collection), I'll put the book jacket back on. And this is much nicer. I open the book and there's nothing to readjust. My only focus is the story. There's many other hardcover books to come, including Life Itself by Roger Ebert, so this will work perfectly for each.
Starlight
Starlight by Ann Beattie. Read. This is what I aspire to in my future presidential history books:
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/09/19/110919fi_fiction_beattie
This is coming out in November as this. I've pre-ordered it on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Nixon-Novelist-Imagines-Life/dp/1439168717/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316640782&sr=1-2
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/09/19/110919fi_fiction_beattie
This is coming out in November as this. I've pre-ordered it on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Nixon-Novelist-Imagines-Life/dp/1439168717/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316640782&sr=1-2
Recurring Dream
This morning, I had the same dream I've had for the past few months, though some details change in each incarnation.
I was on a college campus, which this time had an arcade and a McDonald's, not a big one, but the logo was noticeable enough and though the ordering area was small, there was still enough going on in the back to show that this was a McDonald's important to the company, important enough to keep supplying it as if it was a location in the real world.
The other times I've had this dream, I've been on the roof of one of the buildings of the campus, I've climbed up a wide, glistening, marble staircase, I've walked through crowds of people, and I think I once caught a glimpse of a few theme park rides. My imagination goes anywhere.
This time, I was at this McDonald's, and it was already 11 a.m. with the rest-of-the-day menu on the display boards, but a few Egg McMuffins were still available, so I got two. And then I began thinking about the math class that was coming, the one in which the teacher had told me the previous session would be important to attend. A test? More notetaking for formulas that mattered nothing to me? I wasn't sure, but I also wondered if it would really matter if I was there. Was there a good grade to pursue this time? Probably not. Just another lecture to sit through.
The time for the beginning of the class came and went as I walked through the campus, going into the arcade, looking closely at what the claw machines had as prizes, seeing that the basketball game (where you throw basketballs into the hoop) was still there, and then walking out, walking a long way. To where, I don't know, but I determined that I didn't need to be in that math class today. It didn't affect me, and why should I spend my time not doing what I wanted to do?
This was not the only class I've ever skipped in these dreams. There was an English class, a science class, and probably a few others. And I'm never sure what it means. Is it related to some part of myself that I'm ignoring that I don't know that I'm ignoring? Is skipping these classes my way of reclaiming myself? I thought I've already done that with rediscovering my passion for reading, and considering what book I want to write next, and filling my life with what I love, including ambient music. I'm not sure what it could mean.
I was on a college campus, which this time had an arcade and a McDonald's, not a big one, but the logo was noticeable enough and though the ordering area was small, there was still enough going on in the back to show that this was a McDonald's important to the company, important enough to keep supplying it as if it was a location in the real world.
The other times I've had this dream, I've been on the roof of one of the buildings of the campus, I've climbed up a wide, glistening, marble staircase, I've walked through crowds of people, and I think I once caught a glimpse of a few theme park rides. My imagination goes anywhere.
This time, I was at this McDonald's, and it was already 11 a.m. with the rest-of-the-day menu on the display boards, but a few Egg McMuffins were still available, so I got two. And then I began thinking about the math class that was coming, the one in which the teacher had told me the previous session would be important to attend. A test? More notetaking for formulas that mattered nothing to me? I wasn't sure, but I also wondered if it would really matter if I was there. Was there a good grade to pursue this time? Probably not. Just another lecture to sit through.
The time for the beginning of the class came and went as I walked through the campus, going into the arcade, looking closely at what the claw machines had as prizes, seeing that the basketball game (where you throw basketballs into the hoop) was still there, and then walking out, walking a long way. To where, I don't know, but I determined that I didn't need to be in that math class today. It didn't affect me, and why should I spend my time not doing what I wanted to do?
This was not the only class I've ever skipped in these dreams. There was an English class, a science class, and probably a few others. And I'm never sure what it means. Is it related to some part of myself that I'm ignoring that I don't know that I'm ignoring? Is skipping these classes my way of reclaiming myself? I thought I've already done that with rediscovering my passion for reading, and considering what book I want to write next, and filling my life with what I love, including ambient music. I'm not sure what it could mean.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
I Want This on My Headstone
While watching the pilot of 30 Rock on Comedy Central yesterday, its first day in syndication, I found what I want on my headstone after 230 years cause my body and mind to say, "That's it. We're leaving." (I was hoping for 231 years, but I'm not going to push it.)
It comes from Jenna's (Jane Krakowski) first scene, as "Pam, The Overly-Confident, Morbidly-Obese Woman", after the musical number is taped. She finishes the number, looks down and says, "This fat suit smells like corn chips."
It comes from Jenna's (Jane Krakowski) first scene, as "Pam, The Overly-Confident, Morbidly-Obese Woman", after the musical number is taped. She finishes the number, looks down and says, "This fat suit smells like corn chips."
Silver Sliver
After giving over the past few days to season one episodes of The Good Wife on DVD, watching King of California and Julie & Julia again, and getting excited over the new fall TV season (Starting with Up All Night, which debuted last week after the season finale of America's Got Talent, and extended to the season premiere of Two and a Half Men last night (Ashton Kutcher was pretty good), and the series premiere of 2 Broke Girls (Funny enough that I'll watch it again next week, but am still tentative about it), and there were the new seasons of Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune that started last night, and 30 Rock and The Big Bang Theory went into syndication, and I'm still impatiently waiting for the season premieres of The Big Bang Theory (Thursday) and The Good Wife (Sunday)), I continued reading Skipping a Beat by Sarah Pekkanen this afternoon, leaping from page 37 to 212. I think I'll hold off on part 2 of my all-time favorite books, because Dad and Meridith aren't getting home until later than usual (Dad has an ROP (Regional Occupation Program) class to cover after work at a high school in the same area from 4 to 7), which means dinner will be later, and I want to finish reading this one because Life Itself by Roger Ebert and The GQ Candidate by Kelli Goff came in the mail today.
I'm not really invested in the story of Julia facing her new husband, Michael, new because his heart stopped while he was at a board meeting at his company, DrinkUp, and he was dead for 4 minutes, 8 seconds, and after recovering, wants to give to various charities all the money he ever earned, starting with $100 million dollars that he announces to reporters that he'll give away. They both come from West Virginia, Michael from a family that ignored him, Julia from a family that seemed happy enough, running a general store, until her father got so deep into gambling that he ruined all their lives and Julia vowed not to live with that fear of not having anything, of worrying about finances every single day, and so when Michael's flavored water company DrinkUp goes public and nets 70 million dollars right away, she has nothing to worry about, and even ignores their drifting apart as their marriage goes on, including the affair Michael had with a public relations manager he hired.
I'm more into Isabelle, Julia's best friend, who reveals to Julia at a bar that she gave up a daughter, Beth, for adoption when she was 18, and always thinks about her, wondering who she is, what she's doing, and she knew she gave her up to a loving husband and wife, but wants to know, more than the cards sent every year inform her. So she writes a letter to Beth, explaining everything, including a note to her adoptive parents to give Beth the letter when they feel it's the right time.
Then Isabelle tells Julia excitedly that Beth called her and wants her to come to Seattle, and while I understand the luxurious life Julia has established with Michael and all the clothes and jewelry and maids and private chefs that come with it, spurred on by her fear of never having anything ever again, I relate more to Isabelle. It's not that Julia is an airhead type; she has a good catering business going that she has a real knack for, but I think it's because Isabelle strikes me as more straightforward. This is what she did in her life, she regrets it, and she wants to make it better. In fact, Isabelle decides to contact Beth because of Michael, and says to Julia:
"When everything happened with Michael, the first person I thought of was Beth. What if I get really sick or die? Or what if she does? What if I miss the chance to tell her I love her because I was too afraid?"
"You could still write the letter," I said after a moment. "It isn't too late. You can tell her you were scared to write before, if you want to. Just tell her the truth. It doesn't have to be perfect."
Isabelle squeezed my hand. "I think I have to."
This is the part that endeared me to Isabelle, because she's so honest about what she needs to do, realizing that there needs to be major changes:
"Anyway, after I visit Beth . . . I don't know, but I feel like something has been missing for a while now. I don't know if I can do this anymore."
"Do what?" I asked, taking out some socks and standing up to toss them back in her drawer.
"This!" Isabelle spread out her arms, like a little kid who was pretending to fly. "My life! I'm thirty-four, and what do I have to show for it? I spend the money my grandfather made--not even the money, I just spend the interest on his money--and I dabble in charity work. I play tennis and go to parties and shop and travel. I'm busy every day of the week and it's not enough. I'm bored, Julia. I'm bored out of my fucking mind, and I have been for a while. I didn't think my life would turn out like this. I don't even know how it happened. I've just been drifting along, and suddenly almost half my life is gone.
"I don't know what I'll do when I get back. Maybe I'll get involved in a charity--really involved; not just show up at a benefit in a pretty dress and write a check--or hell, maybe I'll adopt a child and bring all of this full circle. You've got a job you love, and you've got a good man who adores you. And he does adore you now, Julia, no matter what happened before."
But that's not even why I decided to profile all of this. On page 164, I smiled at finding a rare moment in which the same letters sit side-by-side in two words, and two letters switch places, creating an entirely different word:
"At my core, I was still a girl without money, a person who worried she didn't fit in, someone who walked around with a silver sliver of fear buried deep inside her, like a bit of shrapnel even the most skilled surgeon would never be able to remove."
Silver sliver. What's even more fun is if you dart your eyes between the words really fast, you can see the "i" and the "l" switch places. I love that kind of moment in books.
I'm not really invested in the story of Julia facing her new husband, Michael, new because his heart stopped while he was at a board meeting at his company, DrinkUp, and he was dead for 4 minutes, 8 seconds, and after recovering, wants to give to various charities all the money he ever earned, starting with $100 million dollars that he announces to reporters that he'll give away. They both come from West Virginia, Michael from a family that ignored him, Julia from a family that seemed happy enough, running a general store, until her father got so deep into gambling that he ruined all their lives and Julia vowed not to live with that fear of not having anything, of worrying about finances every single day, and so when Michael's flavored water company DrinkUp goes public and nets 70 million dollars right away, she has nothing to worry about, and even ignores their drifting apart as their marriage goes on, including the affair Michael had with a public relations manager he hired.
I'm more into Isabelle, Julia's best friend, who reveals to Julia at a bar that she gave up a daughter, Beth, for adoption when she was 18, and always thinks about her, wondering who she is, what she's doing, and she knew she gave her up to a loving husband and wife, but wants to know, more than the cards sent every year inform her. So she writes a letter to Beth, explaining everything, including a note to her adoptive parents to give Beth the letter when they feel it's the right time.
Then Isabelle tells Julia excitedly that Beth called her and wants her to come to Seattle, and while I understand the luxurious life Julia has established with Michael and all the clothes and jewelry and maids and private chefs that come with it, spurred on by her fear of never having anything ever again, I relate more to Isabelle. It's not that Julia is an airhead type; she has a good catering business going that she has a real knack for, but I think it's because Isabelle strikes me as more straightforward. This is what she did in her life, she regrets it, and she wants to make it better. In fact, Isabelle decides to contact Beth because of Michael, and says to Julia:
"When everything happened with Michael, the first person I thought of was Beth. What if I get really sick or die? Or what if she does? What if I miss the chance to tell her I love her because I was too afraid?"
"You could still write the letter," I said after a moment. "It isn't too late. You can tell her you were scared to write before, if you want to. Just tell her the truth. It doesn't have to be perfect."
Isabelle squeezed my hand. "I think I have to."
This is the part that endeared me to Isabelle, because she's so honest about what she needs to do, realizing that there needs to be major changes:
"Anyway, after I visit Beth . . . I don't know, but I feel like something has been missing for a while now. I don't know if I can do this anymore."
"Do what?" I asked, taking out some socks and standing up to toss them back in her drawer.
"This!" Isabelle spread out her arms, like a little kid who was pretending to fly. "My life! I'm thirty-four, and what do I have to show for it? I spend the money my grandfather made--not even the money, I just spend the interest on his money--and I dabble in charity work. I play tennis and go to parties and shop and travel. I'm busy every day of the week and it's not enough. I'm bored, Julia. I'm bored out of my fucking mind, and I have been for a while. I didn't think my life would turn out like this. I don't even know how it happened. I've just been drifting along, and suddenly almost half my life is gone.
"I don't know what I'll do when I get back. Maybe I'll get involved in a charity--really involved; not just show up at a benefit in a pretty dress and write a check--or hell, maybe I'll adopt a child and bring all of this full circle. You've got a job you love, and you've got a good man who adores you. And he does adore you now, Julia, no matter what happened before."
But that's not even why I decided to profile all of this. On page 164, I smiled at finding a rare moment in which the same letters sit side-by-side in two words, and two letters switch places, creating an entirely different word:
"At my core, I was still a girl without money, a person who worried she didn't fit in, someone who walked around with a silver sliver of fear buried deep inside her, like a bit of shrapnel even the most skilled surgeon would never be able to remove."
Silver sliver. What's even more fun is if you dart your eyes between the words really fast, you can see the "i" and the "l" switch places. I love that kind of moment in books.
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