Specal K with Ba-na-naaaas.

I have a new post in the works about things I've been thinking about lately and some recent unfortunate events that are sure to amuse you all even if they were horrific for me. But for now I'd like to share this with you:

http://www.zippyvideos.com/5171469584804106/the_mcloughlin_group/

This goes out to you, Meg.

My aunt keeps her shoes in the oven, too!

What exactly is a Maui Taco? I'm still not sure. All I know is that the place that makes them has a basement wtih a stage and a weekly gathering of New York City's unsightly's - including myself. For that one week, at least. Perhaps more in the future, but I'm still recovering from my first experience in front of that disheveled graffiti tin-roof background and duct-taped microphone.

The Maui Taco is indeed a taco eatery, although I did not partake in any of their menu items. I can't eat before I perform. Well, I can, but I've found that my time before getting on stage is best spent looking over my tentative set list than umm. . . well, you understand what I'm getting at. No need to be rude. Let's just say I still get a bit anxious before I perform.

I brought a few friends along for moral support in case the place turned out to be some kind of scary dive bar. In high school I did attend open mics at such places, but never by myself and always with my two 30-something trench-coat wearing bitter yet endearing male comedian friends. And, especially in the city, I was determined not to make a go of it alone at this juncture. My mom makes sure to relay every story about young college girls being raped and mugged in late-night Manhattan.

When we got to the outside of the "venue" -and I use this term loosely - I was confused. It looked like an indie version of a Taco Bell. I kept apologizing profusely to my companions, warning them that this wasn't a regular show, open mics are usually sucky, and not to be alarmed. I promised them that I would do whatever it takes to make up to them this possible several hours of torture. As a comedian I am used to such drudgery, and once once goes to an open mic one realizes why many comics are so bitter and "tortured" and angry by the time they make it. Go to one on a Tuesday or Wednesday night, and stay the whole time no matter what. You're bound to ooze frustration. But it's part of paying your dues and any performer should never complain if they're getting an opportunity to step on a stage. But I still believe it's okay to realize that watching one unfriendly yet unfunny and uncleanly performer after another drunkenly swagger onto a stage that barely sits six inches high off of the floor is a pretty shitty way to spend a night. Getting your own five minutes during which other breathing human beings are forced to listen to your words is definitely worth it, however. I think in a later blog post I will get all "deep" about how weird it is to be alone in front of people with only your words to woo them and get them to like you. The performer is basically in control of the audience's lives for however long they stand up there. But back to the Maui Taco.

The host was drunk, 80% of the other comics were at least a couple drinks in, and the friends I brought were the only non-performers in the dank, dark basement dungeon of forced, uncomfortable laughter. I felt right at home. When I first moved to New York City I had been afraid to perform here, even at the no-pressure open mics. I imagined that everyone would be very cold and snooty and look down on me as a young know-nothing loser who doesn't know a tag from a call-back. So wrong I was. The open mics here are E X A C T L Y like they are in Albany. Awkard but kind of exciting, small audience, small stage. I think it must be universal. It's an interesting experience; everyone pretty much keeps to themselves and talks to whoever they came with. They sit at tables alone while scribbling and clandestinely peering around. There's always one or two comedians that will come over and introduce themselves, and it turns out to be just a passing greeting or something "clicks" and you end up having a really long exchange about your crazy families until the event commences.

Here's a few realy embarassing pictures of me and a couple of my best friends from high school at various open mics around the Capital Region:

My really realy old Webshots!

I would have just posted a couple here, but Blogger is being a douche.

It's nice to connect with other people who have similar inner-workings of the mind; others who are not afraid to share things about themselves at the expense of being considered Odd in "normal" situations. The reality is, once you find someone like that to converse with, you're not weird at all. You fit right in. I kind of befriended this one young woman who used to go to NYU just like me, and she told me some of the darkest, disturbing details of her life and how she got into comedy. I shared some similar stories -although I'm not sure I topped her long family history of debauchery and drugs. Still, I've always felt that in order to be a really good performer, you have to have some kind of burning sense of redemption and miscellaneous yearning working for you. That moment was the first time in a while that I thought, "Wow, this is it. This is where I'm supposed to be. (Not specifically at the Maui Taco, I think I'm at least ready for the Alaskan Enchilada). This is probably the only place where I won't consistently get that 'awww you're kind of funny but really weird and take it a little too far' look." Just ask me about performing at the sonic boom that was Gould Plaza. And any recitation or group hang-out with new people I've ever attended.

I'm so grateful for my friends who came to support me, but there was a point when I felt them getting bored and creeped out by the excessive and aggressively not funny dick/boobie/vagina jokes. I don't really hear them anymore. Whenever there's someone who's having a difficult time onstage, it's best not to dwell on it and I always make sure to laugh heartily at anything they say that might have some kind of potential. What I actually really liked about this particular open mic was that if you had good material, you got laughs. I've been to way too many places where the comics just sit there stone-faced, even trying not to laugh, just because they're too absorbed in their own stuff.

I do believe that mis amigas gained something from the experience. Not only did we "fuse like a family," as any emotionally harrowing experience spent in a beer-stained basement that reeks of sour cream and old salsa (just listen to Colin Meloy and his musical account of male prostitutes), but I think they learned a bit about why I am the way I am. Most importantly, they learned never to eat nachos constructed with a Hawaiian flare.

Here's the video from that night. Thank you Katy for posting it! I look pretty terrible but I'm willing to blame it on the poor lighting choices made by the interior designer of that classy cellar of a room. No, I don't know why I did a jig in the middle of my set, either. It's a compliment that the camera shook a bit at some parts because it means at least Katy was laughing.

Remember, similar to the disclaimer I fed my friends, it was just an open mic. But it's still somethin'.

How do I reach these KEEEEDS?!

I've noticed that my conversations with people go through phases, and that no matter who I'm talking to I always end up mentioning the same 2 or 3 key events or thoughts that are galloping through my brain's pastures at the time. It's as if I need to bounce my words off of anyone who will listen to make sure all that I'm thinking is acknowledged and examined from other perspectives. Another reason behind it could be that my endeavors as a comic have programmed my mind to organize itself into set lists. Once I have those two or three stories/anecdotes/quandaries, I have to try them out on as many audiences as possible until everyone I know is aware and amused by them - or until I get sick of telling them. So, dear reader, I'd like to let you in on my current Mind's Set List. It's a little longer than I would normally work into conversation with any given person, but that's perhaps because all of this has built up within the past couple of weeks of getting back into the school/Broome Street groove.

My first "bit" has to do with something that I'm avoiding by typing this very post. I should be reading a book called SMALL VICTORIES for my class, "Education as a Social Institution." How vague and uninteresting the title is. Guess what the book's about?! I bet you can't. Unless you've seen "Dangerous Minds," "Freedom Writers," that Matthew Perry Hallmark Teaching Movie, or "The Dead Poets' Society," et. al. There's even a South Park episode that mocks this format (it's where I get the title for today's rant). I love inspirational teacher movies just as much as the next over-privileged, spoiled, sentimental little white girl, but I'm sick of learning about it in classes that are supposed to prepare me to be a teacher.

The book is about a young white woman teacher in an urban school who figures out that she needs to "get down with the kids" in order to get them to do their schoolwork. She swears with them, calls them on the phone, brings in food, and does everything but write them a rap song about Walt Whitman. (This has been done, however. See that Matthew Perry movie, he raps about the PreZidentZ.) Her whole goal is to get them out of the Lower East Side and away from their screwed up lives. I appreciate her efforts (she's a real teacher) and I understand her troubles (I actually worked in the very high school she taught in), but I'm just so sick of the plot. At this point I've already had to read a billion of these accounts, including "Educating Esme," which is oddly about another young white woman with red curly hair in a tough New York City school. Her and Jessica Seigel are one and the same. Every NYU education class brings the same discussions and never lets us ever try to solve them for ourselves.

Yes, schools are bad here. Yes, the students have shittily scary lives. Yes, it's a social class issue. Yes, the school system is corrupt and screws with the funding. And that's as far as the classes go. We're never allowed to think of solutions to these problems. Our heads get filled with lofty progressive education ideals and discussons about "mislabeling" students as "learning disabled" when they're really just "learning differences."

If the student needs extra help and cannot function without it, it's a disability that needs to be addressed. When you call it a "learning difference" the effected students and parents could brush it off by saying, "Oh, why are you bothering us? He doesn't need extra help, he's just different." It's one thing if a kid has to go home and sing his vocabulary words to himself to learn them, it's another if he physically can't move his hand to form the aphabet with his pencil. He needs assistance.

With the amount of time that has been spent discussing the "proper terminology" for various problems and worrying about everyone's feelings, phone calls could have been made, help could have been found, and those problems could have been solved. It probably doesn't help that I have fairly radical views about what a good teacher should be, but that's neither here nor there and the explanation of these views deserves another forum entirely.

My second and third and fourth preoccupations are kind of entertwined.

Don't make fun of me, but only just recently have I seen the film "American Beauty."

But I think it's in my top three favorite movies of all time. It makes me wonder why I never thought of/wanted to see it. I think it had something to do with the picture it's famous for. When I read the title and saw the picture, I automatically assumed that Julia Roberts was going to be in it and it was going to have something to do with a woman and a man and they're Hugh Grant-ish dialogue. I didn't realize it was a young girl and not a well-known Hollywood starlette covered in roses.

Pardon me, but I must say: HOLY FUCK was I wrong. I had no idea it was going to be this dark, penetrating, poignant film that would make me sob. And fall in love with Kevin Spacey.

And no, people who know me well, it has nothing to do with the age difference between Lester Burnham and his little rosebud. In fact, the movie argues against their situation. It has everything to do with the idea of saying "Fuck it!" and finally doing what you want. . . and that decision's consequences, good and bad. It's about appreciating the sweetness behind everything and being overwhelmed by it. And realizing that the pain from the raw beauty of everything you see every day is better than not feeling anything at all. The argument and execution is perfect.

Spacey's delivery of lines is so precise and, forgive my annoying oxymoron, seriously comical, that I giggle in all the right places. This exchange is one of my favorites:

Carolyn Burnham: Uh, whose car is that out front?

Lester Burnham: Mine. 1970 Pontiac Firebird. The car I've always wanted and now I have it.

*thrusts fist into the air*. . . I rule!

Never much of a crier, I watched this movie practically three nights in a row and weeped every time. The first time I kind of sobbed, but it could have had a little to do with the rum. The second and third times, however, there were no outside circumstances. This sounds a bit over the top, but I think I can honestly say that something inside craved to see it again. Every time he picks up that picture frame, the string connecting my heart and brain gets plucked, signaling the buckets that had been filling up behind my eyes to spill out their warm liquid. It's an overwhelming feeling that's incredibly intense, making me feel excruciatingly awful and euphoric at the same time. Few other things have ever made me feel this way. Actually, only a couple other fleeting things I can think of. But it's something so rare that I am compelled to share.

I get the same feeling when I think about the ocean. Whenever I get fed up with the life that's directly in front of me and spitting in my face, I've been known to always mention my desire to "go to the ocean and never come back." Escaping completely is not even an option for me (a baby was born 4 years ago and one is on the way - not mine, of course, though I still feel attached to them), but just thinking about it makes me feel powerful.

This brings me to my next topic: being a mariner. I've always loved the water, but ever since the Bryan Waterman (one of the Faculty Fellows in Residence at the Residential College at Broome Street) took us sailing on the historic schooner The Pioneer, I've caught the sea-bug. I desperately want to learn how to sail. Working at the South Street Seaport is something I've already looked into, and I hope to hear from them soon. There's a possibility I could volunteer on a ship and learn to sail with them. The idea of floating out there, away from everyone and everything, is very appealing to me. When I was a kid I loved building forts and sleeping and eating cheese and crackers and milk in enclosed spaces. It made me feel warm and safe and special. (I kind of get the same feeling from reading about certain periods of history and visiting historical sites, perhaps it's linked somehow...).

Recently I've just learned of a program called S.E.A., through Boston University. You spend 6 weeks on the shore in Massachusetts and 6 weeks on a 136ft ship. The students are not only there to study, but they are the crew and the cooks and the scientists. To be away from land for that long is something I'd be very excited about. An act of deprivation and survival and hard work, along with that feeling of starting with nothing is something I've always wanted to experience. I've never had to physically work all that hard ever in my life, and for once I'd like to. As Jack Kerouac said of the Merchant Marine, I want to "work the lard off my belly" and probably gain a new perspective on just about everything.

In the same topic of isolation, I've also deactivated my Facebook. I think of it as a big step into adulthood. I'm not saying I won't regress and that I'll never get back on the wagon, but for the time it just feels good. I've wasted too much time clicking around, being creepy, stalking the same people's pages over and over again that it's unhealthy. I know I'm not the only one who looks for hidden messages in other people's activities and statuses, and it's just an odd way to spend one's days. Being contacted out of boredom is annoying and I'd rather people only contact me who really want to, not because they feel obligated to reply to whatever I may have posted / or if I "wrote on their wall." So sure, I guess it has a lot to do with wanting to remove myself from the norm. But it aso has a lot to do with my personal willpower. I became caught up in stupidities like "OMG What pictures do I have up? What funny link can I post next? I have to make sure everyone knows all of the cool music and movies I like so they know I'm cool." It was pretty pathetic of me and I feel kind of embarassed about it. But, it's okay. Once I learn how to use Facebook without abusing it I will be back. But it might not be for a while. In the meantime, I sure do seem to have an abundance of time to get my reading done!

And I am reading MOBY DICK, for my Conversations of the West requirement. The book is verbal crack. It definitely does not help me in my ever-present desire to figuratively "jump ship" from everything I'm doing right now in Manhatto and scramble onto a real ship as fast a possible. Melville is The Man.

More later. Much more. But the hour is late.

My apologies.

This blog has taken a turn for the worse. It's been annoying blathering about nothing. And there's no excuse for it. But it will redeem itself shortly. In the meantime, enjoy my current favorite comedian:

OH MUH GAH OH MUH GAH

I was going to write a new post but I must leave for the Skirball Box Office POST HASTE. A one Mr. Zacharius Knight Galifianakis is coming.

Back, but not in Black.

Why hello there! (please read in the voice of the father from Gullah Gullah Island)

I haven’t been too consistent with this blog updating-thing, but I have a plethora of excuses and will be able to provide a very detailed and impressive list for anyone who may question me. This summer has been quite a ride, a lotta ups and downs, strikes and gutters; a lotta what-have-you’s. I’m finishing out the season with three funerals, lots of rain, a couple concerts, and some hearty life experience. I stole a TV, did some more time, but now I’m back in school! And though the faces may have changed, the hassles are just the same.

Before I delve into a lovely anecdote that ends as a life lesson, I would just like to bring something to your attention first. Yesterday my best friend and roommate Michelle and I were walking up Third Avenue to Coral, another one of NYU’s dorms. We were going to visit our friends Mallory and Katy, for they had birthday presents and a delicious home-made chocolate cake waiting for my arrival. Michelle and I crossed the Bowery and entered a maze of scaffolding covered in posters. Usually the posters are for the same things over and over again, a Sonic Youth concert or a movie that’s already out, or some cryptic advertisement that only makes sense months later. So I usually ignore them. However, we made a left turn in the paper-covered steel maze, and I gasped.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

(I asked Michelle how she would describe my reaction, and she all said was: “You did your noise.”)

Remember my post about that “Songs of the Soul” tribute concert to Sri Chinmoy? You know, the guy who named Albany as the First Peace Capital? The concert that I still shudder when I think about, the one that made me bleed internally from uncomfortable muffled laughter?

It’s back. Again. Already.

When I saw the same flyer of Sri Chinmoy that I had been handed last spring, the one where he’s holding his holy instrument with his eyes rolled in the back of his head with yellow glowing all around him, I couldn’t contain myself. The only thing I could get out after “my noise” was,

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. IS THIS SERIOUS? OH MY GOD.

Usually I’m more articulate than that, but do you judge or criticize a Vietnam Vet for the things he cries out during his flashbacks? Regardless, I muttered out loud in disbelief while the other walkers became gawkers. The woman who had been traveling behind us stopped, looked at me, looked at the poster, and looked very confused. She had obviously no idea what chaos was being advertised right in front of her nosy nose and continued on her way to what I assume was Ben & Jerry’s – or The Continental.

Now, the line-up for the concert hasn’t changed, only this time Phillip Glass was not on the bill. He must have had the same reaction I thought he did, and had the smarts to get out of that sleepy-eyed CreepFest. Roberta “Batshit Crazy Drunk” Flack was still the headliner and I’m going to go ahead and believe that she still hasn’t taken off that blue sequined tragedy and that they rolled her into a bus, took it to the depot only to wake her up the evening of the next concert. Then they would immediately hand her a flask of whiskey, give her a nudge and say “Get out there, girl!” The concert is not on NYU soil anymore, but at a smaller venue, a Presbyterian church. How this all makes sense I just don’t know. I thought tribute concerts were only once a year. Did they go on tour? Was the tour so short that they’re already back where they started? In my mind, I see Roberta Flack leading the group into small cities in her pumps, holding up her middle school baton in the air, with the rest of the show sauntering in formation behind her with their Stepford Wives smiles and matching robes, each holding one of the 15 million bird drawings. I can also imagine a legion of Midwest housewives with brooms shooing them out of their towns and towards the hills, state after state.

Poor Sri Chinmoy. No man deserves to have this as his legacy, no matter how absurd it is to spend an entire lifetime scribbling birds and writing songs such as:

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS.

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

Neil Zirconia

I peed a little.

Dogged Up By The Rain

This whole summer has been nothing but a big puddle. A big puddle that's been beckoned me into a big muddle. It's been a soggy few months for everyone and we've all learned to make sure we've got our umbrellas on hand at all times. There's something ominous and eery about all of this precipitation and I can't tell if it's a cleansing or a punishment, or both. It depends on who you are, I guess. For me, it depends on the day, the hour, and sometimes even the minute. Sometimes I feel comforted by the fact that the only thing that's been consistent lately is the one thing no one would ever think they could depend on.



This week at my job was both the best and worst of the summer. It was terrible in the fact that it's the second to last week and it's getting ridiculously tedious. But it was also fantastic because our mutual disgruntleness caused me to bond with one of my coworkers. On Friday we decided to do enough work that lets us just exceed our expected quota, and then dick around the rest of the time (which only turned out to be about 45 minutes or so). As long as we're getting enough done, it really doesn't matter. And the more work we do, the more patients hate us.



I work in a department called Pre-Registration where we call patients before every appointment to make sure we have all of their "information" correct. We try to call them only once a month if they are repeat visitors, but sometimes errors are made and people get called multiple times a month. People are also scared of the title "Pre-Registration" and often complain that when thy hear it on their answering machine they get scared and think they're on some list to get surgery or something.



Long story short, we get a lot of angry patients answering the phone and calling us back. I hate talking to people on the phone in a professional setting anyway, so talking to angry people on the phone is what I think my hell is going to be like. This week an old man called our office back just to yell, and I was the lucky one who got to take the call. He was an angry coot. I think if I was as old as him I'd be perpetually pissed off. Imagine not being able to talk or pass gas without dust flying everywhere.



Our conversation went a little like this:

"Sir, our department is trying to help the patients by calling them and getting their information before the appointment so that when they get there they can go right in to see the doctor."

"That's not true. No, your department is a WELLFARE program designed to CREATE JOBS for people who can't get one!"

"Sir, I'm sorry you feel that way, we really are just trying to help."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Thank you young lady...JERK."

And then he hung up.



I hope his balls fall off. If he didn't like getting the call, why did he call back? He went out of his way to ruin someone else's day.



I used to volunteer at a nursing home and there was this one man who would spring out of his room, ranting and raving and shaking his fuzzy slipper in the air. Coming from his aged and cracking vocal chords we'd hear a thick screech: "YOU'RE WALKIN' TOO LOUD! GET OUTTA HERE." We were there to make their days a little less shitty by listening to their same awful stories over and over and over again about the pastor's boy rollerskating in the church.



If you're going to be cranky and make everyone else miserable, just die already. Once I become a burden to people around me, that's the end of me. Maybe that book The Giver didn't have it so wrong. Except for the whole lack of color, though, that's gotta suck. In high school I wrote a paper called "Should They Stay Or Should They Go?" about the euthenization of the elderly. It was for an assignment called "Arguing With Yourself" so I had to agree both for and against the idea. In my research I found out that the numbers of car accidents caused by old people are staggering... and I'm going to leave it at that.

*Note: I'm not saying all old people are mean, just a large portion of them. I'm sure you have an "adorable grampy" or something and I'm more than happy for you.

Karma Karma Karma Kameleon

August is like a month of Sundays.

I've always hated Sundays, except for the morning (if I find myself awake in time to enjoy it). I feel lazy, in limbo, and unsure of whether I should be in the process of wrapping things up or just starting to try. It may be too late, but in the words of Ben Lee, I only want it to begin. And that's what I'm doing by re-opening the forgotten and dusty tomb that has become my blog. I've been writing down ideas but haven't actually fleshed out anything substantial in quite a while.

My "Adventure in Solitude" was anything but. I definitely didn't spend the same amount of time at the computer as before, but I definitely didn't seclude myself like I had hoped. Things come up that need to be taken care of, and I have to use a computer ALL day at work. Thus, staying away from the Evil that the Internet had become was almost impossible. And what can I say? I've been a little lax in my convictions lately, but that's the least of it all.

You may ask, "But why did you thrust yourself into an 'Adventure in Solitude' in the first place? You seem like a rather well-adjusted young lass." Well, this answer is not a simple one. It has a little to do with a series of unfortunate events that made me want to remove myself from civilization and a lot to do with my parents' purchase of a Complete Care Warranty with my former laptop. I had a Dell Inspiron E1505, which a pretty significant portion of my peers also seem to have... and never have had a problem. I think mine was a dud. During my ownership I had had the hinges and screen and dvd drive replaced once and the keyboard replaced twice in two years. However even after these repairs, my DVD drive continued to grrr and purr like a very angry and hungry pregnant lioness... and everyone knows about my delinquently fussy "E" key.

Throughout my troubles I found out that I had this Complete Care Warranty. My brother-in-law told me that it would cover everything but theft.

"On the phone I even asked them: If she throws a party and someone vomits on her computer, is that convered?"

So me mind started turning. Yes, me mind. I had been threatening in conversation for a while, but this summer I finally decided to go through with it. I would destroy my laptop, send it back, and force Dell to show me something good. Late one Thursday night, my accomplice Jackie was making fun of the wobbly laptop screen by flicking it over and over after an exhausting session of Guitar Hero. I told her about the Complete Care Warranty and shared with her my dream. She was enthusiastically receptive. In high school, Jackie was in my circle of friends of Do-Gooders who didn't lie or cheat or steal or drink or have the crazy kind of "fun" that all the "cool" kids were having. Instead, we made inaccurate historical videos about Constantinople and listened to Neil Diamond. (We still listen to Neil Diamond and now me make accurate videos about Constantinople thanks to my lovely freshman-year Byzantine History odyssey with a one Mr. Konstantinos Smyrlis). I chatted online with a Dell Rep and told him that "While I was away, I was told that a large piece of furniture fell on my laptop and someone may have stepped on it." This was all while my lemon of a laptop sat beside me, fully intact despite its numerous flaws.

The foreign man responded, "Do not worry, you have Complete Care Warranty."

So when Jackie supported my idea, that was confirmation enough for me to get on with it... after pestering my brother-in-law about the possible consequences, both material and moral.

I decided to do the deed.

A few days later, after saving and securing all of my very important files (mostly music) onto an external hard drive, it was time. My brother-in-law retrieved one of his 25lb hand weights and set up a chair in front of the house. Jackie joined me outside and my niece scurried past us to her father's lap in the lawnchair. On the way out the door I opend ITunes and tried to find an appropriate track that would provide a soundtrack to this act of rebellion.

The only song I had that seemed appropriate was "I Got Your Money" by Ol' Dirty Bastard. As the song played I placed the laptop down on a piece of the slate pathway. After a few seconds of conversation and nervous hesitation, I held the weight over a corner of the computer

and

dropped

it.

The screen absorbed most of the shock. And the music was still playing. I opened up the laptop and the screen was completely cracked and distorted. It looked like some abstract painting one might encounter at the MoMA. But I could still make out the "play" button, and pressed it. The music resumed. So, I flipped the machine over and dropped the weight around the same area as the first time. The music did not come on again, there was a splendid dent near my hard drive, and the air vent was irreplaceably smushed. Mission Accomplished, much quicker than expected.

So when I sent back the computer is when I tried the whole "Adventure in Solitude" thing. Instead of being in solitude, I umm used everyone else's computers. Including Albany Medical Center's.

The replacement computer they sent me is a refurbished XPS M1530, apparently it's "the" laptop for today. I wouldn't know... because when I got mine, the screen had dancing green pixels that distorted picture and video. AND the audio was crackly and unclear. Was I sent another dud as my punishment? Is this karma? Was Dell getting payback by making me sit on the phone for a total of over 5 hours attempting to fix a machine that was promised to be fully efficient and functional? That was the one warning my brother-in-law had given me, the possible karma that greedily destroying one of my most important possessions in hopes of getting a better one. What I had was great, but not perfect. It just didn't seem like enough for me. But I kept thinking off all the bad things that might happen with it and couldn't stop creating worst-case scenarios in the talking picture machine that's become my mind. I believe this happens in more than just laptops, my dear readers. I needed to try my hand at something better at the expense of others' feelings and time - in this case, the laptop's(?) and the Dell workers. The negative energy was a-flowing out and negative energy was all I got in return. But hey, at least the workers are getting paid, right?

I must say that this whole happening has made me believe in something, maybe not karma exactly, but then again maybe so. Today I was supposed to meet yet another Dell rep at my house at 5:30. Around 4, the city started to dump buckets and buckets of stinging water onto the ground. A gross tan river covered the street I have to cross between work buildings, and the water was up to mid-calf. The sky was unforgiving as I tried to get back to the other building to meet my sister and go home. We left at 4:55. A ride that normally takes 5 minutes ended up taking 50, and on the way I saw a hatchback car on a street that was flooded up to the windows.

Shit was cuh-razy. But I kept a good spirit, joking with my sister about the guy who was drumming on his steering wheel with real drumsticks, the man who rode by on a tiny scooter, and the annoying people who cross the street during red lights - it's an epidemic in Downtown Albany!

I'm starting to learn how to step back from situations and repress my Kebbie instinct to go into Panic Overdrive Mode right away before anything bad happens, and even after it happens. Pre-panicking is always a deadly move and post-panicking doesn't do anything but drain the soul. I honestly believe that if I had started fretting and worrying, the Dell rep might have gotten the vibes and left before I got there. But she didn't. In fact, she was really cool. She enjoyed listening to the household conversations with Mom, my niece, Givne, and I. She was probably an RPI student, but I don't really know. All I do know is that she had to stop working to laugh heartily at an observation I had about Jon & Kate Plus 8, and that was good enough to erase the fact that I had probably stepped in raw sewage mixed with acid rain a mere hour earlier.

"Of course they have to buy organic food. Imagine having to cart around eight fat-ass kids?"

A-Change is Gonna Come

And that change is more blog posts.

Stay tuned. I'm back. And better than - well, I'm going to try to be at least just as good.

Adventures in Solitude

This will be my last post for a while. Recent event and thoughts have led me to the conclusion that I'm in need of some kind of cleansing, and I'm going to try at one. And that's why I no longer possess a laptop (for a few weeks, anyway). If you're interested in hearing the tale of a great battle with technology, an awestrucking display of consumerism, and wanton disregard of an inner compass, ask me about my Sunday.

I'm actually pretty excited to be disconnected from the Interwebs. Last spring I uninstalled AIM for quite a while, and it felt damn good. People contacted me who actually needed and wanted to, and there were no pity conversations stemming from boredom and obligation:

"what's up?"

"nothing... you"

"nothing"

"cool"

"yeah"

"definitely"

"yep"

So I plan on only using the computer while I'm at work and maybe sometimes while I'm at my sister's house. I'm sick of sitting passively for hours in front of the glowing screen without actually DOING anything, just checking the same websites over and over again, waiting for people to respond to me or hoping something new will pop up. I love the computer, but I've become a mindless addict who has forgotten its meaningful use. In order to get back my appreciation, I must deprive myself of it. I am not telling you all of this to be praised for going inside my little box, although you can admire me from the outside - I don't mind. (Jonathan Lethem reference, anyone? If not, please read The Disappointment Artist.) But it's just to let you all know that although I am not everpresent on your screens, I am still alive. Maybe more alive than ever. Which is both a healthy thing and a scary thing at the same time. Good and bad, bad and bad; I'm still reeling from it all.

I plan on spending my nights attempting to knock off a few books from my shelf of Unreads, watching intellectual programming (such as Law and Order: Criminal Intent, the John Adams miniseries, Rocko's Modern Life and Jon & Kate Plus 8), and walking over to Albany's Riverfront Park in contemplation. What shall I contemplate? Perhaps why certain parts of the park smell

like ass more than others. It's a tough conundrum, but someone's got to tackle it. I'll still be receiving phone calls and e-mails (NO texting, please!), but I know a lot of you young whippersnappers out there prefer more "distant yet instant" forms of communication. Fortunately, I don't know that many of you.

Hopefully this will not mean a hiatus of writing. I hope it's far from it. I bought a nifty notebook today that I am going to break down into sections to keep track of all the little notes and ideas I've written on various smaller notebooks, napkins, and foreheads. And boy! do I have many notes for possible blog posts. You all have something to look forward to since I know your lives rise and fall with my internet insights and memoirs.

In the meantime, I hope you'll allow me to assign you some homework for when I return. Please listen to the entire album "Challengers" by The New Pornographers, and pay special attention to the songs "My Rights Versus Yours," "Myriad Harbour," and "Entering White Cecilia." There will be an extended discussion and response paper due sometime in the month of August. I can't explain how much this band and that particular album has helped me lately. I really like a lot of music, but it only happens once in a while that I feel "moved." And I feel as moved as one of them peddlers I had to learn so much about in my American Jewish History class.