We just talked to both of Uma's doctors. John already sent the latest news out to his email list, so I'm going to cut and paste his update:
hi everyone,
dr. shevienk just came out, he's the neurosurgeon
here, and he said the 'neck remnant' of the aneurysm
has actually gotten smaller than it was in the
previous angiogram of feb. 16th. it is actually too
small for more coils and that it is probably too small
to clip as that might easily damage the main artery
the aneurysm protrudes from. so......he is 'without a
doubt' comfortable with waiting another six months for
another look. he said this is 'good news', the fact
that it has not gotten any bigger in the last six
months.
just wanted to let you know - this will be on-going
but we will breathe a bit easier now.
with my whole heart i thank you for your prayers and
thoughts. thank you.
we will probably go home in a few hours!
love,
john
Monday, July 30, 2007
at the hospital right now
John just sent this out, and I thought I'd post it:
hi everyone,
we arrived at the hospital at 7:30 this morning and it's now
10:20 am. they just took her into the interventional
radiology room. i'm here with erik and marie. we all
met the doctor, dr. alexander. he has done
more aneurysm coiling than anyone in the country and
he talked with us about what some of the options and
risks are.
he said that the fact that she has been previously
coiled makes the clipping surgery more complicated -
it can make it more difficult to attach the clip. he
also pointed out that clipping isn't always permanent
and that they use a polymer coated coil
that speeds up the scarring/healing/clotting process.
we all feel really comfortable with him and with this
whole facility. it's so different than anywhere else
we've been.
there is a five per cent risk factor, statistically,
for complications such as: bleeding, allergic reaction
to the dye used in the angiogram, stroke, bad reaction
to the anesthesia, etc. so...it's not risk free, but
little in a hospital is. please pray and send love.
it should take between 1.5 and 3 hours and they'll
probably have to keep her over night for observation.
all my prayers, all my love to uma.
more later,
john
hi everyone,
we arrived at the hospital at 7:30 this morning and it's now
10:20 am. they just took her into the interventional
radiology room. i'm here with erik and marie. we all
met the doctor, dr. alexander. he has done
more aneurysm coiling than anyone in the country and
he talked with us about what some of the options and
risks are.
he said that the fact that she has been previously
coiled makes the clipping surgery more complicated -
it can make it more difficult to attach the clip. he
also pointed out that clipping isn't always permanent
and that they use a polymer coated coil
that speeds up the scarring/healing/clotting process.
we all feel really comfortable with him and with this
whole facility. it's so different than anywhere else
we've been.
there is a five per cent risk factor, statistically,
for complications such as: bleeding, allergic reaction
to the dye used in the angiogram, stroke, bad reaction
to the anesthesia, etc. so...it's not risk free, but
little in a hospital is. please pray and send love.
it should take between 1.5 and 3 hours and they'll
probably have to keep her over night for observation.
all my prayers, all my love to uma.
more later,
john
Sunday, July 29, 2007
latest Uma update from John (7/29), and a TASK FOR MONDAY
FROM JOHN:
Hello everyone,
Uma and I are sitting in a doctors office wating for
her pre-op tests. It’s friday.
She was approved for medi-cal earlier this month and I
remembered that, at one point, in NY, we had contacted
Dr. Wouter Shevienk, the director of the Maxine Dunitz
Neurosurgical Institute and he agreed to accept her as
a patient provided she was a qualified medi-cal
person. So....on Wednesday I called and asked if she
could see him. They set up an appointment for
yesterday, Thursday, and decided, after reviewing
films and charts from NY, that she needs another
angiogram to verify the efficacy of the coils clotting
her aneurysm.
Today we are having tests done to make sure she’s ok
physically to have the angiogram and, possibly, more
coiling on Monday. On Monday, there are three
possibilities - 1) that she would not have any
problems and go home 2) that she would have a problem
that can be fixed by coiling and they would do that
then 3) that she would have problem that cannot
permanently be resolved through coiling and would
require “clipping”, which would be done at a later
date.
Coiling is the placement of microscopic platinum coils
in the “dome” of the aneurysm to assist the body in,
usually, a permanent clot. This is done through a
femoral artery catheter and is not considered a
surgical or invasive procedure. This is what they did
for her in NY. The risks of this procedure are that
coils can loosen up, allowing blood to flow again into
the dome of the aneurysm or that the cois can actually
slip out of the dome and into the blood vessel which
can cause an inappropriate clot or stroke. These
things are unlikely but they do happen. Coils are not
always a permanent solution to an aneurysm and require
that she get checked regularly thoughout the year.
Clipping is an invasive surgery. They cut into her
cranium, locate the aneurysm and clip the “neck” of it
with a tiny titanium clip. This is considered a
permanent fix to the aneurysm if done without
complications in the surgery. The risks involved in
clipping are the same with any cranial surgery as well
as problems with the invasive quality of the
procedure. Any time you stick things in the brain you
can have swelling, vasospasm, stroke, memory loss,
speech problems, blurred vision, headaches, infection,
paralysis, etc. These complications are lessened by
the fact that she is not in the middle of her
aneurysm breaking. It’s not an emergency.
She just went in for the chest x-ray. Earlier this
morning she had the other normal tests and she’s ok to
go.
I was up last night, unable to sleep, thinking about
the options here. The idea that we could have a
permanent fix is very attractive. The idea that she
could possibly be set back in her speech or physical
therapy due to complications of clipping is
heartbreaking. She has come so far and I don’t want to
see any of that amazing work compromised.
It’s now sunday morning. I think I was avoiding
finishing this email because there is a part of me
that, honestly, doesn’t want to face more
hospitalization for her. I thought it enough that she
would be in intensive rehab for more than a year. This
latest has brought back a lot of resentment on the
part of the doctors in NY. Why they never bothered to
tell us about this I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, after
her angiogram, we’ll find out why they never told us
about it. Though it doesn’t always help to look back
on things, I wonder where we would be in our lives now
if hadn’t been looking through her chart and found
this report about the remnant of aneurysm. But as long
as we have to face this, then we might as well face
the whole picture which includes how we’ll view, in
ten years, whatever hardship she’s about to endure. If
surgery, exluding complications, then we have reason
to breathe a bit easier in terms of recurrance. Also,
and I hope I haven’t said this about other situations,
I believe we are in really good hands. Cedars Sinai
and these physicians have an excellent reputation.
That and my informed questions and proper responses to
the answers are what we can do, physically, to help
her.
Hello everyone,
Uma and I are sitting in a doctors office wating for
her pre-op tests. It’s friday.
She was approved for medi-cal earlier this month and I
remembered that, at one point, in NY, we had contacted
Dr. Wouter Shevienk, the director of the Maxine Dunitz
Neurosurgical Institute and he agreed to accept her as
a patient provided she was a qualified medi-cal
person. So....on Wednesday I called and asked if she
could see him. They set up an appointment for
yesterday, Thursday, and decided, after reviewing
films and charts from NY, that she needs another
angiogram to verify the efficacy of the coils clotting
her aneurysm.
Today we are having tests done to make sure she’s ok
physically to have the angiogram and, possibly, more
coiling on Monday. On Monday, there are three
possibilities - 1) that she would not have any
problems and go home 2) that she would have a problem
that can be fixed by coiling and they would do that
then 3) that she would have problem that cannot
permanently be resolved through coiling and would
require “clipping”, which would be done at a later
date.
Coiling is the placement of microscopic platinum coils
in the “dome” of the aneurysm to assist the body in,
usually, a permanent clot. This is done through a
femoral artery catheter and is not considered a
surgical or invasive procedure. This is what they did
for her in NY. The risks of this procedure are that
coils can loosen up, allowing blood to flow again into
the dome of the aneurysm or that the cois can actually
slip out of the dome and into the blood vessel which
can cause an inappropriate clot or stroke. These
things are unlikely but they do happen. Coils are not
always a permanent solution to an aneurysm and require
that she get checked regularly thoughout the year.
Clipping is an invasive surgery. They cut into her
cranium, locate the aneurysm and clip the “neck” of it
with a tiny titanium clip. This is considered a
permanent fix to the aneurysm if done without
complications in the surgery. The risks involved in
clipping are the same with any cranial surgery as well
as problems with the invasive quality of the
procedure. Any time you stick things in the brain you
can have swelling, vasospasm, stroke, memory loss,
speech problems, blurred vision, headaches, infection,
paralysis, etc. These complications are lessened by
the fact that she is not in the middle of her
aneurysm breaking. It’s not an emergency.
She just went in for the chest x-ray. Earlier this
morning she had the other normal tests and she’s ok to
go.
I was up last night, unable to sleep, thinking about
the options here. The idea that we could have a
permanent fix is very attractive. The idea that she
could possibly be set back in her speech or physical
therapy due to complications of clipping is
heartbreaking. She has come so far and I don’t want to
see any of that amazing work compromised.
It’s now sunday morning. I think I was avoiding
finishing this email because there is a part of me
that, honestly, doesn’t want to face more
hospitalization for her. I thought it enough that she
would be in intensive rehab for more than a year. This
latest has brought back a lot of resentment on the
part of the doctors in NY. Why they never bothered to
tell us about this I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, after
her angiogram, we’ll find out why they never told us
about it. Though it doesn’t always help to look back
on things, I wonder where we would be in our lives now
if hadn’t been looking through her chart and found
this report about the remnant of aneurysm. But as long
as we have to face this, then we might as well face
the whole picture which includes how we’ll view, in
ten years, whatever hardship she’s about to endure. If
surgery, exluding complications, then we have reason
to breathe a bit easier in terms of recurrance. Also,
and I hope I haven’t said this about other situations,
I believe we are in really good hands. Cedars Sinai
and these physicians have an excellent reputation.
That and my informed questions and proper responses to
the answers are what we can do, physically, to help
her.
And now I want to ask all of you to pray for and thinkof her tomorrow, Monday morning. We check in at 7:30am
and, at some point later, they take her back. People
are always reminding me to take care of myself. I’ve
found that this is often a spiritual thing, even if
I’m just going for a run to keep my first heart attack
at arms length. I’m thinking that one great prayer is
the one where you take extra good care of yourself (on
Monday morning) in honor of Uma and, of course,
yourself. Do something beautiful for yourself or
because of yourself and send that love past Uma on the
way to its final destination. For what it’s worth, I
truly believe all the people who helped in this way
saved her life. I believe in it and I believe in you.
Thank you.
Recently Erik sent an email with video links to people
who donated to Uma. I don’t think he’ll mind if I send
the link to everyone. So here they are....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNPsSaG7nMw
Also, I’ve set up a myspace page for Uma that is
including photos and video of her progress so far. As
often as I can, I will update this.
http://www.myspace.com/umaspace
Thank you for Monday.
Love,
John
uma thanks
I sent out a long email thanking all of the people who made donations to help pay for the air ambulance that brought Uma home in March, and I want to post that email below. Also, Uma has to go in for an angiogram on Monday, and there's a possibility that she might need to have her aneurysm coiled again, or clipped. There's more info about that at the bottom of this post, but please think some good thoughts for Uma on Monday. Say a prayer, light a candle, do what you do. Maybe I'll send out a specific task on Monday morning.
Okay, here's the email:
We're sending this email to all of the incredibly generous people who've made donations to The Uma Fund. (As well as all of the people who have helped in so many other ways—with your prayers, your research, your food, your visits…) All of your support has been so incredible, so inspiring, so awesome--so we want to thank you.
We cannot say those words enough. With all of our hearts: thank you.
This email of thanks is long overdue. I've been meaning to send it out for months, but I guess things happen when they're meant to happen. The other day I asked Uma if she'd like to thank all of you herself—via video—and her eyes lit up. "Yes." She is very aware of all of the love and support you've given her, and she wants to express that. She wants to thank you for all of your prayers, your love, your support. At the end of this email, I've posted five short videos of her expressing these thoughts to you in her own words.
A quick health update: Uma's doing really well. On March 12, she was transferred via air ambulance (thanks to your donations) from St. Vincent's in NYC to Rancho Los Amigos in California, to begin her rehabilitation and therapy. At that time, she wasn't able to speak at all and she had very little movement in the right side of her body. On April 17, she was discharged from Rancho to go home with her fiance, John. At that time, she was able to walk with a cane and speak some words (mostly just "yes" and "no," and a few other phrases). Since coming home, she's been on a rigorous therapy schedule—she has speech and physical therapy for several hours every day. Again, this would not have been possible without the donations you made. The out-of-pocket bills for therapy are about $600 a week—Uma and John have been able to pay these bills with the extra money that was raised for the air ambulance. So thank you for that.
Uma still has a long road of therapy ahead of her, but she is determined to continue working until she gets all of her speech and movement back. You can see for yourself how well she's doing in the videos below. (We filmed five videos and I think Uma's a little bit embarrassed by them—she sees herself struggling for the right words and she wishes that she could say EVERYTHING she wants to say RIGHT NOW—but she's making steady progress in the right direction and I think you will see in these videos how far she's come.)
Okay, enough of my blabbing. These videos are from Uma, to you.
Video #1 (56 seconds long)
Video #2 (7 seconds long)
Video #3 (37 seconds long)
Video #4 (44 seconds long)
Video #5 (1 minute, 42 seconds long)
With thanks and love,
Uma, John, and Erik
P.S. – Uma is scheduled to have another angiogram on Monday. It turns out, when they coiled her original aneurysm in February, a portion of the aneurysm that should have been contained within the coil basically broke through and has been bulging out ever since. The doctors in New York failed to mention this incredibly important piece of information to the doctors in California, but thankfully John was looking over her medical charts and he saw this for himself. On Monday, Uma's new doctor is going to look at this portion of the aneurysm and decide to treat it in one of three ways: (1) if it's really small, nothing will need to be done; or (2) if it's slightly bigger, it might need to be coiled, which is the same procedure that was done in New York—it's not incredibly uncommon, but it IS an invasive procedure--they would do this on Monday during the angiogram; or (3) if it's really bulging out, this portion of the aneurysm might need to be "clipped," which is a fairly big procedure and would be scheduled for another date. ("Clipping" the aneurysm would require shaving Uma's head again and making an incision into her skull to get directly at the aneurysm--something that's not required in the coil procedure.) In all of the above three scenarios, Uma is going to have to spend a few days in the hospital. She's kind of nervous because this is the first time she's had to go in for a procedure since she's been conscious of what's been going on with her brain. So please send her good thoughts and keep her in your prayers. Thank you...
p.p.s. If you know anyone who might not have been able to donate in March, but would still like to make a donation, we are still trying to raise money for Uma's therapy. Our funds will last for several more months, but we expect that Uma will need therapy for at least a full year. Donations can be made via paypal HERE.
p.p.p.s. THANK YOU!
Okay, here's the email:
We're sending this email to all of the incredibly generous people who've made donations to The Uma Fund. (As well as all of the people who have helped in so many other ways—with your prayers, your research, your food, your visits…) All of your support has been so incredible, so inspiring, so awesome--so we want to thank you.
We cannot say those words enough. With all of our hearts: thank you.
This email of thanks is long overdue. I've been meaning to send it out for months, but I guess things happen when they're meant to happen. The other day I asked Uma if she'd like to thank all of you herself—via video—and her eyes lit up. "Yes." She is very aware of all of the love and support you've given her, and she wants to express that. She wants to thank you for all of your prayers, your love, your support. At the end of this email, I've posted five short videos of her expressing these thoughts to you in her own words.
A quick health update: Uma's doing really well. On March 12, she was transferred via air ambulance (thanks to your donations) from St. Vincent's in NYC to Rancho Los Amigos in California, to begin her rehabilitation and therapy. At that time, she wasn't able to speak at all and she had very little movement in the right side of her body. On April 17, she was discharged from Rancho to go home with her fiance, John. At that time, she was able to walk with a cane and speak some words (mostly just "yes" and "no," and a few other phrases). Since coming home, she's been on a rigorous therapy schedule—she has speech and physical therapy for several hours every day. Again, this would not have been possible without the donations you made. The out-of-pocket bills for therapy are about $600 a week—Uma and John have been able to pay these bills with the extra money that was raised for the air ambulance. So thank you for that.
Uma still has a long road of therapy ahead of her, but she is determined to continue working until she gets all of her speech and movement back. You can see for yourself how well she's doing in the videos below. (We filmed five videos and I think Uma's a little bit embarrassed by them—she sees herself struggling for the right words and she wishes that she could say EVERYTHING she wants to say RIGHT NOW—but she's making steady progress in the right direction and I think you will see in these videos how far she's come.)
Okay, enough of my blabbing. These videos are from Uma, to you.
Video #1 (56 seconds long)
Video #2 (7 seconds long)
Video #3 (37 seconds long)
Video #4 (44 seconds long)
Video #5 (1 minute, 42 seconds long)
With thanks and love,
Uma, John, and Erik
P.S. – Uma is scheduled to have another angiogram on Monday. It turns out, when they coiled her original aneurysm in February, a portion of the aneurysm that should have been contained within the coil basically broke through and has been bulging out ever since. The doctors in New York failed to mention this incredibly important piece of information to the doctors in California, but thankfully John was looking over her medical charts and he saw this for himself. On Monday, Uma's new doctor is going to look at this portion of the aneurysm and decide to treat it in one of three ways: (1) if it's really small, nothing will need to be done; or (2) if it's slightly bigger, it might need to be coiled, which is the same procedure that was done in New York—it's not incredibly uncommon, but it IS an invasive procedure--they would do this on Monday during the angiogram; or (3) if it's really bulging out, this portion of the aneurysm might need to be "clipped," which is a fairly big procedure and would be scheduled for another date. ("Clipping" the aneurysm would require shaving Uma's head again and making an incision into her skull to get directly at the aneurysm--something that's not required in the coil procedure.) In all of the above three scenarios, Uma is going to have to spend a few days in the hospital. She's kind of nervous because this is the first time she's had to go in for a procedure since she's been conscious of what's been going on with her brain. So please send her good thoughts and keep her in your prayers. Thank you...
p.p.s. If you know anyone who might not have been able to donate in March, but would still like to make a donation, we are still trying to raise money for Uma's therapy. Our funds will last for several more months, but we expect that Uma will need therapy for at least a full year. Donations can be made via paypal HERE.
p.p.p.s. THANK YOU!
Saturday, July 28, 2007
July 19, 1994
I skipped a page of my diary because it was a poem and this poem is so hideously bad, but it's not hideously bad in a fun-to-share way. It's just bad in a boring way. The title of the poem was "Dreams from the Sky Fall Down" and if anyone wants to read it, I'll post it, but seriously: it's, like, so lame it hurts. And like I said, not in a good way.
So, anyway. Skipping ahead. This next diary entry is a list of goals. I'm just going to post the list without any comments and then afterwards I'll let you know how I did on achieving said goals. It's a short list.
July 19, 1994
GOALS:
(1) To have my headshot taken by July 19, 1995
(2) To do all that I can and make a differance (sic) at NHHS with my job as ASB Recognition Commisioner (sic).
(3) To become a candystriper and help out as much as possible.
(4) To continue to exercise and work out for my health and looks.
(5) To keep in touch with Lane and Jesse and Gina while they're at college.
(6) To fulfill these goals!
*
(1) I did not achieve this goal. I didn't have my first set of headshots taken until my sophomore year of college. Then I had another set of headshots taken my senior year of college. Then I gave up acting. Lotta good the headshots did. Speaking of which, I still have a box filled with about three thousand copies of my last headshot. I'm not joking. This box of headshots is in the storage unit above my parking space in my garage. I would love to get rid of them. So if you, like, want an autographed headshot, just hit me up with your mailing address via email and I'll totally send it to you. It'll be your own little "My Year Of New Things" keepsake.
(2) I have so many things to say about this one. First of all, "ASB Recognition Commisioner" is such a random position. It sounds like the pity job they gave to the kid with the least votes for some other more prestigious ASB position. (Which might have been the case.) Also, vowing to "do all that I can" is kind of aiming the bar low. It's not like I wanted to do "my best." No, this goal is begging to be left incomplete so that I can say, "oh well, that was all I could do." Thirdly, I don't remember being on ASB at all; the only thing I remember about this entire position was posing for the Yearbook photo--which was probably the most important ASB-related moment of the entire year anyway because the only reason I joined ASB was so that I could put it on my college applications. Lastly, what the fuck is a "recognition commisioner"???
(3) I totally completed this goal. I was a candystriper for six months. And I think I was pretty helpful during my candystriping days. (Jesse, didn't we candystripe together for a little while before you went off to college? Was I any good?)
(4) My favorite part about this goal is the whole "to continue to" part because it implies that I've been exercising and I want to keep at it, when in reality this goal should have read "to start to exercise." Needless to say, I never started. My other favorite part about this goal is that I admitted that I wanted to exercise to look good. This goal was a bust.
(5) I totally ROCKED this goal and am still friends with Lane, Jesse, and Gina, so this goal makes me happy.
(6) Two out of five ain't bad!
So, anyway. Skipping ahead. This next diary entry is a list of goals. I'm just going to post the list without any comments and then afterwards I'll let you know how I did on achieving said goals. It's a short list.
July 19, 1994
GOALS:
(1) To have my headshot taken by July 19, 1995
(2) To do all that I can and make a differance (sic) at NHHS with my job as ASB Recognition Commisioner (sic).
(3) To become a candystriper and help out as much as possible.
(4) To continue to exercise and work out for my health and looks.
(5) To keep in touch with Lane and Jesse and Gina while they're at college.
(6) To fulfill these goals!
*
(1) I did not achieve this goal. I didn't have my first set of headshots taken until my sophomore year of college. Then I had another set of headshots taken my senior year of college. Then I gave up acting. Lotta good the headshots did. Speaking of which, I still have a box filled with about three thousand copies of my last headshot. I'm not joking. This box of headshots is in the storage unit above my parking space in my garage. I would love to get rid of them. So if you, like, want an autographed headshot, just hit me up with your mailing address via email and I'll totally send it to you. It'll be your own little "My Year Of New Things" keepsake.
(2) I have so many things to say about this one. First of all, "ASB Recognition Commisioner" is such a random position. It sounds like the pity job they gave to the kid with the least votes for some other more prestigious ASB position. (Which might have been the case.) Also, vowing to "do all that I can" is kind of aiming the bar low. It's not like I wanted to do "my best." No, this goal is begging to be left incomplete so that I can say, "oh well, that was all I could do." Thirdly, I don't remember being on ASB at all; the only thing I remember about this entire position was posing for the Yearbook photo--which was probably the most important ASB-related moment of the entire year anyway because the only reason I joined ASB was so that I could put it on my college applications. Lastly, what the fuck is a "recognition commisioner"???
(3) I totally completed this goal. I was a candystriper for six months. And I think I was pretty helpful during my candystriping days. (Jesse, didn't we candystripe together for a little while before you went off to college? Was I any good?)
(4) My favorite part about this goal is the whole "to continue to" part because it implies that I've been exercising and I want to keep at it, when in reality this goal should have read "to start to exercise." Needless to say, I never started. My other favorite part about this goal is that I admitted that I wanted to exercise to look good. This goal was a bust.
(5) I totally ROCKED this goal and am still friends with Lane, Jesse, and Gina, so this goal makes me happy.
(6) Two out of five ain't bad!
Thursday, July 26, 2007
July 18, 1994
Okay, here's another entry from my recently unearthed high school diary. This entry is fairly short and almost completely ridiculous, so I'm not going to make any comments about it. I think its ridiculousness speaks for itself pretty loudly. (Um, the fact that I quoted Arrested Development a couple of entries after quoting the movie Cliffhanger? And my last cryptic line about virginity? Classic future biographer material.)
July 18, 1994
My cousin Jessica might skip 6th grade and go on to 7th. Wow. She really is very mature for her age and she must be very intelligent also. I hope that the move proves to be challenging and fulfilling for her. I believe that she can do it. I'm a proud cousin.
The Arrested Development song (which I can't think of the title right now) says "It takes two to make a life and also to take one." I am pro-choice, but if I ever got a girl pregnant and she was considering abortion, I would hope that she would talk to me about it and let me be there for her. I would respect her choice. This, of course, depends on the situation, but if she made this decision, I hope that I would be there for her.
No need worrying about this right now. I am, after all, still a virgin. That doesn't mean I haven't experienced anything...
July 18, 1994
My cousin Jessica might skip 6th grade and go on to 7th. Wow. She really is very mature for her age and she must be very intelligent also. I hope that the move proves to be challenging and fulfilling for her. I believe that she can do it. I'm a proud cousin.
The Arrested Development song (which I can't think of the title right now) says "It takes two to make a life and also to take one." I am pro-choice, but if I ever got a girl pregnant and she was considering abortion, I would hope that she would talk to me about it and let me be there for her. I would respect her choice. This, of course, depends on the situation, but if she made this decision, I hope that I would be there for her.
No need worrying about this right now. I am, after all, still a virgin. That doesn't mean I haven't experienced anything...
Friday, July 20, 2007
uma july 18th
JOHN'S LATEST UPDATE, from the 18th:
hi everyone,
i’m sitting in the speech therapy office with uma and
her therapist. they’re looking at flashcards of
various objeccts and people and uma’s job is to name
them. sometimes she needs a bit of cue-ing, sometimes
a lot, sometimes none.
yesterday we went to ucla to pick up the cd roms of
her angiogram films and afterwards went to will rogers
park in the palisades to do speech work and take a
hike. we came home after a side trip to starbucks and
did arm and hand exercises and then sat in our little
pool.
some really nice things happened yesterday regarding
her speech. when we were walking back to the car after
the hike, she said, “what time is it?”, where usually
she would do an end run clear around the needed words.
and then, post-pool, she looked in the refrigerator
and said, “what are we doing tonight?” asking about
dinner. this morning, at the time we normally put in
her contact lenses she said, in an accent stright
from the ‘hood, “come awone!” (come on!) and smiled. i
said, “what?” and she said, “t-contax” and i replied,
in a broad english accent, “well said my friend” and
she says, in an equally broad english accent, “thank
you”. we both laugh.
the other day i was on our front porch looking through
the 2 inch thick medical chart from new york and found
something. it’s a report from the radiologist during
her second angiogram. this was when they were checking
on the coil and this caused her vasospasm/stroke for
which they administered angioplasty to re-open the
blood vessels. upon looking at the original aneurysm
they found a “neck” portion of it that was still
bulging. the original aneurysm was 1.5 mm, which they
coiled. this “neck” is 1.2 mm. they did not proceed
with coiling this because “of the swelling and
vasospasm” they felt it was unwise to proceed with
this. i understand why they wouldn’t have done
another coiling at that time. uma was in pretty
fragile condition at the time. what i don’t understand
is that no one in new york ever told us about this. i
was left with a familiar feeling - that they just sort
of gave up on her and wanted her gone from there. it
reminded me of the hour before we put her on a
stretched on the way to the air ambulance and dr.
hirschfeld said, “by the way, you’ll probably want to
revise that shunt.” so i’ve benn thinking about this
for the last two weeks. we have a neurosurgical
consult at usc the first week in august and i’ll bring
this to the attention of the doctor. also, she has
just been approved for medi-cal and the head
neurosugeon at cedars sinai had, at one point, agreed
to take her as a patient provided she was medi-cal
approved. i’m going to contact him, too, and see if we
can get her in there. i want a more direct and
personal relationship with a neurosurgeon for her.
this almost always brings me around to realizing that
there is only this one single moment in time.....ever.
the curse of knowing that there is a possible future
so easily leads to wanting to change that future. the
best i can do is try to prepare for it as best i can,
try to make sure she gets the best help, assist her
in her recovery and then have a long series of good
moments that we string together to make a past worth
remembering. i never want to look back at any of this
and wish i had done something more (or less). staying
in the present is the best help for that.
anyway - if you felt good praying for or thinking
about her, if it brought you a good feeling or a deep
one, or even if it made you cry and feel worried (!),
if it made you feel more human or part of the real
things in life....do it again. she needs you. i
really believe this.....you all have helped to bring
her here.
and thank you for that. ( i can’t figure out how to
put all the feeling i have into those two words).
more soon.
love,
john
hi everyone,
i’m sitting in the speech therapy office with uma and
her therapist. they’re looking at flashcards of
various objeccts and people and uma’s job is to name
them. sometimes she needs a bit of cue-ing, sometimes
a lot, sometimes none.
yesterday we went to ucla to pick up the cd roms of
her angiogram films and afterwards went to will rogers
park in the palisades to do speech work and take a
hike. we came home after a side trip to starbucks and
did arm and hand exercises and then sat in our little
pool.
some really nice things happened yesterday regarding
her speech. when we were walking back to the car after
the hike, she said, “what time is it?”, where usually
she would do an end run clear around the needed words.
and then, post-pool, she looked in the refrigerator
and said, “what are we doing tonight?” asking about
dinner. this morning, at the time we normally put in
her contact lenses she said, in an accent stright
from the ‘hood, “come awone!” (come on!) and smiled. i
said, “what?” and she said, “t-contax” and i replied,
in a broad english accent, “well said my friend” and
she says, in an equally broad english accent, “thank
you”. we both laugh.
the other day i was on our front porch looking through
the 2 inch thick medical chart from new york and found
something. it’s a report from the radiologist during
her second angiogram. this was when they were checking
on the coil and this caused her vasospasm/stroke for
which they administered angioplasty to re-open the
blood vessels. upon looking at the original aneurysm
they found a “neck” portion of it that was still
bulging. the original aneurysm was 1.5 mm, which they
coiled. this “neck” is 1.2 mm. they did not proceed
with coiling this because “of the swelling and
vasospasm” they felt it was unwise to proceed with
this. i understand why they wouldn’t have done
another coiling at that time. uma was in pretty
fragile condition at the time. what i don’t understand
is that no one in new york ever told us about this. i
was left with a familiar feeling - that they just sort
of gave up on her and wanted her gone from there. it
reminded me of the hour before we put her on a
stretched on the way to the air ambulance and dr.
hirschfeld said, “by the way, you’ll probably want to
revise that shunt.” so i’ve benn thinking about this
for the last two weeks. we have a neurosurgical
consult at usc the first week in august and i’ll bring
this to the attention of the doctor. also, she has
just been approved for medi-cal and the head
neurosugeon at cedars sinai had, at one point, agreed
to take her as a patient provided she was medi-cal
approved. i’m going to contact him, too, and see if we
can get her in there. i want a more direct and
personal relationship with a neurosurgeon for her.
this almost always brings me around to realizing that
there is only this one single moment in time.....ever.
the curse of knowing that there is a possible future
so easily leads to wanting to change that future. the
best i can do is try to prepare for it as best i can,
try to make sure she gets the best help, assist her
in her recovery and then have a long series of good
moments that we string together to make a past worth
remembering. i never want to look back at any of this
and wish i had done something more (or less). staying
in the present is the best help for that.
anyway - if you felt good praying for or thinking
about her, if it brought you a good feeling or a deep
one, or even if it made you cry and feel worried (!),
if it made you feel more human or part of the real
things in life....do it again. she needs you. i
really believe this.....you all have helped to bring
her here.
and thank you for that. ( i can’t figure out how to
put all the feeling i have into those two words).
more soon.
love,
john
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
July 17, 1994
Gina, you get your first diary mention today! I’m trying to remember when we dated—I think it was in the middle of my sophomore year? I feel like we broke up on Valentine’s Day, but maybe I’m making that up. Anyway, let’s pretend that we DID in fact break up on Valentine’s day, which would mean I wrote this five months after we broke up. And, apparently, you really broke my big straight heart—I was still trying to get over you.
But first, I decided to finish telling my New York Stories:
July 17, 1994:
New York. New Years. 4:00 a.m. All of us kids, about 12 of us, were in one room, celebrating. A couple of people, I’m not sure who, thought it would be fun to dump cups of water on the strangers walking by, through the hotel window. (This doesn’t sound like something I would have done, so I don’t think I was trying to pass the blame onto someone else—but I think the whole “I’m not sure who” thing was a lie, I think I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. After all, what if the people on the sidewalk sued the 12 of us and my diary was seized as evidence? I’m just saying I was savvy. My future biographers did not need to know the names of the guilty water throwers.) They got this man on the head and he looked up and pointed at us, angry. Everyone got away from the window, their nerves shaken from his glare. (I was soooooo dramatic!) About 10 minutes later, maybe even sooner, there was a knock on our door. Hotel security! They told us a man was standing outside with a gun claiming that we had dumped water on him. We deinied and the man gave us a warning and left. Five minutes later, we all left that room to sleep in other rooms, shooken (sic) with the idea of a man pointing a gun towards our window. (The funny thing is, I remember this night vividly. I remember the security guard yelling at us to settle down. I remember leaving that room, afraid that the wet man was going to start sniping us through the window. We were in New York City and we felt like we were LIVING for the first time, and our lives were so important and OF COURSE men were waving guns at us from down below. Because we were sixteen and we felt like everything we did was done in Capital Letters, you know? Just. So. Dramatic.) It was a thrilling experience, which I can say only after the fact, now that I am home, safe and sound. (See, biographers! Some hapless wet man allegedly pointed a gun at all of us kids from several stories below, AND I WAS THRILLED. That’s how cool I was, biographers.) But despite this, New York was really a passage for me. It was the first time that I had ever somewhat fended for myself—paying for all of my meals, working out my schedule and transportation, and taking care of myself. The chaperons really didn’t do much, if I had been missing it might have taken them a few days to realize, so I was really on my own. (I felt SO ADULT it’s killing me.) (Mostly it’s killing me because I’m about to turn 30, and my inner about-to-turn 30 monologue sounds SO SIMILAR.) I love New York and I vow to live there for at least one year of my life.
(Gina, get ready, I’m about to start talking about you.)
I want to date someone who isn’t interested in committment (sic). I want no committment (sic) right now. I just want to be able to date and not worry about anything. If something special happens, then that’s great. But my last two relationships were too intense. I let myself fall too deep with Gina that I was blind. I knew that we weren’t made for each other and I never wanted a “forever” thing, but when she broke up with me I was caught completely off guard. I wasn’t ready for it. Now I want to date around, see more than one person, and not let things get too serious for awhile. (I love that I thought we were SOOOOO serious, Gina. Um, if I remember correctly, I don’t think we ever had a “serious” “relationship” conversation ever! All we did was hang out with our friends and occasionally make out in the back of Rayline’s truck.)
(And here’s my favorite out-of-nowhere topic transition, the gayest of them all.)
I want to learn how to disco! Night fever, night fever…
(Okay, this next paragraph is weird. And I think it gives a really clear picture of what kind of kid I was, just the fact that THIS is something I would write in my DIARY.)
I’m going to play a game of free word association: Disco – dance – lights – dark – death – life – sex – babies – youth – kids – innocent – free – virgin – sex – love – strength – weakness – fall – crush – death – rise – set – sun – yellow – flower – bee – honey – food – water – rain – wet – clean – shower – morning – sleep – live – die – heaven – hell – Devil – God – clouds – mystic – power – awesome – wonder – dream – reality – movies – actors – people – consume – mass – population – control – need – sick – help – heal – live.
(I don’t know what this string of words says about sixteen-year-old Erik, but it makes me feel incredibly boring, and I wish that sixteen-year-old Erik would just come out of the closet and get laid already.)
But first, I decided to finish telling my New York Stories:
July 17, 1994:
New York. New Years. 4:00 a.m. All of us kids, about 12 of us, were in one room, celebrating. A couple of people, I’m not sure who, thought it would be fun to dump cups of water on the strangers walking by, through the hotel window. (This doesn’t sound like something I would have done, so I don’t think I was trying to pass the blame onto someone else—but I think the whole “I’m not sure who” thing was a lie, I think I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. After all, what if the people on the sidewalk sued the 12 of us and my diary was seized as evidence? I’m just saying I was savvy. My future biographers did not need to know the names of the guilty water throwers.) They got this man on the head and he looked up and pointed at us, angry. Everyone got away from the window, their nerves shaken from his glare. (I was soooooo dramatic!) About 10 minutes later, maybe even sooner, there was a knock on our door. Hotel security! They told us a man was standing outside with a gun claiming that we had dumped water on him. We deinied and the man gave us a warning and left. Five minutes later, we all left that room to sleep in other rooms, shooken (sic) with the idea of a man pointing a gun towards our window. (The funny thing is, I remember this night vividly. I remember the security guard yelling at us to settle down. I remember leaving that room, afraid that the wet man was going to start sniping us through the window. We were in New York City and we felt like we were LIVING for the first time, and our lives were so important and OF COURSE men were waving guns at us from down below. Because we were sixteen and we felt like everything we did was done in Capital Letters, you know? Just. So. Dramatic.) It was a thrilling experience, which I can say only after the fact, now that I am home, safe and sound. (See, biographers! Some hapless wet man allegedly pointed a gun at all of us kids from several stories below, AND I WAS THRILLED. That’s how cool I was, biographers.) But despite this, New York was really a passage for me. It was the first time that I had ever somewhat fended for myself—paying for all of my meals, working out my schedule and transportation, and taking care of myself. The chaperons really didn’t do much, if I had been missing it might have taken them a few days to realize, so I was really on my own. (I felt SO ADULT it’s killing me.) (Mostly it’s killing me because I’m about to turn 30, and my inner about-to-turn 30 monologue sounds SO SIMILAR.) I love New York and I vow to live there for at least one year of my life.
(Gina, get ready, I’m about to start talking about you.)
I want to date someone who isn’t interested in committment (sic). I want no committment (sic) right now. I just want to be able to date and not worry about anything. If something special happens, then that’s great. But my last two relationships were too intense. I let myself fall too deep with Gina that I was blind. I knew that we weren’t made for each other and I never wanted a “forever” thing, but when she broke up with me I was caught completely off guard. I wasn’t ready for it. Now I want to date around, see more than one person, and not let things get too serious for awhile. (I love that I thought we were SOOOOO serious, Gina. Um, if I remember correctly, I don’t think we ever had a “serious” “relationship” conversation ever! All we did was hang out with our friends and occasionally make out in the back of Rayline’s truck.)
(And here’s my favorite out-of-nowhere topic transition, the gayest of them all.)
I want to learn how to disco! Night fever, night fever…
(Okay, this next paragraph is weird. And I think it gives a really clear picture of what kind of kid I was, just the fact that THIS is something I would write in my DIARY.)
I’m going to play a game of free word association: Disco – dance – lights – dark – death – life – sex – babies – youth – kids – innocent – free – virgin – sex – love – strength – weakness – fall – crush – death – rise – set – sun – yellow – flower – bee – honey – food – water – rain – wet – clean – shower – morning – sleep – live – die – heaven – hell – Devil – God – clouds – mystic – power – awesome – wonder – dream – reality – movies – actors – people – consume – mass – population – control – need – sick – help – heal – live.
(I don’t know what this string of words says about sixteen-year-old Erik, but it makes me feel incredibly boring, and I wish that sixteen-year-old Erik would just come out of the closet and get laid already.)
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
July 16, 1994
I just realized how great it was that the internet was invented because now I don’t have to wait until I’m dead to share my high school diaries with the world. My future biographers can start their biographing NOW.
In today’s installment of Erik Patterson Thought He Was Really Profound When He Was Sixteen, I share my thoughts on capital punishment, the movie Heart and Souls, and the first time I ever got drunk.
July 16, 1994
“You kill a few men and you’re a murderer. You kill a million and you’re a conquerer. Go figure.” – John Lithgow in the movie Cliffhanger.
This is an interesting summation of how our society views killing. In my mind, either way you are a murderer. (Wow, Erik, you were brilliant. Way to go with the hard-hitting analysis. Oh, but wait, you continue.)
Capital punishment? I am against it. I feel that if we feel the need to murder someone to punish them for murder, we are only stooping down to their level. The “eye for an eye” belief is bullshit. Besides, what kind of a punishment is death. A lifeliess life that is forever spent in jail is a much better punishment. Also, I don’t believe in Hell. (Hello, topic shift. I really just went from one random topic to the next in my diary, didn’t I? I think I was just trying to log as much data as possible, to help those future biographers.) Wherever souls go when someone dies – they all go to the same place. If someone killed a loved one of mine, I sure as hell wouldn’t want them to join my loved one in Heaven, or wherever souls go. (Okay, but Erik, if you don’t believe in Hell, then being as “sure as hell” isn’t really very sure, is it?)
“Heart and Souls” was a really great movie. (I’m trying to understand the logic of this particular topic shift, and I think it’s a stream-of-conscious thing; like, I was just talking about souls and so now I’ll talk about the movie “Heart and Souls.” I was a weird kid.) It just touched me where I needed to be touched (no comment) and I guess I saw it numerous times. The idea of walking down a public street singing “Walk Like A Man” is so freeing and fulfilling. Since seeing the movie, Lindsay and I break into this song often. It is always a great release. (I kind of find this “Heart and Souls” paragraph more embarrassing and humiliating than any of the other diary bits and pieces so far. I don’t know why I find this paragraph so particularly embarrassing, but I do.)
I suppose that I should tell my New York story while it is still sort of fresh in my head. (And also because I apparently have ADD in my diary and can’t seem to focus on any one topic for more than a paragraph.)
Over Christmas vacation, I went to New York with Drama--Jesse, Lindsay, Justin, Nicky, Keri, Jamie, Lolita, Julia, etc. It was a thrilling experience to finally experience Broadway plays. The first night, I saw Blood Brothers with Gwen. The theatre was small, comfortable. Before the curtain rose, my stomach was turning, I was so excited. Anyway, I saw eleven shows in one week. One highlight was New Years Even Night. I went to see Les Miserables and after the show, the whole cast came out and sang “Auld Lang Sine.” It was neat. One major 1st that happened in New York, though, was the first time I ever got drunk. It was the first--and to this day, the last--time I ever drank, also. Tuesday night, a few days before New Years Eve, we were all going to see a show, I can’t remember which one—no, wait. It was Laughter on the 23rd Floor, by Neil Simon. After the show, we waited at the stage door and met Nathan Lane and John Slattery. Anyway, before the show, I saw Paul. He came with us too, he was my director for our production Noises Off. Well, Paul and I were waiting to go to the show and he was going to the hotel bar—I went with him. Since I was in there, I thought I’d try to order a drink—I got a Gin and Tonic. We were sitting at the bar drinking and eating pretzels and the bartender didn’t say anything! Mind you—I’m 16-years-old, but I guess I look old for my age. Everyone always tells me that and it was proving to be true. Well, I had never drank before and it gave me a little bit of a headache that I had throughout the entire show. After the show, the whole group of us went to this Piano Bar called “Don’t Tell Mama’s.” It is a great place where the waitresses sing to you during the evening and anyone who wants to can go and sing too. That’s why we went there, for the singing. Most of the kids were getting things like Coke to drink and the chaperones didn’t notice what some of us others were getting. Since it worked at the hotel bar, I thought that I would try getting drinks here, too. I don’t remember what I was ordering, but by around 2:00 a.m. I had had about 5 different drinks and the only people left in the bar from our group was me, Nicky, Keri, and Paul. I had about 2 more drinks with them until the waitress told us it was closing time at a little bit past 3:00 a.m. It was time to pay and I paid with a travellors (sic) check! Well, she needed to see I.D. to use a travellors (sic) check so I got out the $20 fake I.D. card that I had bought that afternoon and everything was fine. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care that there was a differant (sic) name on the I.D. than the check! Anyway, even though I had had quite a few drinks, I only felt a buzz. I thought that if I had gone this far, then I wanted to get completely drunk—this wasn’t enough. So we asked where the nearest bar was that might still be open. The bartender said that there was another one around the corner, so we walked over there. Well, we got there and outside the door, Keri and Nicky said that they wanted to go back to the hotel and they left. Paul and I went into the bar and sat at the bar. We ordered drinks and not until I was on my second one--there--did I realize that it was a gay bar! There were only two other people in there. Luckily, when one of them tried to come on to me, Paul started talking to him and saved me. (!!!) Well, the bar was closing. It was now about 4:30 a.m. and we were told we had to go. I paid and when I got up, it all hit me, I could barely stand up straight (maybe it’s because you were in a gay bar! Thank god Paul saved you!) and I wobbled out of the bar. I was drunk. Paul and I were about 8 blocks away from the hotel and we are very lucky that we made it back alive. I can’t believe how stupid we were. Two drunks, walking 8 blocks to a hotel, alone, at 4:30 a.m. in New York City. Outside the hotel lobby, Paul almost got into a fight with a bum. Once I got to my room, I could not stop giggling. I noticed that someone was sleeping in my bed—rules weren’t strict and we could sleep in any room we wanted to, so I went next door and Jamie let me sleep in her room. After I stopped giggling, I passed out. The next day, I was thoroughly embarrassed. I had a headache, and I haven’t had a drink since. Well, that’s my drinking story. New York was a great learning experience. Maybe I’ll write more about it later.
In today’s installment of Erik Patterson Thought He Was Really Profound When He Was Sixteen, I share my thoughts on capital punishment, the movie Heart and Souls, and the first time I ever got drunk.
July 16, 1994
“You kill a few men and you’re a murderer. You kill a million and you’re a conquerer. Go figure.” – John Lithgow in the movie Cliffhanger.
This is an interesting summation of how our society views killing. In my mind, either way you are a murderer. (Wow, Erik, you were brilliant. Way to go with the hard-hitting analysis. Oh, but wait, you continue.)
Capital punishment? I am against it. I feel that if we feel the need to murder someone to punish them for murder, we are only stooping down to their level. The “eye for an eye” belief is bullshit. Besides, what kind of a punishment is death. A lifeliess life that is forever spent in jail is a much better punishment. Also, I don’t believe in Hell. (Hello, topic shift. I really just went from one random topic to the next in my diary, didn’t I? I think I was just trying to log as much data as possible, to help those future biographers.) Wherever souls go when someone dies – they all go to the same place. If someone killed a loved one of mine, I sure as hell wouldn’t want them to join my loved one in Heaven, or wherever souls go. (Okay, but Erik, if you don’t believe in Hell, then being as “sure as hell” isn’t really very sure, is it?)
“Heart and Souls” was a really great movie. (I’m trying to understand the logic of this particular topic shift, and I think it’s a stream-of-conscious thing; like, I was just talking about souls and so now I’ll talk about the movie “Heart and Souls.” I was a weird kid.) It just touched me where I needed to be touched (no comment) and I guess I saw it numerous times. The idea of walking down a public street singing “Walk Like A Man” is so freeing and fulfilling. Since seeing the movie, Lindsay and I break into this song often. It is always a great release. (I kind of find this “Heart and Souls” paragraph more embarrassing and humiliating than any of the other diary bits and pieces so far. I don’t know why I find this paragraph so particularly embarrassing, but I do.)
I suppose that I should tell my New York story while it is still sort of fresh in my head. (And also because I apparently have ADD in my diary and can’t seem to focus on any one topic for more than a paragraph.)
Over Christmas vacation, I went to New York with Drama--Jesse, Lindsay, Justin, Nicky, Keri, Jamie, Lolita, Julia, etc. It was a thrilling experience to finally experience Broadway plays. The first night, I saw Blood Brothers with Gwen. The theatre was small, comfortable. Before the curtain rose, my stomach was turning, I was so excited. Anyway, I saw eleven shows in one week. One highlight was New Years Even Night. I went to see Les Miserables and after the show, the whole cast came out and sang “Auld Lang Sine.” It was neat. One major 1st that happened in New York, though, was the first time I ever got drunk. It was the first--and to this day, the last--time I ever drank, also. Tuesday night, a few days before New Years Eve, we were all going to see a show, I can’t remember which one—no, wait. It was Laughter on the 23rd Floor, by Neil Simon. After the show, we waited at the stage door and met Nathan Lane and John Slattery. Anyway, before the show, I saw Paul. He came with us too, he was my director for our production Noises Off. Well, Paul and I were waiting to go to the show and he was going to the hotel bar—I went with him. Since I was in there, I thought I’d try to order a drink—I got a Gin and Tonic. We were sitting at the bar drinking and eating pretzels and the bartender didn’t say anything! Mind you—I’m 16-years-old, but I guess I look old for my age. Everyone always tells me that and it was proving to be true. Well, I had never drank before and it gave me a little bit of a headache that I had throughout the entire show. After the show, the whole group of us went to this Piano Bar called “Don’t Tell Mama’s.” It is a great place where the waitresses sing to you during the evening and anyone who wants to can go and sing too. That’s why we went there, for the singing. Most of the kids were getting things like Coke to drink and the chaperones didn’t notice what some of us others were getting. Since it worked at the hotel bar, I thought that I would try getting drinks here, too. I don’t remember what I was ordering, but by around 2:00 a.m. I had had about 5 different drinks and the only people left in the bar from our group was me, Nicky, Keri, and Paul. I had about 2 more drinks with them until the waitress told us it was closing time at a little bit past 3:00 a.m. It was time to pay and I paid with a travellors (sic) check! Well, she needed to see I.D. to use a travellors (sic) check so I got out the $20 fake I.D. card that I had bought that afternoon and everything was fine. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care that there was a differant (sic) name on the I.D. than the check! Anyway, even though I had had quite a few drinks, I only felt a buzz. I thought that if I had gone this far, then I wanted to get completely drunk—this wasn’t enough. So we asked where the nearest bar was that might still be open. The bartender said that there was another one around the corner, so we walked over there. Well, we got there and outside the door, Keri and Nicky said that they wanted to go back to the hotel and they left. Paul and I went into the bar and sat at the bar. We ordered drinks and not until I was on my second one--there--did I realize that it was a gay bar! There were only two other people in there. Luckily, when one of them tried to come on to me, Paul started talking to him and saved me. (!!!) Well, the bar was closing. It was now about 4:30 a.m. and we were told we had to go. I paid and when I got up, it all hit me, I could barely stand up straight (maybe it’s because you were in a gay bar! Thank god Paul saved you!) and I wobbled out of the bar. I was drunk. Paul and I were about 8 blocks away from the hotel and we are very lucky that we made it back alive. I can’t believe how stupid we were. Two drunks, walking 8 blocks to a hotel, alone, at 4:30 a.m. in New York City. Outside the hotel lobby, Paul almost got into a fight with a bum. Once I got to my room, I could not stop giggling. I noticed that someone was sleeping in my bed—rules weren’t strict and we could sleep in any room we wanted to, so I went next door and Jamie let me sleep in her room. After I stopped giggling, I passed out. The next day, I was thoroughly embarrassed. I had a headache, and I haven’t had a drink since. Well, that’s my drinking story. New York was a great learning experience. Maybe I’ll write more about it later.
July 15, 1994
I figure it’s time for another installment of my recently unearthed (and insanely profound) high school diary. In today’s episode, I wax rhapsodic about my brother Josh’s first foray into acting (if I’m doing the math right, he was eight when I wrote this) and I pontificate about O.J. Simpson’s fate.
July 15, 1994
Today I saw Josh perform a scene and a song for a class. Is this a beginning? As much as I hope it is, pity he who goes into acting for a living, for I know there isn’t much out there to make a living off of in ratio to the number of actors out there.
(Holy crap, I cannot believe what a tool I was. Um, “pity he”????)
Today was long and exhausting and I am going to curse myself tomorrow for not going to be early.
(And that’s all I said about that. I have no idea what was so long and exhausting about that July day in 1994—apparently I had much more important matters to discuss in my diary. Read on.)
I saw someone selling t-shirts that had O.J. Simpson’s face and in bold letters said “NOT GUILTY.” This supports my conviction that it will be impossible to find an impartial jury. Who is to blame but the media? They have made the O.J. case into a media frenzi (sic) that resembles more circus than integrity. Because of the media, no one in the U.S. has been left without an opinion on whether O.J. is guilty or innocent. And unless O.J. makes a confession, we never will know. (I think I was trying to sound really smart by inverting the “never” and the “will” in that sentence.) But everyone has made up in their mind a decision about his guilt/innocence. I would not call someone who wore an “O.J. NOT GUILTY” shirt impartial and I do not see how O.J could possibly have a fair trial. I am afraid that the media has made a mockery of this case and because of this I fear that O.J. will go free, whether he is guilty or not. No—I am not impartial either. I believe O.J. to be guilty. (Why am I talking like that??? “I believe O.J. to be guilty”???? Seriously, I was such a tool.) Could the media frenzi (sic) surrounding this case elimanate (sic) all form of justice from our legal system? Maybe I’m so upset by this because I feel the media drawing me in, too.
(Now get ready for a quick topic shift. What I find most absurd about these diary entries is that you can just smell how important I thought they were. It’s so obvious that I wasn’t writing for myself, but for a future biographer. I am genuinely mortified by the next paragraph and for a moment I considered skipping it altogether, but whatever, pushing on.)
Whore. Usually such a derogative word, but when used towards a good friend it is the most freeing and exhilarating word to use. It connotates a sense of teasing and trust in the other person for it is used in the most friendly context. I discovered this when I went out with my friends and we discovered that if we were ever frustrated our frustration was gone if we only called each other “fucking whores.” We all knew that we were joking and these words are actually very fun to say. Fucking whore. (Maybe Isaiah Washington had a similar attitude towards the word faggot and that’s why he didn’t really get the whole brouhaha?) It’s such a release. Our society puts such harsh criticism against such “dirty” words. And isn’t forbidden fruit the sweetest. (Oh my god.) In my circle of friends, “fucking whore” has become a term of affection. (Jesse? Lane? Gina? Do you remember this at all? Or was I writing COMPLETELY out of my ass here?)
(And now for another complete tonal shift.)
The Drovers is an excellent band. Try to find their CD, they must have one. (Who the fucking whore am I talking to??? Am I telling my biographers to buy the CD??? Because I know that I already had it and that whole “they must have one” thing was just me feigning ignorance.) I heard them play for the first time with my Grandpa and Joanne at the Golen Globe Awards—at the after-party, no less! (Who talks like this?) A kind man gave us his tickets after we were through ogling stars. (“A kind man”—I sound like I’m a peasant boy in 18th century London.) They were like no band I’ve ever heard before, they have their own distinctive sound, very Irish. Well, they were in the movie Blink, too. Their music was the only good thing about the movie. I’m determined to find their CD. (I swear, I already had it. I know I did. I was such a diary liar.) I am also determined to hear Violent Femmes live in concert. They are so amazing. Most likely my favorite group. (Notice how I wasn’t willing to fully commit to them as my favorite group? Just a feeble most likely. I was a doof.)
*
I'm too tired to transcribe the next entry tonight, but it's a good one and I'll post it soon--it's all about the first time I got drunk, when I was 15. Good stuff.
(I just noticed the date of this entry and realized that it's basically from EXACTLY thirteen years ago. Thank God for age.)
July 15, 1994
Today I saw Josh perform a scene and a song for a class. Is this a beginning? As much as I hope it is, pity he who goes into acting for a living, for I know there isn’t much out there to make a living off of in ratio to the number of actors out there.
(Holy crap, I cannot believe what a tool I was. Um, “pity he”????)
Today was long and exhausting and I am going to curse myself tomorrow for not going to be early.
(And that’s all I said about that. I have no idea what was so long and exhausting about that July day in 1994—apparently I had much more important matters to discuss in my diary. Read on.)
I saw someone selling t-shirts that had O.J. Simpson’s face and in bold letters said “NOT GUILTY.” This supports my conviction that it will be impossible to find an impartial jury. Who is to blame but the media? They have made the O.J. case into a media frenzi (sic) that resembles more circus than integrity. Because of the media, no one in the U.S. has been left without an opinion on whether O.J. is guilty or innocent. And unless O.J. makes a confession, we never will know. (I think I was trying to sound really smart by inverting the “never” and the “will” in that sentence.) But everyone has made up in their mind a decision about his guilt/innocence. I would not call someone who wore an “O.J. NOT GUILTY” shirt impartial and I do not see how O.J could possibly have a fair trial. I am afraid that the media has made a mockery of this case and because of this I fear that O.J. will go free, whether he is guilty or not. No—I am not impartial either. I believe O.J. to be guilty. (Why am I talking like that??? “I believe O.J. to be guilty”???? Seriously, I was such a tool.) Could the media frenzi (sic) surrounding this case elimanate (sic) all form of justice from our legal system? Maybe I’m so upset by this because I feel the media drawing me in, too.
(Now get ready for a quick topic shift. What I find most absurd about these diary entries is that you can just smell how important I thought they were. It’s so obvious that I wasn’t writing for myself, but for a future biographer. I am genuinely mortified by the next paragraph and for a moment I considered skipping it altogether, but whatever, pushing on.)
Whore. Usually such a derogative word, but when used towards a good friend it is the most freeing and exhilarating word to use. It connotates a sense of teasing and trust in the other person for it is used in the most friendly context. I discovered this when I went out with my friends and we discovered that if we were ever frustrated our frustration was gone if we only called each other “fucking whores.” We all knew that we were joking and these words are actually very fun to say. Fucking whore. (Maybe Isaiah Washington had a similar attitude towards the word faggot and that’s why he didn’t really get the whole brouhaha?) It’s such a release. Our society puts such harsh criticism against such “dirty” words. And isn’t forbidden fruit the sweetest. (Oh my god.) In my circle of friends, “fucking whore” has become a term of affection. (Jesse? Lane? Gina? Do you remember this at all? Or was I writing COMPLETELY out of my ass here?)
(And now for another complete tonal shift.)
The Drovers is an excellent band. Try to find their CD, they must have one. (Who the fucking whore am I talking to??? Am I telling my biographers to buy the CD??? Because I know that I already had it and that whole “they must have one” thing was just me feigning ignorance.) I heard them play for the first time with my Grandpa and Joanne at the Golen Globe Awards—at the after-party, no less! (Who talks like this?) A kind man gave us his tickets after we were through ogling stars. (“A kind man”—I sound like I’m a peasant boy in 18th century London.) They were like no band I’ve ever heard before, they have their own distinctive sound, very Irish. Well, they were in the movie Blink, too. Their music was the only good thing about the movie. I’m determined to find their CD. (I swear, I already had it. I know I did. I was such a diary liar.) I am also determined to hear Violent Femmes live in concert. They are so amazing. Most likely my favorite group. (Notice how I wasn’t willing to fully commit to them as my favorite group? Just a feeble most likely. I was a doof.)
*
I'm too tired to transcribe the next entry tonight, but it's a good one and I'll post it soon--it's all about the first time I got drunk, when I was 15. Good stuff.
(I just noticed the date of this entry and realized that it's basically from EXACTLY thirteen years ago. Thank God for age.)
Sunday, July 15, 2007
latest Uma update from John (7/12/07)
FROM JOHN (7/12/07):
hello again everyone,
i've been busy! but i've been thinking about how all
of you prayed and thought and meditated and walked and
vandalized and wrote and donated and called and
visited and cooked and cleaned and walked and
tried.....and i feel like i really need to tell you
all what's going on with uma on a regular basis.
life is very strange compared with what i've been lead
to believe it 'should' be. it is what it is i guess
and you react as best you can to what is in front of
you. for a long time i thought the adjustments to our
new life together would be more difficult for me than
for her but the more aware uma becomes of her
situation and the more she can actually do the more
she is prone to being depressed or resigned to her
current abilities. getting her to do things for her
own therapy on a self-motivated basis is not so easy.
the great thing about her is that, if you do give her
a task, she will do it all the way and won't stop
until she can do it right. when i said this was going
to be a long, long recovery i truly meant every word.
today was the last day for a while that our home-based
physical therapist (robbin, the associate professor at
usc) will come over. she is due to deliver her second
child on july 20th so.....you know....time for a
break. i've recorded a lot of video to use as
reference for our home program. i feel confident now,
after 2 months, that i can duplicate the exercises.
part of this confidence comes from the fact that uma
doing so well and can respond to commands and
understand the reasoning behind subtle changes in,
say, position or muscle/movement emphasis.
we continue to go to a hospital-based speech and
physical therapist each three times a week.
a typical day is - get up about 8. uma dresses herself
while i make breakfast. we eat, usually while watching
a tv show she likes (dawson's creek or something like
that). i put in her contact lenses for her (but she
has to say, "contacts" before i do it and this is a
very hard word for her right now) and tie her shoes.
she gathers up her purse and we go to glendale for
therapy. there she spends a couple of hours back to
back with speech and physical therapy. both therapists
are very happy with her progress.
much of the speech therapy revolves around reading and
comprehension. there are flash cards with pictures to
name-many of which she can name already without any
cue-ing- and very short stories to read and answer
questions about. she can't actually read aloud nor can
she yet say any of the words individually that she
sees on paper but she somehow gathers the meaning of a
sentence and can refer back to it when answering
written questions about the content of the story. she
'says' she feels like it's cheating because she gets
to look at the story text while answering the
questions but, in the end, it's all reading and
understanding and that's what we want. but that shows
her spirit - she wants to do it right.
physical therapy usually begins with the stairstepper
- up to 85 pounds the other day - for ten minutes. the
last time she did the stair stepper she held on to the
railing with both (yes, both) hands. no tape, no
cloth, no assisting. this happened on a day when she
also made a lot of headway in the 'weight-bearing'
positions they want her right arm to be in. the more
weight her arm/hand can bear, the more it will wake
the brain up in that area......then she will walk
sideways, backwards, up and down a small staircase,
etc.....do hamstring lifts with ankle weights or
repeatedly lift her right leg out and balance - lots
of different leg excercises. then there is right arm
stuff including massage and movement. (i'm hoping to
get together a myspace page detailing a lot of this
activity and uploading videos of her progress - she
said that would be ok with her). last evening in our
tiny little pool she was sitting on a lawn chair and
raised her right arm up on it's own to land on the
armrest, and, with help from her left hand, spread her
right fingers out and over the edge of the armrest.
this is the first time she's done anything like this
herself. that she'd be interested in it, think of it,
and be able to do it is a great sign and is also a way
to bear weight.
....then we would come home, i'd make lunch, we eat,
usually i do the dishes and then we begin a routine
that takes up about 25 minutes an hour each hour until
dinner. this routine varys from hour to hour but
includes speech therapy from her work book - reading,
alphabet flash cards (she can do A, B and C
consistently so far), pointing to objects in the room,
mimicing me while i say, "poe, toe, boe, woe, no, low,
so, zoe, koe" etc. - some of these are easier than
others for her. it also includes upper and lower
extremity stretching and range-of-motion, standing and
seated calf and toe raises, isolated quadricep and
hamstring exercises using the wall and a basketball (
look for the video.....soon i hope), exercises for
external rotation of her arm, wrist movement, pushing
and pulling with various devices (arm stuff), etc.
then, every other day we drive down to the fern dell
at the bottom of griffith park and walk up to the
observatory and back - takes about an hour....come
home, hop in the little pool and talk.....she takes a
shower, i cook dinner, we eat and, pretty soon, she's
asleep. and the days go on like this. i'm taking a
lot of time off work the next few months so we can
intesify her regimen. she's ready, i can feel it. the
catch is that, the more she can do, the more she
realizes what she can't do. but, also, the more she
can do, the more she wants to work.
with days and evenings like this ( add in work,
cleaning the house, grocery shopping, laundry) and
you can see why it's been so long since i've written.
i'm sorry about that but i just get so tired at night
which is about the only time i can do it.
she can answer the phone now and have a bit of
conversation, too so, those of you who have her
number, give her a call and maybe ask her when you can
see her if you want. that would be great.
all my love,
john
Friday, July 13, 2007
12 of 12, July 2007
I should have posted this yesterday, but I didn't have internet access yesterday. I haven't participated in Chad's 12 of 12 project in many, many months, and I finally decided to get back in the game. Here goes.
#1: Highland Park, 8:46 a.m.
I just woke up. The night before, I'd had a fever of 101. I was all loopy and shit. (I'm still trying to get over a cold, but at least the fever's gone, thank the lord.) Anyway, taking the above photo was the first thing I did when I woke up and I wasn't happy about it. I am not a morning person. And 8:46 a.m. is early for me.
#2: L.A.X., 11:36 a.m.
Despite the fact that I woke up at the crack of dawn (I'm telling you, 8:46 is really early), I was still late to meet my mom for our planned carpool to the airport, so she was really paranoid about whether or not we were going to catch our plane or not (she'll scoff at the notion that she was "really paraniod," but it's true). In the above photo, we're about to go through security. The woman standing in front of my mom was, like, 4 feet and not an inch taller. I wanted to stow her in my suitcase and take her home with me.
#3: L.A.X., 11:38 a.m.
It only took two minutes to get through security, so now we have plenty of time to kill. I am fairly certain that my mom took extra time putting her shoes back on (above photo) so that it wouldn't seem like we had so much time to kill.
Bonus photo, "hotness," L.A.X., 11:52 a.m.
I was wandering, aimlessly, looking for something to eat before getting on the plane, when suddenly, I see a man enter the corridor and I freeze. I'm not even exaggerating for effect, I literally froze in my tracks. I think my jaw might have dropped, but I won't say that it did because I can't tell for sure because I pretty much lost all control of my body. Hell, I might have been floating and I wouldn't have even known it because the man who entered the corridor was Leland Palmer. Now, okay, yes, now that I'm at the home of my cousins Sue and Alan, I realize that Leland Palmer is a fictional character from the television show Twin Peaks and that he was portrayed by an actor named Ray Wise. Yes, I know that with every logical fiber in my body. But if I was stuck on a desert island and God told me he'd give me a TV set with one condition, that I'm only allowed to watch one television series and I can watch it as much as I want but seriously I'm never gonna get to watch another series so I'd better choose wisely, I would choose Twin Peaks. And my love for the show is really unabated, i.e. I get so annoyed when people say "Oh, yeah, that show was great in it's first season, but the second season sucked," because, okay, sure, some of the second season sucked--okay, maybe chunks of it did--but if the only thing you see in the second season is suckage, well, I'm sorry, but you're really missing out, because the second season has at least twenty brilliant moments. What am I saying??? MORE than twenty brilliant moments. (Every scene with David Lynch as Agent Gordon Cole, Piper Laurie's big reveal moment in the prison, the "Don't go back to Missoula, Montana" scene, that diner scene between Major Briggs and Bobby when Major Briggs tells Bobby about the dream he had and Bobby realizes that his dad loves him and he breaks down and cries...I could go on, but I won't.) The only storyline that's completely bad, IMHO, is the one with James and that blondie who tried to set him up for the murder of her husband, and that storyline isn't bad because of James Marshall's terrible acting (which actually WORKS most of the time BECAUSE of its badness, and I could go on and on about why, but I won't), no, that storyline's bad because it's the only storyline in the entire series that takes place OUTSIDE of Twin Peaks and suddenly melodramatic soapyness that's essential to the show started to feel out of place. And one of the best peices of the Twin Peaks puzzle is Ray Wise. I know that the actors have said that they didn't know the answer to the question "Who Killed Laura Palmer?" until the killer was finally revealed on the show, but if you go back and watch the show again from the beginning, Ray Wise knew. He had to have known! Watch the dream sequence in episode three, and then watch every single scene that Ray Wise is in, because it all points to him, but it's so subtle and Ray Wise is so brilliant and sad that you don't see it coming at all. With each episode, he builds to madness. But it takes, like, 14 episodes for him to get there, so it's a looooong build. And he teeters on the brink of absurdity without ever for one second losing the core emotional truth that he is a father who just lost his daughter in the most horrible way. It's such a good acting job that he is completely and utterly real in my head, and when I saw Ray Wise walking towards me, I swear to you: I held my breath. (On a side note, he's extremely handsome in person, and he looks completely un-crazy. I, on the other hand, probably looked bonkers, standing there, frozen, holding my breath, trying not to look like I'd noticed him while simultaneously STARING.) I didn't want to freak him out, and also I wanted to respect the fact that he's just trying to be a normal dude at the airport, so I didn't take my camera out of my pocket until he'd already walked upstairs on his way to the private airport bar. That small speck of a head you see in the above photo is him, walking away. Seeing Ray Wise was thrilling, and starstriking, and completely hot.
#4: Mid-air, 4:38 p.m.
How beautiful is that sky? I was enjoying the view. Until...
#5: Mid-air, 4:59 p.m.
...we started experiencing turbulance. And when I say "turbulance," I mean it felt like the airplane had been plucked out of the sky by the hand of God and he was shaking it to see if anyone was inside. I've never been scared in the air before, but for a few minutes there: I was scared. My mom was scared too, and she said that she was scared, and I didn't think it would do the two of us any good for BOTH of us to be scared, so I pretended like I wasn't scared and I took this photo to be like, "ha, ha, look at us, we're having fun on an airplane," but now that I'm safe and sound and on the ground, I can admit that I was out of my wits.
When the plane landed, all of the passengers erupted into applause--that's how scary the turbulance was. True story.
#6: Ronald Reagon Washington National Airport, Washington D.C., 8:29 p.m.
Never have I been so glad to see a non-descript airport tunnel. We're in Washington D.C. now, so I've added three hours to my camera's timestamps to account for East Coast time.
#7: Washington D.C., 9:03 p.m.
My cousins Sue and Ellie picked us up at the airport. I tried to get a good photo of the Washinton Monument as we drove past it, but this was the best one I got.
#8: Washington D.C., 9:04 p.m.
And then I tried to get a good photo of the Lincoln Memorial as we were driving towards it, but this is the best one I got. Despite the shoddy photos (we were driving, after all), it was beautiful.
#9: Chevy Chase, Maryland, 9:27 p.m.
Arriving at the home of Sue, Alan, Ellie, and Scott. Family reunion time.
#10: Sue and Alan's living room, 9:56 p.m.
That's my mom, my step-grandma, and my great-aunt Muriel.
#11: Sue and Alan's kitchen, 10:46 p.m.
That's Granny Joanny teaching Uncle Bobby and cousins Steffani and Taylor how to do that twisting-your-middle-fingers-through-your-hands trick. You know the one.
#12: Basement make-shift bedroom, 12:10 a.m.
The end of a long day. I was about to collapse. My cousin Taylor snapped this photo in the mirror, just before her mom yelled for her to go brush her teeth.
#1: Highland Park, 8:46 a.m.
I just woke up. The night before, I'd had a fever of 101. I was all loopy and shit. (I'm still trying to get over a cold, but at least the fever's gone, thank the lord.) Anyway, taking the above photo was the first thing I did when I woke up and I wasn't happy about it. I am not a morning person. And 8:46 a.m. is early for me.#2: L.A.X., 11:36 a.m.
Despite the fact that I woke up at the crack of dawn (I'm telling you, 8:46 is really early), I was still late to meet my mom for our planned carpool to the airport, so she was really paranoid about whether or not we were going to catch our plane or not (she'll scoff at the notion that she was "really paraniod," but it's true). In the above photo, we're about to go through security. The woman standing in front of my mom was, like, 4 feet and not an inch taller. I wanted to stow her in my suitcase and take her home with me.#3: L.A.X., 11:38 a.m.
It only took two minutes to get through security, so now we have plenty of time to kill. I am fairly certain that my mom took extra time putting her shoes back on (above photo) so that it wouldn't seem like we had so much time to kill. Bonus photo, "hotness," L.A.X., 11:52 a.m.
I was wandering, aimlessly, looking for something to eat before getting on the plane, when suddenly, I see a man enter the corridor and I freeze. I'm not even exaggerating for effect, I literally froze in my tracks. I think my jaw might have dropped, but I won't say that it did because I can't tell for sure because I pretty much lost all control of my body. Hell, I might have been floating and I wouldn't have even known it because the man who entered the corridor was Leland Palmer. Now, okay, yes, now that I'm at the home of my cousins Sue and Alan, I realize that Leland Palmer is a fictional character from the television show Twin Peaks and that he was portrayed by an actor named Ray Wise. Yes, I know that with every logical fiber in my body. But if I was stuck on a desert island and God told me he'd give me a TV set with one condition, that I'm only allowed to watch one television series and I can watch it as much as I want but seriously I'm never gonna get to watch another series so I'd better choose wisely, I would choose Twin Peaks. And my love for the show is really unabated, i.e. I get so annoyed when people say "Oh, yeah, that show was great in it's first season, but the second season sucked," because, okay, sure, some of the second season sucked--okay, maybe chunks of it did--but if the only thing you see in the second season is suckage, well, I'm sorry, but you're really missing out, because the second season has at least twenty brilliant moments. What am I saying??? MORE than twenty brilliant moments. (Every scene with David Lynch as Agent Gordon Cole, Piper Laurie's big reveal moment in the prison, the "Don't go back to Missoula, Montana" scene, that diner scene between Major Briggs and Bobby when Major Briggs tells Bobby about the dream he had and Bobby realizes that his dad loves him and he breaks down and cries...I could go on, but I won't.) The only storyline that's completely bad, IMHO, is the one with James and that blondie who tried to set him up for the murder of her husband, and that storyline isn't bad because of James Marshall's terrible acting (which actually WORKS most of the time BECAUSE of its badness, and I could go on and on about why, but I won't), no, that storyline's bad because it's the only storyline in the entire series that takes place OUTSIDE of Twin Peaks and suddenly melodramatic soapyness that's essential to the show started to feel out of place. And one of the best peices of the Twin Peaks puzzle is Ray Wise. I know that the actors have said that they didn't know the answer to the question "Who Killed Laura Palmer?" until the killer was finally revealed on the show, but if you go back and watch the show again from the beginning, Ray Wise knew. He had to have known! Watch the dream sequence in episode three, and then watch every single scene that Ray Wise is in, because it all points to him, but it's so subtle and Ray Wise is so brilliant and sad that you don't see it coming at all. With each episode, he builds to madness. But it takes, like, 14 episodes for him to get there, so it's a looooong build. And he teeters on the brink of absurdity without ever for one second losing the core emotional truth that he is a father who just lost his daughter in the most horrible way. It's such a good acting job that he is completely and utterly real in my head, and when I saw Ray Wise walking towards me, I swear to you: I held my breath. (On a side note, he's extremely handsome in person, and he looks completely un-crazy. I, on the other hand, probably looked bonkers, standing there, frozen, holding my breath, trying not to look like I'd noticed him while simultaneously STARING.) I didn't want to freak him out, and also I wanted to respect the fact that he's just trying to be a normal dude at the airport, so I didn't take my camera out of my pocket until he'd already walked upstairs on his way to the private airport bar. That small speck of a head you see in the above photo is him, walking away. Seeing Ray Wise was thrilling, and starstriking, and completely hot.#4: Mid-air, 4:38 p.m.
How beautiful is that sky? I was enjoying the view. Until...#5: Mid-air, 4:59 p.m.
...we started experiencing turbulance. And when I say "turbulance," I mean it felt like the airplane had been plucked out of the sky by the hand of God and he was shaking it to see if anyone was inside. I've never been scared in the air before, but for a few minutes there: I was scared. My mom was scared too, and she said that she was scared, and I didn't think it would do the two of us any good for BOTH of us to be scared, so I pretended like I wasn't scared and I took this photo to be like, "ha, ha, look at us, we're having fun on an airplane," but now that I'm safe and sound and on the ground, I can admit that I was out of my wits. When the plane landed, all of the passengers erupted into applause--that's how scary the turbulance was. True story.
#6: Ronald Reagon Washington National Airport, Washington D.C., 8:29 p.m.
Never have I been so glad to see a non-descript airport tunnel. We're in Washington D.C. now, so I've added three hours to my camera's timestamps to account for East Coast time.#7: Washington D.C., 9:03 p.m.
My cousins Sue and Ellie picked us up at the airport. I tried to get a good photo of the Washinton Monument as we drove past it, but this was the best one I got.#8: Washington D.C., 9:04 p.m.
And then I tried to get a good photo of the Lincoln Memorial as we were driving towards it, but this is the best one I got. Despite the shoddy photos (we were driving, after all), it was beautiful.#9: Chevy Chase, Maryland, 9:27 p.m.
Arriving at the home of Sue, Alan, Ellie, and Scott. Family reunion time.#10: Sue and Alan's living room, 9:56 p.m.
That's my mom, my step-grandma, and my great-aunt Muriel.#11: Sue and Alan's kitchen, 10:46 p.m.
That's Granny Joanny teaching Uncle Bobby and cousins Steffani and Taylor how to do that twisting-your-middle-fingers-through-your-hands trick. You know the one.#12: Basement make-shift bedroom, 12:10 a.m.
The end of a long day. I was about to collapse. My cousin Taylor snapped this photo in the mirror, just before her mom yelled for her to go brush her teeth.
I just took two Tylenol PM
Am I the only one who just realized that we have the power to vote for who's going to be on the next season of The Real World, and we only have four more days to get our vote on??? And seriously, is everyone else out there as excited about this as I am? We have to use our power wisely and vote in crazy-ass people who are gonna be good drama on the Challenges.
(If you're not obsessed with MTV, then this post probably reads like another language to you, and I apologize for that.) (I almost wrote "and I apologize to that.") (Which would have been a weird thing to say, but I kind of like it.) (Not that it makes any sense.)
(Remember that thing I posted about Jell-O a couple of days ago? That didn't really make any sense either.)
(It's because I have a terrible cold and between yesterday and today and the day before yesterday, I've literally blown a gallon of snot out of my nose.) (My cousin Ilene gave me a Michael J. Fox movies-on-DVD collection today and it was the greatest early-birthday present ever.) (He is so hot it's out of control.) (Especially in the photo they used for the DVD box cover.) (I defy you to look at that box cover and not think that Michael J. Fox is the definition of hotness.) (Thank you, Ilene. Maybe you didn't give me an available gay man for my birthday, but the Michael J. Fox movies are a close second.)
(Oh, by the way, I'm in Washington D.C. right now, at a family reunion, and this is basically the first time I've been online in two days, and it's weird to be away from the internet for such a long period.) (I mean, okay, I did use my cousin's computer to read a few of my daily blog reads, but besides that, I've been completely off-line, and that's been strange.) (I think maybe I have an addiction to the internet.) (Like, if three hours go by and I haven't checked my email, I feel a little kink in my back.) (Not a literal kink, a metaphorical one.) (Oh my god I can't stop staring at Michael J. Fox.)
(If you're not obsessed with MTV, then this post probably reads like another language to you, and I apologize for that.) (I almost wrote "and I apologize to that.") (Which would have been a weird thing to say, but I kind of like it.) (Not that it makes any sense.)
(Remember that thing I posted about Jell-O a couple of days ago? That didn't really make any sense either.)
(It's because I have a terrible cold and between yesterday and today and the day before yesterday, I've literally blown a gallon of snot out of my nose.) (My cousin Ilene gave me a Michael J. Fox movies-on-DVD collection today and it was the greatest early-birthday present ever.) (He is so hot it's out of control.) (Especially in the photo they used for the DVD box cover.) (I defy you to look at that box cover and not think that Michael J. Fox is the definition of hotness.) (Thank you, Ilene. Maybe you didn't give me an available gay man for my birthday, but the Michael J. Fox movies are a close second.)
(Oh, by the way, I'm in Washington D.C. right now, at a family reunion, and this is basically the first time I've been online in two days, and it's weird to be away from the internet for such a long period.) (I mean, okay, I did use my cousin's computer to read a few of my daily blog reads, but besides that, I've been completely off-line, and that's been strange.) (I think maybe I have an addiction to the internet.) (Like, if three hours go by and I haven't checked my email, I feel a little kink in my back.) (Not a literal kink, a metaphorical one.) (Oh my god I can't stop staring at Michael J. Fox.)
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
orange Jell-O, blue hand
I'm such a bad cook that I don't even know how to make Jell-O correctly, apparently. How do you fuck up making Jell-O? I thought it was going to be the most simple thing to make. And, fine, yes, I made it and it's Jell-O, but there's barely any there. The damned box says it makes enough for four servings, and maybe I'm a pig, but still--there's no way this is supposed to be four servings:
In other, completely non-Jell-O related news, I was driving home from Rite-Aid earlier today, trying to open a plastic container, and using a Bic pen to open said plastic container, and instead of opening the freaking plastic container I broke the fucking pen and spilled blue ink all over my hand, and I've washed my hand, like, seven times, but it's still kinda blue.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Team Avril
I don't think she's getting enough support, so I just wanted to put out into the universe that I am on Team Avril. Am I so completely blinded by my love for her poppily infectious summer tune that I can't see what's to all of the people who are on Team Rubinoos the most obvious rip-off ever? Because seriously, I don't think the songs sound even one iota similar. I just don't hear it, I don't get it.
Judge for yourself.
Here's the rocking kick-ass Avril song (and I realize that I'm a punk for thinking Avril's kick-ass) (and not the kind of punk that Avril labels herself as) (the kind of punk that's, like, lame) (more Brewster than Daft) (as in Punky Brewster) (but whatevs cuz that's the way I roll) (I love the song and I'm not ashamed to admit it):
And here's the hum-drum, so-so Rubinoos song that (IMHO) sounds nothing like it:
Weighed all the evidence? Okay, now take this dandy poll:
Judge for yourself.
Here's the rocking kick-ass Avril song (and I realize that I'm a punk for thinking Avril's kick-ass) (and not the kind of punk that Avril labels herself as) (the kind of punk that's, like, lame) (more Brewster than Daft) (as in Punky Brewster) (but whatevs cuz that's the way I roll) (I love the song and I'm not ashamed to admit it):
And here's the hum-drum, so-so Rubinoos song that (IMHO) sounds nothing like it:
Weighed all the evidence? Okay, now take this dandy poll:
Gab--speaking of "Mortified," this is for you.
I'm still sorting through boxes in the garage (I'm almost through all of them, but of course there are, like, 700 boxes because I've never thrown anything away in my entire life, so that's why it's taking me forever) and one of the boxes I went through tonight had my high school diary in it. I don't know if anyone else is gonna find this thing funny, but as I read through the book tonight I was in pain from laughing so goddamned much. Like, my stomach physically hurts. This diary is from when I was seventeen and you can tell that I thought I was SO WORLDLY, but the entire book is so sweet and naive I can't stand it. I can tell from the way I worded things that I was writing for an audience--I remember thinking that someday I would become famous and then I would die and then people would scour through all of my diaries to learn more about me (and, of course, use my diaries as source material for my future biographies) and I remember writing my diary FOR THOSE PEOPLE. The people who were gonna study me after my death.
My diary's first entry is sorta like a prologue:
APRIL 18, 1994:
It's Monday. This book was a Christmas present. I'm going to use it as a journal, to express my thoughts, jot down ideas, write down significant instances, memories, or whatever comes to my head. I'm sleeping on the couch bed tonight. We have guests from France, Gaby and Frederick. They're very nice people and I'm getting a chance to practice my French. I'm doing better than I thought I would.
I would love to go to France. I want to go everywhere, see everything. I want to go back to New York. That's a story that I'll save for a later time.
I got my driver's liscence (sic) about 12 days ago. It feels great to get in the car on my own and drive. I'd love to be able to just drive anywhere, and to find someplace new. Just to see as much as possible.
*
Okay, that was the first entry. I was older than all of the other kids in my class (because I took kindergarten twice), but reading through this diary makes me feel like I was a young 17. So bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and innocent. I'm going to transcribe one more entry (entry #2) and then it's time for bed. (The weird thing about this next entry is that I was talking to my friend Mandy the other day and she mentioned that she was about to drive through Pennsylvania and then we started talking about the Amish and I totally told her the story that I tell in this diary entry. Like, I literally JUST told this story because this moment with this Amish girl was so vivid that it's stuck with me all of these years.) (Oh, and the other thing I love about this next entry is how full of myself I am--for instance, when I'm suddenly like "hello, world, let me tell you why eye contact is important," you can practically smell how profound I thought I was being.)
*
JULY 14, 1994:
It's summer. I'm at my Dad's house until school starts, which is great because I don't get to see them as often as I'd like to during the school year. I get so busy that I hardly see them at all. I love them a lot. My brothers are great. Josh saw some butterflies mating and he told Patty: "Mom, they're having the S word." He's taking an acting class and they're having a recital tomorrow. It's exciting to see him get into acting because I was his main influence to try it. It feels nice to have someone look up to you. Emulation is great. Matt is into sports, which isn't exactly my forte. He wears is heart on his shoulder and he is really sweet. He's a good kid and I hope that none of that "middle child" stuff gets in the way of him doing what he wants. Then there's Mike, who's the cutest kid you ever set eyes on. He's so cute that he gets away with murder.
Me? I'm the fourth brother, the oldest brother, I want to be a writer, I want to be an actor. I would lie if I said I didn't strive for fame and fortune. I do. Sometimes I'll stay up late at night thinking up my Oscar or Tony acceptance speech (sometimes for writing, sometimes for acting, sometimes for even both!) I want to do it all. One of my major goals in life: To see almost every country in the world. (Adult Erik's note: I like how I said I wanted to see "almost" every country, like, I know I'm never gonna see EVERY one, so let's make a reasonable goal here.) I want to experience every culture, every language there is to experience.
In our "travels," my mom, Joe, and I saw an Amish Community. It was wonderful, free. They don't have any technological interferences that intrude on our lives. Their lives are so simple. I envy them, but realistically I know that I would die without what I have. I would enjoy the simple life for a while and then I would want more. When we were driving through this Amish Community, we drove by this Amish horse-driven carraige. There was this beautiful young Amish girl with her mother, she looked to be about my age. The two of us made eye-contact, and as we passed our eyes remained locked. We both turned around and watched each other disappear, going to separate worlds. I saw in her eyes a longing for more. I could tell that she felt trapped. I wanted to turn around and go rescue her. But I couldn't. Call me sentimental, but the picture of that Amish girl--that beautiful, young Amish girl, is still freash in my mind. Our eyes are forever interlocked, looking deep into each other, wanting what the other has. I would love to speak to her, but I feel as if I already know her, just from that look.
(Oh my god, this is soooooo painful, but it gets worse: here's the part where I go off on the importance of eye contact.)
Eye contact is extremely important to human connection. (See, I told you I was going to talk about how important it is. But wait, I went on.) The eyes are the gateways to the soul. All of our life comes from our eyes. They are so powerful. (I would be less embarrased if this diary--or "journal," as I called it--had been written in elementary school, or even middle school. But no, I was seventeen when I jotted these profoundly profound words down.) Eye contact is very important in acting, which is probably why I'm comfortable with it. (Um, implying that you were SUCH a great actor that you are SO comfortable with eye contact? Oh my god, I was so full of myself!) Sometimes I'll be having a conversation with smoeone and I'll notice them averting my eyes, as if they can't handle it. Without eye contact it is impossible to connect to a person. This is why I hate sunglasses so much. They put a wall in front of that connection. They hide your soul. This has created a conflict in my mind because I have recently become in the need of wearing sunglasses. My contact lenses are sometimes very sensitive to sunlight and I've begun to wear sunglasses for this reason. Fortunately, I only wear them in the car when the sun is bright. Sunglasses are really for people who are afraid to connect. They are the perfect hiding place. I wonder what that says about Jack Nicholson??? (I can't tell if this is a genuine question or if I'm trying to be funny here. Either way, I look like a moron.)
As I walk up to the podium I must not forget to thank two very important people in my life. First, Diane Doyle. With her Young Conservatory program at SCR, she has provided me with the best learning experience of my life thus far. (I still love Diane. She totally got me out of my shell when I was ten and I probably wouldn't have ever gotten involved in theater if it hadn't been for her.) She is a wonderful teacher, director, person, and she is the reason I became an actor. And second, Terri Foster. Also a wonderful teacher. She made me love learning when I had her for 5th grade and she made me love writing when I had her for 8th grade Honors English. She is the best teacher I've ever experienced learning from. ("Ever experienced learning from"?!?!?? That's sentence doesn't really show a very good grasp on the English language, especially for a sentence that's trying to thank an English teacher for being the best teacher ever.)
(Okay, wait, I know I keep saying that certain parts of this diary entry are my favorite part, but this next paragraph is seriously my favorite paragraph. Remember, I was seventeen.)
Confession: This week I joined a gym and a tanning salon. My dad wanted me too, but I think I'll like them. I want my body to look good. Acting is such a "looks" conscious business that it only helps. I hope that I can stay with it and beef up a bit, but not too much. Just enough for it to look like I'm strong, but that I don't work out. I'm not so sure about tanning, but it IS relaxing and I've always wanted to have a tan, besides that farmers one that I've always had.
I want to learn how to play the piano, too, and the guitar. Two goals.
*
That's the end of the second entry. I'm going to stop there for now, but I promise you the diary gets way more embarrassing. I go on to talk about girls I like and I shit you not: the diary entry for May 6th, 1995 is all about how "Shirley is the only girl who has ever physically touched my penis." (Apparently other girls had touched my penis in a non-physical way, but Shirley was the only one who had ever touched-it touched-it.)
My diary's first entry is sorta like a prologue:
APRIL 18, 1994:
It's Monday. This book was a Christmas present. I'm going to use it as a journal, to express my thoughts, jot down ideas, write down significant instances, memories, or whatever comes to my head. I'm sleeping on the couch bed tonight. We have guests from France, Gaby and Frederick. They're very nice people and I'm getting a chance to practice my French. I'm doing better than I thought I would.
I would love to go to France. I want to go everywhere, see everything. I want to go back to New York. That's a story that I'll save for a later time.
I got my driver's liscence (sic) about 12 days ago. It feels great to get in the car on my own and drive. I'd love to be able to just drive anywhere, and to find someplace new. Just to see as much as possible.
*
Okay, that was the first entry. I was older than all of the other kids in my class (because I took kindergarten twice), but reading through this diary makes me feel like I was a young 17. So bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and innocent. I'm going to transcribe one more entry (entry #2) and then it's time for bed. (The weird thing about this next entry is that I was talking to my friend Mandy the other day and she mentioned that she was about to drive through Pennsylvania and then we started talking about the Amish and I totally told her the story that I tell in this diary entry. Like, I literally JUST told this story because this moment with this Amish girl was so vivid that it's stuck with me all of these years.) (Oh, and the other thing I love about this next entry is how full of myself I am--for instance, when I'm suddenly like "hello, world, let me tell you why eye contact is important," you can practically smell how profound I thought I was being.)
*
JULY 14, 1994:
It's summer. I'm at my Dad's house until school starts, which is great because I don't get to see them as often as I'd like to during the school year. I get so busy that I hardly see them at all. I love them a lot. My brothers are great. Josh saw some butterflies mating and he told Patty: "Mom, they're having the S word." He's taking an acting class and they're having a recital tomorrow. It's exciting to see him get into acting because I was his main influence to try it. It feels nice to have someone look up to you. Emulation is great. Matt is into sports, which isn't exactly my forte. He wears is heart on his shoulder and he is really sweet. He's a good kid and I hope that none of that "middle child" stuff gets in the way of him doing what he wants. Then there's Mike, who's the cutest kid you ever set eyes on. He's so cute that he gets away with murder.
Me? I'm the fourth brother, the oldest brother, I want to be a writer, I want to be an actor. I would lie if I said I didn't strive for fame and fortune. I do. Sometimes I'll stay up late at night thinking up my Oscar or Tony acceptance speech (sometimes for writing, sometimes for acting, sometimes for even both!) I want to do it all. One of my major goals in life: To see almost every country in the world. (Adult Erik's note: I like how I said I wanted to see "almost" every country, like, I know I'm never gonna see EVERY one, so let's make a reasonable goal here.) I want to experience every culture, every language there is to experience.
In our "travels," my mom, Joe, and I saw an Amish Community. It was wonderful, free. They don't have any technological interferences that intrude on our lives. Their lives are so simple. I envy them, but realistically I know that I would die without what I have. I would enjoy the simple life for a while and then I would want more. When we were driving through this Amish Community, we drove by this Amish horse-driven carraige. There was this beautiful young Amish girl with her mother, she looked to be about my age. The two of us made eye-contact, and as we passed our eyes remained locked. We both turned around and watched each other disappear, going to separate worlds. I saw in her eyes a longing for more. I could tell that she felt trapped. I wanted to turn around and go rescue her. But I couldn't. Call me sentimental, but the picture of that Amish girl--that beautiful, young Amish girl, is still freash in my mind. Our eyes are forever interlocked, looking deep into each other, wanting what the other has. I would love to speak to her, but I feel as if I already know her, just from that look.
(Oh my god, this is soooooo painful, but it gets worse: here's the part where I go off on the importance of eye contact.)
Eye contact is extremely important to human connection. (See, I told you I was going to talk about how important it is. But wait, I went on.) The eyes are the gateways to the soul. All of our life comes from our eyes. They are so powerful. (I would be less embarrased if this diary--or "journal," as I called it--had been written in elementary school, or even middle school. But no, I was seventeen when I jotted these profoundly profound words down.) Eye contact is very important in acting, which is probably why I'm comfortable with it. (Um, implying that you were SUCH a great actor that you are SO comfortable with eye contact? Oh my god, I was so full of myself!) Sometimes I'll be having a conversation with smoeone and I'll notice them averting my eyes, as if they can't handle it. Without eye contact it is impossible to connect to a person. This is why I hate sunglasses so much. They put a wall in front of that connection. They hide your soul. This has created a conflict in my mind because I have recently become in the need of wearing sunglasses. My contact lenses are sometimes very sensitive to sunlight and I've begun to wear sunglasses for this reason. Fortunately, I only wear them in the car when the sun is bright. Sunglasses are really for people who are afraid to connect. They are the perfect hiding place. I wonder what that says about Jack Nicholson??? (I can't tell if this is a genuine question or if I'm trying to be funny here. Either way, I look like a moron.)
As I walk up to the podium I must not forget to thank two very important people in my life. First, Diane Doyle. With her Young Conservatory program at SCR, she has provided me with the best learning experience of my life thus far. (I still love Diane. She totally got me out of my shell when I was ten and I probably wouldn't have ever gotten involved in theater if it hadn't been for her.) She is a wonderful teacher, director, person, and she is the reason I became an actor. And second, Terri Foster. Also a wonderful teacher. She made me love learning when I had her for 5th grade and she made me love writing when I had her for 8th grade Honors English. She is the best teacher I've ever experienced learning from. ("Ever experienced learning from"?!?!?? That's sentence doesn't really show a very good grasp on the English language, especially for a sentence that's trying to thank an English teacher for being the best teacher ever.)
(Okay, wait, I know I keep saying that certain parts of this diary entry are my favorite part, but this next paragraph is seriously my favorite paragraph. Remember, I was seventeen.)
Confession: This week I joined a gym and a tanning salon. My dad wanted me too, but I think I'll like them. I want my body to look good. Acting is such a "looks" conscious business that it only helps. I hope that I can stay with it and beef up a bit, but not too much. Just enough for it to look like I'm strong, but that I don't work out. I'm not so sure about tanning, but it IS relaxing and I've always wanted to have a tan, besides that farmers one that I've always had.
I want to learn how to play the piano, too, and the guitar. Two goals.
*
That's the end of the second entry. I'm going to stop there for now, but I promise you the diary gets way more embarrassing. I go on to talk about girls I like and I shit you not: the diary entry for May 6th, 1995 is all about how "Shirley is the only girl who has ever physically touched my penis." (Apparently other girls had touched my penis in a non-physical way, but Shirley was the only one who had ever touched-it touched-it.)
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
more "moving in" photos
(1) My mom and Uma, helping me move in. This photo was taken on our "lunch break," which was my official first meal at my new place.
(3) These boxes are mostly empty. We spent the whole afternoon sorting books by category and size, and then alphabetizing within those stacks. (I am only obsessive compulsive about books and lists.)
(3) A stack of boxes that still need to be sorted. (I didn't count, but there was something like 30 or 40 boxes of books in the storage bin.)
(3) These boxes are mostly empty. We spent the whole afternoon sorting books by category and size, and then alphabetizing within those stacks. (I am only obsessive compulsive about books and lists.)
(3) A stack of boxes that still need to be sorted. (I didn't count, but there was something like 30 or 40 boxes of books in the storage bin.)
reading/books
There was a reading of my play He Asked For It at the Celebration Theatre tonight which was really productive. An awesome group of actors, and a talkback afterwards that was great. I often find talkbacks rambly and unhelpful because you have to wade through a lot of contradictory opinions, but tonight's discussion was really good--there are a few scenes in the play that need some work and I know what I want to do to them now.
I don't usually write about writing stuff on the blog because that's not what the blog's about. But honestly, I don't really know what this blog's supposed to be "about" right now. For its first year, it was all about "new things." Then it was all about Uma's brain. And now...I guess it can just be about whatever I damned want it to be about--but still, I feel like it needs some sort of definition, some sort of mission statement. And I don't know what that is. It'll evolve, it'll find itself. I'm just mentioning the blog's identity crisis as an explanation for my lack of blogging the past month. (Yesterday's long rambly post notwithstanding.)
BUT back to my play reading, the reason I started writing this post in the first place, which I bring up because during the talkback one of the audience members mentioned that he's part of the AIDS Dissident Movement (the play follows several characters who have HIV) and he was wondering why I didn't include that viewpoint in my play. Now, I've heard of AIDS Dissidents, but honestly I didn't know much about them, and I didn't really know what to say to this guy, other than the truth: the Dissident movement has nothing to do with the story I'm telling in this play. But then I came home and did some googling and read more about this so-called movement (the Dissidents basically believe that HIV doesn't cause AIDS) and it totally freaks me out. They're like the Holocaust deniers, except AIDS isn't something that happened sixty years ago. It's happening now, people are still getting infected at alarming rates, it's bigger than we want to admit. We're already too damned complacent about it as it is--we don't need people going around denying the problem. It's scary and dangerous and upsetting.
*
After the reading, before the googling, I spent a few hours organizing books in my new apartment, and I cannot begin to express how satisfying I find the simple act of alphabetizing my books.
They've been in storage for two years and every time I open up a new box and pour through its contents I get these waves of excitment, like I'm being reunited with all of these old friends.
(Is that the geekiest thing ever, or what?)
I don't usually write about writing stuff on the blog because that's not what the blog's about. But honestly, I don't really know what this blog's supposed to be "about" right now. For its first year, it was all about "new things." Then it was all about Uma's brain. And now...I guess it can just be about whatever I damned want it to be about--but still, I feel like it needs some sort of definition, some sort of mission statement. And I don't know what that is. It'll evolve, it'll find itself. I'm just mentioning the blog's identity crisis as an explanation for my lack of blogging the past month. (Yesterday's long rambly post notwithstanding.)
BUT back to my play reading, the reason I started writing this post in the first place, which I bring up because during the talkback one of the audience members mentioned that he's part of the AIDS Dissident Movement (the play follows several characters who have HIV) and he was wondering why I didn't include that viewpoint in my play. Now, I've heard of AIDS Dissidents, but honestly I didn't know much about them, and I didn't really know what to say to this guy, other than the truth: the Dissident movement has nothing to do with the story I'm telling in this play. But then I came home and did some googling and read more about this so-called movement (the Dissidents basically believe that HIV doesn't cause AIDS) and it totally freaks me out. They're like the Holocaust deniers, except AIDS isn't something that happened sixty years ago. It's happening now, people are still getting infected at alarming rates, it's bigger than we want to admit. We're already too damned complacent about it as it is--we don't need people going around denying the problem. It's scary and dangerous and upsetting.
*
After the reading, before the googling, I spent a few hours organizing books in my new apartment, and I cannot begin to express how satisfying I find the simple act of alphabetizing my books.They've been in storage for two years and every time I open up a new box and pour through its contents I get these waves of excitment, like I'm being reunited with all of these old friends.(Is that the geekiest thing ever, or what?)
Monday, July 02, 2007
The time Will Ferrell and I were mistaken for each other, and other finds
I know I said that this blog is on a break (and IT IS on a break), but my step-dad wants me to make some space in his garage and get rid of a few boxes, so I've been looking through boxes, right? And these boxes are, like, old. And I'm finding the most amazing things. And I can't fucking throw anything away because this shit is just TOO GOOD.
I don't have the patience to use my scanner right now (sorry) (but this isn't a real blog post anyway) (so i figure you'll forgive me) (and besides, I just came back into the house to write this quick post--that's how exciting these finds are--and I'd have to go back into the garage and climb back up the ladder and re-open the boxes I already closed back up in order to scan these amazing finds, and honestly I'm just too lazy this morning) (it's because i spent saturday moving all of my books up into my new apartment) (after carrying 40 boxes of books--yes, 40--no exxageration--my whole body is like "fuck you and whoever taught you how to read) (i don't think i spelled exxageration right, but i'm too lazy to spellcheck) (THAT'S how lazy i'm feeling today) (wow) (oh my god i love my new apartment and i totally forget what i was writing about) (ummmm, reading back...) (oh, right, okay, so I'm too lazy to use my scanner, etc., etc., blah, blah, okay) but I still want to report back to you, my blog readers, about some of these amazing relics I just unearthed in the garage:
--a note from my step-mom, written seven years before she was to become my step-mom, congratulating my mom and my dad on their new baby, along with a note she wrote to me telling me that she was visualizing me being strong (I was born eight weeks early and not in very good shape at the time)
--a scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings of all of the reviews of the plays I acted in as a child, including one that mistook me for Will Ferrell. Or Will Ferrell for me, rather. When I was a kid, I took acting classes at SCR and acted in several of their Young Conservatory productions, which would get reviewed by the local papers. Okay, so, one of the first YCP shows I did (I think I was fourteen) was a production of Pinocchio, which starred a bunch of kids like me, and Will Ferrell. This was several years before he joined Saturday Night Live--several years before he joined The Groundlings, even--but Will Ferrell was still Will Ferrell to all of the kids in this play. He was the only "adult" in the cast (he must have been in his early twenties) and I remember thinking he was the funniest person I'd ever met. (And one of the nicest people, too--we all loved Will.) My point is: Will was super funny, so our director decided to use him as pre-show entertainment: while all of the kids and their parents were coming into the theater to find their seats, they'd find Will already on-stage, sweeping. He'd tell the kids that he was the stagehand and he was getting things ready for the show and once he'd engaged a few kids in conversation, he'd riff with them. And all of us kids who were IN the show would all be huddled around the monitor backstage listening to Will because he was freaking funny. (When I heard he'd been cast on SNL, I was like: "duh.")
Anyway, so I found this box of reviews in the garage, and of course I stood up there on the ladder for thirty minutes reading all of the reviews, and one of the reviews is a total pan, they have absolutely nothing nice to say about the production EXCEPT that they mention that the stagehand "played by Erik Patterson" is hilarious, and a stand-out, and the only reason to see the play. The review doesn't mention Will Ferrell at all. THEN, on the next page of my scrapbook, there's a retraction that basically says "in last week's review of SCR's Pinocchio, we mis-identified the actor who played the stagehand as Eric Patterson. Actually, the role was brilliantly played by the brilliant Will Ferrell, while Eric Patterson, who we don't really remember, and whose name we aren't even going to spell correctly in this retraction, actually played a role credited as 'Townsperson' and did we mention that Will Ferrell was brilliant?" Of course, I'm paraphrasing, but that was essentially what the retraction said. I realize I'm about sixteen years too late, but I kind of want to send them a letter asking for an apology for misspelling my name. ("In the 1991 review of SCR's Pinocchio, we misspelled...")
--the novel I wrote in eighth grade! THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING FIND. I thought I'd lost this. It's terrible, of course, but I'm really impressed that I had the persistence in eighth grade to write EIGHTY PAGES. I wrote this during my Stephen King phase, so the book is a total wannabe Stephen King novel. I need to get back to the garage, but I'll leave you with the first chapter of my first (and so far, only) novel (which, by the way, is completely insane) (and remember that I wrote this during my Stephen King phase) (and also remember that I was fourteen and weird) (and also note that this novel written fifteen years ago proves that I've been a fan of parenthetical statements for a long time) (okay, enough ado):
William Shepard never knew terror before. He still doesn't -- not yet, at least. Terror will come soon. Very soon. [I'm going to write in some commentary because I can't hold my tongue, and also as an ode to Sheila's Diary Fridays.] [I love how melodramatic this opening beat is. "Terror will come soon. Very soon." Ha. Nice, Erik.]
"William get up! You're late!" His mother can be annoying at times. "Get up and go to work! You are late!!" At least she's persistent. [Okay, so...William has a job, so he's probably an adult, yet he still lives with his mom? Oddly prescient. Maybe I was trying to prepare my own mother for that fact that I would move back home myself when I was twenty-seven.]
"Okay mom. I'll get up." He gets out of bed sluggishly. His body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
William's mother, Melanie, has four children. Besides Will, the oldest at nine-teen, there are Daniel, Stacy, and Alexis. Daniel is an oddball eight year old who collects bugs, studies them, dissects them, and sometimes
(but only when they're squirming breathing they're [sic] last breaths of air crying for help help help)
eats them. If you said he wasn't obsessed, you'd be wrong. He is. Bugs are his life. [Do you like how the narrator suddenly becomes schyzto??? Just wait, there's so much more schytzo to come]
Stacy and Alexis are the twins. Besides the obvious fact that they are both fifteen and in the 9th grade [which is so obvious, Erik--why'd you even feel the need to mention it?], they are exact opposites. Stacy is the popular one. She only cares about her hair, looks, make-up, clothes, high heels, and last, but definitely not least, boys. Boys, boys, boys. Johnny this and Chris that. She has boys growing out of her ears. Stacy is up to her neck in boys. [Pick a mixed-up metaphor and stick with it, Erik!] It would be an amazement if she only went out with ONE for a week.
Alexis isn't so lucky,
(oh but she will she will she will be soon as lucky as stacy wild thing)
if you can call Stacy lucky. [I'm so creeped out by this weird second narrator in the parentheses. And even though I was still years away from even admitting to myself that I was gay, I totally think that Stacy and Alexis were, like, manifestations of my inner gay debate team. Like, I secretly WAS boy crazy like Stacy, and wished I could express that. But in reality, I was just not-so-lucky Alexis.] [Who, by the way, I'm certain was named after Alex P. Keaton, because this was written at the height of my Michael J. Fox obsession.] When Webster thought of the word "tomboy," he was thinking of Alexis. Alexis is more likely to be referred to as Alex because she's just "one of the guys." Also, her entire wardrobe is black. Black shirts and black sweatshirts and black pants and black shorts and black socks and black shoes and black hats and black underwear. [Okay, Erik, I think we get the point: the girl likes to wear black.] Black and black and black. [Seriously, we get it already.] It's all black. [Dude, you're not Dickens, getting paid by the word. Ix-nay on the ack-blay othes-clay.] It's as if she's mourning life. [I just want to point out that I didn't read any Chekov until college, so this wasn't actually an ode to The Seagull's Masha, it was just me being really brilliant and Chekovian.]
Before Will can finish his breakfast, a half a piece of toast, his mother nags him to go to work. [Again with the mother nagging him to go to work!] [And how long can it really take to eat "a half a piece of toast"???] He leaves the crust on the plate and throws it into the sink. The plate rattles like a two-headed coin, unsure of which side to land on. [Young Erik, you were a weird young dude. You decided to personify the plate???? Why is this moment so important??? Just send your protagonist to work already.]
"Go now. Get us some money so your brother and sisters can eat. Can you do that for me? Just once, can you make me happy?" [Wow, mom's kind of a harpy.]
"Mom, I want to talk to you about something. I want--"
(to move out have sex with my girlfriend in my own bed instead of at the drive-in the car on the seat popcorn spilling king kong roaring) [I remember thinking this book was so brilliant, I was totally going to be the next Stephen King. But I can't help but be really weirded out by myself as a fourteen-year-old. "sex with my girlfriend" and "king kong roaring" in the same strange character thought parenthetical? I have no comment, but: gross.]
"Not now. You're going to be late." She shoves him out the door and slams it shut behind him before he can respond.
"Good morning to you too, Ma," [Ma????? When did he become a hillbilly???] he says under his breath as he starts to walk down the wet streets. It rained last night. Will heard the rain parade against the roof. Thunder rattled the windows and woke something up inside Will. He had an eeiree [sic] feeling that sent shivers down his spine. The trees glisten in the sun as they sprinkle raindrops into newly made puddles.
Plip plop. Drip drop. [I am not making this up. I have eighty pages of this.]
William works at the Fistita Movie Theater. [The FISTITA???] It's only a short walk away from their house (so is everything else in New Amitee). Will's the person
(along with carla motor mouth johnson oh she gives will a headache) [So let me get this straight, Erik: some of these parenthetical statements are first person thoughts, and some of them are third person? Okay...]
who cleans the building before it's opened to the public, and between each movie. You may call him a janitor, but he prefers custodial engineer. It's a shitty job either way you look at it, Will thinks, but with each day, and each paycheck, Will comes closer to a place of his own. Will has had to take care of the family ever since his father ran away with another woman and his mother started to lose it. They'd been faving an affair for six years. Six years! That's seventy-two months, two-hundred and eighty-eaight weeks, or two-thousand and sixteen days. [Thanks for the math lesson, Erik. Hey, what's Alexis' favorite color to wear? Was it black?] It's enough to make Will sick.
(but you threw up remember all over the videos lost your job remember had to take this shitty job remember) [Okay, wait, so are these parenthetical's supposed to be, like, the devil talking to Will? I'm getting a random vague memory that maybe they're supposed to be the devil. I guess I'll just have to keep reading to see.]
Will wonders when they saw each other. Could all of those business trips have been fake? Was he really with Samantha on all of those trips?
He finally decided to make her dreams come true and shatter his wife's in the process. They moved to Paris. [In the margin, I've written a note to "change this, make more realistic."] When he was married to Melanie, she always complained that they didn't go anywhere. They hardly ever even left New Amitee. "That lowlife, rotten, son-of-a-fucking-bitch" is how he is referred to at home. [I remember being excited that "writing a novel" meant I had the freedom to swear as much as I fucking wanted to, because that's what novelists did.] Well, that's what their mother calls him. The kids don't refer to their dad at all. Will thinks about him as he scrapes gum off of the bottom of the movie seats. [Dad, don't read anything into this!]
An uneventful day [oh, but terror will come soon--VERY SOON], besides finding two quarters, a nickel, and one of those annoying pins that plays a little tune every time you touch it [huh?], under a seat at the Fistita, brings on the night. [Fourteen-year-old Erik, that was a terribly confusing sentence, even before twenty-nine-year-old Erik went in and added his thoughts.] The night brings only dreams and darkness. [Of course it does.] Lately, darkness and dreams have been especiialy common to Will. [Hmmm, what kind of darkness and dreams? Maybe you want to be more specific.] Black darkness and terrible dreams. [That's better.] Terrifying dreams. [You don't say? Maybe because TERROR IS COMING SOON.] The kind of dreams that leave a taste in your mouth and won't
(ever ever ever)
go away. Tonight is no exception. His dreams always start out wonderful, but they end............
[I hate reading about dreams, even in novels. Except for in Crime and Punishment, those are some pretty groovy dream sequences. Anyway, I'm annoyed at my fourteen-year-old self for making me have to type in this boring dream sequence. Feel free to skip ahead if you're still reading this and you don't want to read about some fictional nineteen-year-old's dark and terrifying dream.]
He is sitting on his bed flying through the sky. A dove lands at his feet. It sprawls in the sheets and looks at Will with bright, blue eyes. Then it soars off into the night. Clouds rush through his face and give him a natural high. Bright and shiny stars are within grasp. They give off a glowing radiance too wonderful to describe in words. The world goes on forever. The sky is endless. The ground is miles away. A flaming comet rushes above his head and warms Will's heart. Sparks bounce onto the bed, only to whither away and die. The feeling of the air engulfing his body leaves a chill up his spine. Will has reached Nirvana. He could sit here forever. It seems like he does. [Seriously.]
The bed begins to decline in speed and lose altitude. It's falling into a pit of fire. Hot, raging, monstrous fire. It's alive. The same dove he saw before flies above the fire and is eaten by
(daniel)
the hot fit of flames. Blood bursts into the air
(on his face his hands his mouth his)
as the bird explosed. Will closes his eyes
(wipes off the blood spits it out of his mouth)
and refuses to open them ever again. [I don't remember who Daniel is supposed to be, maybe he's a devil character. Gosh that dream really set us up for a lot of terror in the pages ahead, didn't it?] [I find Will a rather to be melodramatic character. Um, closing your eyes and refusing to ever open them again? Grow up and go to work, Will.] [Oh, wait, I just remembered Daniel is the oddball eight year old who collects bugs, studies them, dissects them, and sometimes (but only when they're squirming breathing they're [sic] last breaths of air crying for help help help) eats them. So wait, the kid eats doves too? Dude is seriously anti-peace.] But he does open his eyes. He opens them when the bed halts to a stop ten feet above the massive flames and starts to spin. [Wait, so he opens his eyes and HE'S STILL DREAMING???? Make the dream sequence stop!] Slowly, at first, and then it picks up speed. The scenery is changing faster than his sister, Stacy, ever could. [Poor Stacy. She's such a slut. Why can't she be more like Alexis and wear black for a change.] Things go by too quickly for Will to figure out what they are. Then everything stops. The world. The sky. The bed. [Hello, melodrama.] William knows where he is. [I think it's funny that sometimes he's "Will" and sometimes he's "William" and it's completely arbitrary. But back to the dream...Will knows where he is, eh? I'm gonna guess he's in hell.] He knows it well. [Okay, maybe not hell.] Will is in Jellison Park. [But...Jellison Park??? What the fuck is Jellison Park??? It sounds too much like Jellystone, too, and now all I can think about is Yogi Bear.] He used to come here when he was a child. Behind that old oak tree he had his first real kiss. It was with Christina
(oh chris i love you chris i love)
Ramsey. [Notice how I gave the girl love interest character a name that could be shortened into a boy's name? I was so gay.] This is where he broke his leg when he was just ten. Another child shoved him off of the monkey bars. He landed on his leg, in the sand. [That must have been hard sand to break his leg.] He heard a snap and was rushed off to the hospital. [This novel is filled with non-sequitors. My favorite one is coming up, about some kid named Johnny Peterson.] That day, he vowed revenge on Johnny Peterson, the kid who broke his leg. He got his revenge years later, for this was where he had his first fight. The fight was with Johnny, but Will can't remember what it was about. It was about something stupid--not about the leg--at least Johnny didn't know that it was about the leg. Some present problem started the fight, but the past fueled it. [Geeeez, Will really held a grudge against that kid who broke his leg. It was probably an accident. I feel sorry for Johnny Peterson.] What was Will doing here now? [Are we seriously still in the dream sequence. Holy crap, this dream is going on for an eternity. I totally need to get back to sorting through boxes in the garage, but instead this dream is like "yadda yadda yadda."]
Just then, he noticed a man leaning against the very oak tree that he had stood by when he received that kiss from Christina. Mr. Samson, the high school principle [sic] lay limp, blood dripping from his mouth. Mr. Samson was
(dead oh my god he's dead you wished he was dead and now oh my god he's dead)
and Will felt no regret for the man who put him through all those hours of detention. [But narrator dude, this is just a dream, remember? Or did you forget that Will hasn't woken up yet?]
"But it's not my fault, is it? I mean this is only a dream, right?" [See, I told you it was just a dream.]
(your dream your wish and now it's come true you wished he was dead and now oh my god he's dead) [Oh, so maybe it ISN'T a dream??? Whatever happened to Stacy and her boycrazy ways? I want Will to fucking wake up already and go check out boys with Stacy at the mall. Maybe they could even buy Alexis a new outfit, something with some color.]
"Oh my God! All the blood! Did--"
(dan ate him but he eats bugs not people he eats bugs bugs not oh my god he's)
"Only a dream, only a dream!"
With a rush, William wakes up from his dream. [Finally.] No, nightmare. [Thank you for the clarification.] Sweat is streaming down his face. The clock says one A.M. [William goes to bed really early for a nineteen-year-old. Back when I was nineteen I rarely got to bed before two. But then again, I guess William has to get up early for his job and all. Still, if he's going to bed early, you'd think his mom wouldn't always nag him so much about waking up, which can be really annoying.] Will is too frightened to go back to sleep. Instead, he sits and stares at the cottage cheese ceiling trying to make pictures out of it. But Will can't stop seeing blood. [Is this the terror? Did the terror finally come?]
"Will, wake up. Mom's got breakfast ready," yells Daniel from the hallway, snapping Will out of his daze. [I think Will should take a little bit of money from his next paycheck and buy an alarm clock.]
"I'll be out in a minute--just get away from me!" Will's body shivers.
(mr samson you ate mr samson and now oh my god he's)
Will doesn't want to get up and face his family. [After all, his mom nags too much, one of his sister's is boy crazy, one of his sister's wears too much black, and his brother eats bugs and apparently people--who would want to get out of bed and face that? I mean, really.] He feels like all of the worlds' problems
(death death death)
are weighing him down. [Will really just needs to take, like, a chill pill. Or eat some ice cream. Or, seriously, go to the mall with your sister Stacy and check out guys. Just lighten up! Enough with the "death death death" and woe is me, terror is coming, crap.]
Will showers, dresses, and joins his family in the kitchen.
"Well well. If it isn't my number one son. What took you so long?" [As if she's not used to having to nag him for twenty minutes before he gets out of bed.]
"Hmph," Will grunts. "Where's the paper?"
"Here. It's so awful. They found your old principle [sic] dead last night. It's right here in the newspaper. Check it out. Eaten by the looks of it. They say he was missing an arm." [Have some compassion, lady!]
(eaten by the looks of it eaten eaten by daniel)
"He can't be dead. This can't be true."
"Sure is. Right there in black and white. The paper doesn't lie."
(not when someone is dead eaten by dan) [That made me laugh out loud. I love how obsessed he is with this weird notion that his eight-year-old brother ate his principle (sic).]
William walks into his room, locks the door, slumps down, and cries. Until he falls asleep again. [Wait, you're not going to work today??? And you're not afraid to go back to sleep??? What if you have another dream about your brother eating someone else???? Don't go back to sleep!!! More terror will come!!!]
*
That's the end of Chapter One. The first line of Chapter Two is: "Once asleep, the dreams begin again," and I can't bear to read any more.
I don't have the patience to use my scanner right now (sorry) (but this isn't a real blog post anyway) (so i figure you'll forgive me) (and besides, I just came back into the house to write this quick post--that's how exciting these finds are--and I'd have to go back into the garage and climb back up the ladder and re-open the boxes I already closed back up in order to scan these amazing finds, and honestly I'm just too lazy this morning) (it's because i spent saturday moving all of my books up into my new apartment) (after carrying 40 boxes of books--yes, 40--no exxageration--my whole body is like "fuck you and whoever taught you how to read) (i don't think i spelled exxageration right, but i'm too lazy to spellcheck) (THAT'S how lazy i'm feeling today) (wow) (oh my god i love my new apartment and i totally forget what i was writing about) (ummmm, reading back...) (oh, right, okay, so I'm too lazy to use my scanner, etc., etc., blah, blah, okay) but I still want to report back to you, my blog readers, about some of these amazing relics I just unearthed in the garage:
--a note from my step-mom, written seven years before she was to become my step-mom, congratulating my mom and my dad on their new baby, along with a note she wrote to me telling me that she was visualizing me being strong (I was born eight weeks early and not in very good shape at the time)
--a scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings of all of the reviews of the plays I acted in as a child, including one that mistook me for Will Ferrell. Or Will Ferrell for me, rather. When I was a kid, I took acting classes at SCR and acted in several of their Young Conservatory productions, which would get reviewed by the local papers. Okay, so, one of the first YCP shows I did (I think I was fourteen) was a production of Pinocchio, which starred a bunch of kids like me, and Will Ferrell. This was several years before he joined Saturday Night Live--several years before he joined The Groundlings, even--but Will Ferrell was still Will Ferrell to all of the kids in this play. He was the only "adult" in the cast (he must have been in his early twenties) and I remember thinking he was the funniest person I'd ever met. (And one of the nicest people, too--we all loved Will.) My point is: Will was super funny, so our director decided to use him as pre-show entertainment: while all of the kids and their parents were coming into the theater to find their seats, they'd find Will already on-stage, sweeping. He'd tell the kids that he was the stagehand and he was getting things ready for the show and once he'd engaged a few kids in conversation, he'd riff with them. And all of us kids who were IN the show would all be huddled around the monitor backstage listening to Will because he was freaking funny. (When I heard he'd been cast on SNL, I was like: "duh.")
Anyway, so I found this box of reviews in the garage, and of course I stood up there on the ladder for thirty minutes reading all of the reviews, and one of the reviews is a total pan, they have absolutely nothing nice to say about the production EXCEPT that they mention that the stagehand "played by Erik Patterson" is hilarious, and a stand-out, and the only reason to see the play. The review doesn't mention Will Ferrell at all. THEN, on the next page of my scrapbook, there's a retraction that basically says "in last week's review of SCR's Pinocchio, we mis-identified the actor who played the stagehand as Eric Patterson. Actually, the role was brilliantly played by the brilliant Will Ferrell, while Eric Patterson, who we don't really remember, and whose name we aren't even going to spell correctly in this retraction, actually played a role credited as 'Townsperson' and did we mention that Will Ferrell was brilliant?" Of course, I'm paraphrasing, but that was essentially what the retraction said. I realize I'm about sixteen years too late, but I kind of want to send them a letter asking for an apology for misspelling my name. ("In the 1991 review of SCR's Pinocchio, we misspelled...")--the novel I wrote in eighth grade! THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING FIND. I thought I'd lost this. It's terrible, of course, but I'm really impressed that I had the persistence in eighth grade to write EIGHTY PAGES. I wrote this during my Stephen King phase, so the book is a total wannabe Stephen King novel. I need to get back to the garage, but I'll leave you with the first chapter of my first (and so far, only) novel (which, by the way, is completely insane) (and remember that I wrote this during my Stephen King phase) (and also remember that I was fourteen and weird) (and also note that this novel written fifteen years ago proves that I've been a fan of parenthetical statements for a long time) (okay, enough ado):
Untitled novel
by a fourteen-year-old Erik Patterson
William Shepard never knew terror before. He still doesn't -- not yet, at least. Terror will come soon. Very soon. [I'm going to write in some commentary because I can't hold my tongue, and also as an ode to Sheila's Diary Fridays.] [I love how melodramatic this opening beat is. "Terror will come soon. Very soon." Ha. Nice, Erik.]
"William get up! You're late!" His mother can be annoying at times. "Get up and go to work! You are late!!" At least she's persistent. [Okay, so...William has a job, so he's probably an adult, yet he still lives with his mom? Oddly prescient. Maybe I was trying to prepare my own mother for that fact that I would move back home myself when I was twenty-seven.]
"Okay mom. I'll get up." He gets out of bed sluggishly. His body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
William's mother, Melanie, has four children. Besides Will, the oldest at nine-teen, there are Daniel, Stacy, and Alexis. Daniel is an oddball eight year old who collects bugs, studies them, dissects them, and sometimes
(but only when they're squirming breathing they're [sic] last breaths of air crying for help help help)
eats them. If you said he wasn't obsessed, you'd be wrong. He is. Bugs are his life. [Do you like how the narrator suddenly becomes schyzto??? Just wait, there's so much more schytzo to come]
Stacy and Alexis are the twins. Besides the obvious fact that they are both fifteen and in the 9th grade [which is so obvious, Erik--why'd you even feel the need to mention it?], they are exact opposites. Stacy is the popular one. She only cares about her hair, looks, make-up, clothes, high heels, and last, but definitely not least, boys. Boys, boys, boys. Johnny this and Chris that. She has boys growing out of her ears. Stacy is up to her neck in boys. [Pick a mixed-up metaphor and stick with it, Erik!] It would be an amazement if she only went out with ONE for a week.
Alexis isn't so lucky,
(oh but she will she will she will be soon as lucky as stacy wild thing)
if you can call Stacy lucky. [I'm so creeped out by this weird second narrator in the parentheses. And even though I was still years away from even admitting to myself that I was gay, I totally think that Stacy and Alexis were, like, manifestations of my inner gay debate team. Like, I secretly WAS boy crazy like Stacy, and wished I could express that. But in reality, I was just not-so-lucky Alexis.] [Who, by the way, I'm certain was named after Alex P. Keaton, because this was written at the height of my Michael J. Fox obsession.] When Webster thought of the word "tomboy," he was thinking of Alexis. Alexis is more likely to be referred to as Alex because she's just "one of the guys." Also, her entire wardrobe is black. Black shirts and black sweatshirts and black pants and black shorts and black socks and black shoes and black hats and black underwear. [Okay, Erik, I think we get the point: the girl likes to wear black.] Black and black and black. [Seriously, we get it already.] It's all black. [Dude, you're not Dickens, getting paid by the word. Ix-nay on the ack-blay othes-clay.] It's as if she's mourning life. [I just want to point out that I didn't read any Chekov until college, so this wasn't actually an ode to The Seagull's Masha, it was just me being really brilliant and Chekovian.]
Before Will can finish his breakfast, a half a piece of toast, his mother nags him to go to work. [Again with the mother nagging him to go to work!] [And how long can it really take to eat "a half a piece of toast"???] He leaves the crust on the plate and throws it into the sink. The plate rattles like a two-headed coin, unsure of which side to land on. [Young Erik, you were a weird young dude. You decided to personify the plate???? Why is this moment so important??? Just send your protagonist to work already.]
"Go now. Get us some money so your brother and sisters can eat. Can you do that for me? Just once, can you make me happy?" [Wow, mom's kind of a harpy.]
"Mom, I want to talk to you about something. I want--"
(to move out have sex with my girlfriend in my own bed instead of at the drive-in the car on the seat popcorn spilling king kong roaring) [I remember thinking this book was so brilliant, I was totally going to be the next Stephen King. But I can't help but be really weirded out by myself as a fourteen-year-old. "sex with my girlfriend" and "king kong roaring" in the same strange character thought parenthetical? I have no comment, but: gross.]
"Not now. You're going to be late." She shoves him out the door and slams it shut behind him before he can respond.
"Good morning to you too, Ma," [Ma????? When did he become a hillbilly???] he says under his breath as he starts to walk down the wet streets. It rained last night. Will heard the rain parade against the roof. Thunder rattled the windows and woke something up inside Will. He had an eeiree [sic] feeling that sent shivers down his spine. The trees glisten in the sun as they sprinkle raindrops into newly made puddles.
Plip plop. Drip drop. [I am not making this up. I have eighty pages of this.]
William works at the Fistita Movie Theater. [The FISTITA???] It's only a short walk away from their house (so is everything else in New Amitee). Will's the person
(along with carla motor mouth johnson oh she gives will a headache) [So let me get this straight, Erik: some of these parenthetical statements are first person thoughts, and some of them are third person? Okay...]
who cleans the building before it's opened to the public, and between each movie. You may call him a janitor, but he prefers custodial engineer. It's a shitty job either way you look at it, Will thinks, but with each day, and each paycheck, Will comes closer to a place of his own. Will has had to take care of the family ever since his father ran away with another woman and his mother started to lose it. They'd been faving an affair for six years. Six years! That's seventy-two months, two-hundred and eighty-eaight weeks, or two-thousand and sixteen days. [Thanks for the math lesson, Erik. Hey, what's Alexis' favorite color to wear? Was it black?] It's enough to make Will sick.
(but you threw up remember all over the videos lost your job remember had to take this shitty job remember) [Okay, wait, so are these parenthetical's supposed to be, like, the devil talking to Will? I'm getting a random vague memory that maybe they're supposed to be the devil. I guess I'll just have to keep reading to see.]
Will wonders when they saw each other. Could all of those business trips have been fake? Was he really with Samantha on all of those trips?
He finally decided to make her dreams come true and shatter his wife's in the process. They moved to Paris. [In the margin, I've written a note to "change this, make more realistic."] When he was married to Melanie, she always complained that they didn't go anywhere. They hardly ever even left New Amitee. "That lowlife, rotten, son-of-a-fucking-bitch" is how he is referred to at home. [I remember being excited that "writing a novel" meant I had the freedom to swear as much as I fucking wanted to, because that's what novelists did.] Well, that's what their mother calls him. The kids don't refer to their dad at all. Will thinks about him as he scrapes gum off of the bottom of the movie seats. [Dad, don't read anything into this!]
An uneventful day [oh, but terror will come soon--VERY SOON], besides finding two quarters, a nickel, and one of those annoying pins that plays a little tune every time you touch it [huh?], under a seat at the Fistita, brings on the night. [Fourteen-year-old Erik, that was a terribly confusing sentence, even before twenty-nine-year-old Erik went in and added his thoughts.] The night brings only dreams and darkness. [Of course it does.] Lately, darkness and dreams have been especiialy common to Will. [Hmmm, what kind of darkness and dreams? Maybe you want to be more specific.] Black darkness and terrible dreams. [That's better.] Terrifying dreams. [You don't say? Maybe because TERROR IS COMING SOON.] The kind of dreams that leave a taste in your mouth and won't
(ever ever ever)
go away. Tonight is no exception. His dreams always start out wonderful, but they end............
[I hate reading about dreams, even in novels. Except for in Crime and Punishment, those are some pretty groovy dream sequences. Anyway, I'm annoyed at my fourteen-year-old self for making me have to type in this boring dream sequence. Feel free to skip ahead if you're still reading this and you don't want to read about some fictional nineteen-year-old's dark and terrifying dream.]
He is sitting on his bed flying through the sky. A dove lands at his feet. It sprawls in the sheets and looks at Will with bright, blue eyes. Then it soars off into the night. Clouds rush through his face and give him a natural high. Bright and shiny stars are within grasp. They give off a glowing radiance too wonderful to describe in words. The world goes on forever. The sky is endless. The ground is miles away. A flaming comet rushes above his head and warms Will's heart. Sparks bounce onto the bed, only to whither away and die. The feeling of the air engulfing his body leaves a chill up his spine. Will has reached Nirvana. He could sit here forever. It seems like he does. [Seriously.]
The bed begins to decline in speed and lose altitude. It's falling into a pit of fire. Hot, raging, monstrous fire. It's alive. The same dove he saw before flies above the fire and is eaten by
(daniel)
the hot fit of flames. Blood bursts into the air
(on his face his hands his mouth his)
as the bird explosed. Will closes his eyes
(wipes off the blood spits it out of his mouth)
and refuses to open them ever again. [I don't remember who Daniel is supposed to be, maybe he's a devil character. Gosh that dream really set us up for a lot of terror in the pages ahead, didn't it?] [I find Will a rather to be melodramatic character. Um, closing your eyes and refusing to ever open them again? Grow up and go to work, Will.] [Oh, wait, I just remembered Daniel is the oddball eight year old who collects bugs, studies them, dissects them, and sometimes (but only when they're squirming breathing they're [sic] last breaths of air crying for help help help) eats them. So wait, the kid eats doves too? Dude is seriously anti-peace.] But he does open his eyes. He opens them when the bed halts to a stop ten feet above the massive flames and starts to spin. [Wait, so he opens his eyes and HE'S STILL DREAMING???? Make the dream sequence stop!] Slowly, at first, and then it picks up speed. The scenery is changing faster than his sister, Stacy, ever could. [Poor Stacy. She's such a slut. Why can't she be more like Alexis and wear black for a change.] Things go by too quickly for Will to figure out what they are. Then everything stops. The world. The sky. The bed. [Hello, melodrama.] William knows where he is. [I think it's funny that sometimes he's "Will" and sometimes he's "William" and it's completely arbitrary. But back to the dream...Will knows where he is, eh? I'm gonna guess he's in hell.] He knows it well. [Okay, maybe not hell.] Will is in Jellison Park. [But...Jellison Park??? What the fuck is Jellison Park??? It sounds too much like Jellystone, too, and now all I can think about is Yogi Bear.] He used to come here when he was a child. Behind that old oak tree he had his first real kiss. It was with Christina
(oh chris i love you chris i love)
Ramsey. [Notice how I gave the girl love interest character a name that could be shortened into a boy's name? I was so gay.] This is where he broke his leg when he was just ten. Another child shoved him off of the monkey bars. He landed on his leg, in the sand. [That must have been hard sand to break his leg.] He heard a snap and was rushed off to the hospital. [This novel is filled with non-sequitors. My favorite one is coming up, about some kid named Johnny Peterson.] That day, he vowed revenge on Johnny Peterson, the kid who broke his leg. He got his revenge years later, for this was where he had his first fight. The fight was with Johnny, but Will can't remember what it was about. It was about something stupid--not about the leg--at least Johnny didn't know that it was about the leg. Some present problem started the fight, but the past fueled it. [Geeeez, Will really held a grudge against that kid who broke his leg. It was probably an accident. I feel sorry for Johnny Peterson.] What was Will doing here now? [Are we seriously still in the dream sequence. Holy crap, this dream is going on for an eternity. I totally need to get back to sorting through boxes in the garage, but instead this dream is like "yadda yadda yadda."]
Just then, he noticed a man leaning against the very oak tree that he had stood by when he received that kiss from Christina. Mr. Samson, the high school principle [sic] lay limp, blood dripping from his mouth. Mr. Samson was
(dead oh my god he's dead you wished he was dead and now oh my god he's dead)
and Will felt no regret for the man who put him through all those hours of detention. [But narrator dude, this is just a dream, remember? Or did you forget that Will hasn't woken up yet?]
"But it's not my fault, is it? I mean this is only a dream, right?" [See, I told you it was just a dream.]
(your dream your wish and now it's come true you wished he was dead and now oh my god he's dead) [Oh, so maybe it ISN'T a dream??? Whatever happened to Stacy and her boycrazy ways? I want Will to fucking wake up already and go check out boys with Stacy at the mall. Maybe they could even buy Alexis a new outfit, something with some color.]
"Oh my God! All the blood! Did--"
(dan ate him but he eats bugs not people he eats bugs bugs not oh my god he's)
"Only a dream, only a dream!"
With a rush, William wakes up from his dream. [Finally.] No, nightmare. [Thank you for the clarification.] Sweat is streaming down his face. The clock says one A.M. [William goes to bed really early for a nineteen-year-old. Back when I was nineteen I rarely got to bed before two. But then again, I guess William has to get up early for his job and all. Still, if he's going to bed early, you'd think his mom wouldn't always nag him so much about waking up, which can be really annoying.] Will is too frightened to go back to sleep. Instead, he sits and stares at the cottage cheese ceiling trying to make pictures out of it. But Will can't stop seeing blood. [Is this the terror? Did the terror finally come?]
"Will, wake up. Mom's got breakfast ready," yells Daniel from the hallway, snapping Will out of his daze. [I think Will should take a little bit of money from his next paycheck and buy an alarm clock.]
"I'll be out in a minute--just get away from me!" Will's body shivers.
(mr samson you ate mr samson and now oh my god he's)
Will doesn't want to get up and face his family. [After all, his mom nags too much, one of his sister's is boy crazy, one of his sister's wears too much black, and his brother eats bugs and apparently people--who would want to get out of bed and face that? I mean, really.] He feels like all of the worlds' problems
(death death death)
are weighing him down. [Will really just needs to take, like, a chill pill. Or eat some ice cream. Or, seriously, go to the mall with your sister Stacy and check out guys. Just lighten up! Enough with the "death death death" and woe is me, terror is coming, crap.]
Will showers, dresses, and joins his family in the kitchen.
"Well well. If it isn't my number one son. What took you so long?" [As if she's not used to having to nag him for twenty minutes before he gets out of bed.]
"Hmph," Will grunts. "Where's the paper?"
"Here. It's so awful. They found your old principle [sic] dead last night. It's right here in the newspaper. Check it out. Eaten by the looks of it. They say he was missing an arm." [Have some compassion, lady!]
(eaten by the looks of it eaten eaten by daniel)
"He can't be dead. This can't be true."
"Sure is. Right there in black and white. The paper doesn't lie."
(not when someone is dead eaten by dan) [That made me laugh out loud. I love how obsessed he is with this weird notion that his eight-year-old brother ate his principle (sic).]
William walks into his room, locks the door, slumps down, and cries. Until he falls asleep again. [Wait, you're not going to work today??? And you're not afraid to go back to sleep??? What if you have another dream about your brother eating someone else???? Don't go back to sleep!!! More terror will come!!!]
*
That's the end of Chapter One. The first line of Chapter Two is: "Once asleep, the dreams begin again," and I can't bear to read any more.
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