Once in a while, I'll think of a subject--from current events to what I'm dealing with in my life--and thin, that would be a great thing to blog about.
But I've only blogged TWICE since in the past 21 days. That's weird for me... back in the day when I had more time, I was blogging every day or at least every other. Now I'm lucky if it's once a week.
I've debated just walking away from Rejection at Rockefeller, but I like giving my opinion on cultural things and venting about my own life. But at the same time, I think I've got more important expression to do than what I've been writing on this blog.
When I nearly broke up with Pough and started comtemplating what was really going on with my lack of interest in our relationship, I went the old-fashioned way: I confronted my feelings with a pen and a journal, not a keyboard and DSL.
At work, I recently bought my first book (YAY) and edited my first manuscript (double YAY). I got my first editorial nod on the second author's manuscript---he said that my "talent and skill" helped and bettered his writing. How amazing! So as important as my own writing is (at least to me), I'm starting to think that perhaps my talents (and time) are better utilized in an editorial capacity.
Yesterday, I went to a Young Publishing Group luncheon with the co-founder of Gawker. She talked extensively about blogs and so-called "blog books". As she named off some respective and successful blogs, I thought: my blog sucks. It's been the victim of my schedule and lack of a computer when my ideas strike. So I'm debating retooling as well.
What do you think, dear readers? I'm at a crossroads.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
In Memoriam
On Friday, I received a copy of my local paper. I showed it off, laughing with my coworkers when we realized that apparently, there's a higher fine for underage drinking than shooting a gun across a highway. And we can rent a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house with a hot tub there for what we pay for a closet in NY. God bless Wisconsin.
I showed my friends a picture of my friend Pete and his band, who were playing a local bar two weekends ago, and told them how I had a huge crush on him, and how that led to me finding him about a year ago and that we're finally friends.
But in contrast, yesterday I got two emails from my friend Holly, who I grew up with. Her first email said "obituary" in the subject line and the second was a reply to the forward I sent her. So I opened up the first email--and discovered that one of my favorite teachers in school was dead--the teacher who just happened to be Pete's dad. But the second email shocked me. It said plainly, "I'll respond to this when I have time. Mr. C killed himself on Saturday."
Apparently, Mr. C (as we called him) had been diagonsed with Parkinsons a few months ago. When I talked to Poofy last night, he had already known the news about Mr. C for a few days through our friend Mindy, who apparently had friends who were working at the hospital when Mr. C's family brought him in. (This is how small town gossip works.) Apparently, Mr. C shot himself with a rifle.
As someone who attempted suicide in adolescence and lived to be grateful that 20 Advil pills will not require a stomach pump, much less a funeral, I don't know what led Mr. C to do what he did, but I imagine a life of being mentally fine but physically unable to control my body might lead a lot of people to the same decision.
Mr. C was the type of high school teacher who was close to retirement and basically taught about life in class, not about journalism or literature. He'd talk about the beauty of the world, sunsets in particular. He'd tell us about Vietnam, about raising kids, about what we didn't know yet and what most of the students didn't appreciate or even listen to. His words helped me through college, and when I see a sunset this week, I'll think of him.
Mind you, I didn't know Mr. C all that well--I only had him for one class, after all--but what Poof said last night rang true: It just proves that any given day is not an ordinary day.
I showed my friends a picture of my friend Pete and his band, who were playing a local bar two weekends ago, and told them how I had a huge crush on him, and how that led to me finding him about a year ago and that we're finally friends.
But in contrast, yesterday I got two emails from my friend Holly, who I grew up with. Her first email said "obituary" in the subject line and the second was a reply to the forward I sent her. So I opened up the first email--and discovered that one of my favorite teachers in school was dead--the teacher who just happened to be Pete's dad. But the second email shocked me. It said plainly, "I'll respond to this when I have time. Mr. C killed himself on Saturday."
Apparently, Mr. C (as we called him) had been diagonsed with Parkinsons a few months ago. When I talked to Poofy last night, he had already known the news about Mr. C for a few days through our friend Mindy, who apparently had friends who were working at the hospital when Mr. C's family brought him in. (This is how small town gossip works.) Apparently, Mr. C shot himself with a rifle.
As someone who attempted suicide in adolescence and lived to be grateful that 20 Advil pills will not require a stomach pump, much less a funeral, I don't know what led Mr. C to do what he did, but I imagine a life of being mentally fine but physically unable to control my body might lead a lot of people to the same decision.
Mr. C was the type of high school teacher who was close to retirement and basically taught about life in class, not about journalism or literature. He'd talk about the beauty of the world, sunsets in particular. He'd tell us about Vietnam, about raising kids, about what we didn't know yet and what most of the students didn't appreciate or even listen to. His words helped me through college, and when I see a sunset this week, I'll think of him.
Mind you, I didn't know Mr. C all that well--I only had him for one class, after all--but what Poof said last night rang true: It just proves that any given day is not an ordinary day.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The day off
Usually on days off, people lie around, use it as part of a trip, and/or sleep in. Right? Well, here's how my day off so far has gone:
7:30 am: the cats are meowing. Get up grudgingly, stumble into roommate who promises to feed them. Go back to bed.
9 am: think one has slept so late, luxuriously late. Slept so much that head is foggy and body is exhausted. Look at clock and it's only 9am. Shake it off and get up anyway.
10am: Super arrives as promised to drop off boxes of books from work and fix our bathroom ceiling. Try to understand what he says in broken english and basically assume everything is fine.
11am: Super leaves while I'm listening to the Dreamgirls soundtrack. Proceed to clean everything in the house while dodging sleeping cats.
11:30 am: call former roommate to see when she's coming up to pick up the rest of her stuff, which she was supposed to get at XMAS, on Tuesday, and Wednesday. Leave her a voicemail.
11:45 am: begin to suspect that former roommate will not show.
Noon: realize that I am subsiding only on coffee. eat yogurt and smoke while blogging and checking work email.
And my plans for the rest of the day? Wait for a half hour to workout, and then workout. Eat something of substance. Go downtown to get frames for posters for the living room, and then hang them. Proceed to get more and more suspicious that former roomie won't show and then will have to have argument about stuff yet again. Former roomie will show up at worst time possible and try to emoitionally manipulate, and possibly intimidate new roomie. Then go downtown to host karaoke party. Get drunk while bitching about former roomie and sing "Jackson" with Pough's India Indian roommate. Get really wasted and wake up hungover tomorrow.
A good plan, no?
7:30 am: the cats are meowing. Get up grudgingly, stumble into roommate who promises to feed them. Go back to bed.
9 am: think one has slept so late, luxuriously late. Slept so much that head is foggy and body is exhausted. Look at clock and it's only 9am. Shake it off and get up anyway.
10am: Super arrives as promised to drop off boxes of books from work and fix our bathroom ceiling. Try to understand what he says in broken english and basically assume everything is fine.
11am: Super leaves while I'm listening to the Dreamgirls soundtrack. Proceed to clean everything in the house while dodging sleeping cats.
11:30 am: call former roommate to see when she's coming up to pick up the rest of her stuff, which she was supposed to get at XMAS, on Tuesday, and Wednesday. Leave her a voicemail.
11:45 am: begin to suspect that former roommate will not show.
Noon: realize that I am subsiding only on coffee. eat yogurt and smoke while blogging and checking work email.
And my plans for the rest of the day? Wait for a half hour to workout, and then workout. Eat something of substance. Go downtown to get frames for posters for the living room, and then hang them. Proceed to get more and more suspicious that former roomie won't show and then will have to have argument about stuff yet again. Former roomie will show up at worst time possible and try to emoitionally manipulate, and possibly intimidate new roomie. Then go downtown to host karaoke party. Get drunk while bitching about former roomie and sing "Jackson" with Pough's India Indian roommate. Get really wasted and wake up hungover tomorrow.
A good plan, no?
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