Clueless

You scored as Clue. You are Clue!!

Clue 75%

Life 69%

Monopoly 63%

Trouble 63%

Twister 56%

Which Board Game R you?
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Hot Lunch.

What makes a person sexy?

To get on board my mental segue train: was waiting to pick up my lunch order at New China Star and started looking at the various specimens of humanity at and around the restaurant. No one there was what I would consider homely, and some people were, at least by American standards, good looking. Yet I didn't think any of them were sexy. So I wondered, "What makes a person sexy?"

Now, when I say "sexy," I don't mean that I necessarily want to have sex with the person. There is some sort of simple (or not-so-simple) recognition that the person has an attractive quality that generates an appreciation that transcends the visual aesthetic.

Geeze, I love b.s.-ing with euphemisms.

Supposedly, symmetry = attractiveness. It's not just having two eyes, ears, nostrils, lips that makes one attractive, but having them symmetrical and proportionate. I can look at an image or an individual who is symmetrical and state that s/he is attractive, but that's it. There's nothing "sparky." Like at the restaurant. There was a guy there who was technically a hottie: tall, blonde, blue-green eyes (two of them, even!), spoke in complete sentences, looked trim. A woman came in with gorgeous flowing dark hair and green eyes, well-proportioned.

My response? Yawn.

I kept hearing two terms of my mother's-- "shapida" and "not sympatico." Sympatico, though I know it's been translated in other places, implies a relevance, a connection, something captivating in the person's person-ality. Shapida means, well, blah. No vibrancy, excitement. No sense of soul emerging through all of the prettiness.

So is this a definition by absence? What is lacking determines what isn't sexy?

and I stand here, looking up and thinking while shaking my head back and forth. (Don't try this at home, kids.)

So, what makes a person sexy?

Intelligence--not necessarily in that analytical geometry sense (though that may be a turnon for some, heaven help 'em), but (again defining by lack) not having to wonder if there's a "vacancy" sign posted on that person's forehead. Humor--laughing at life, the world, one's self, not in deprecation but in celebration. Let's face it: a good laugh elevates as much as other physical activities. Finally, Passion... I don't mean pseudosexual passion like some trumped up Latin Fabio wannabe with melodramatic delivery, but that real, unpretentious joy / appreciation / elan / exuberance / captivation that only happens when one's soul is singing.

Of course, back to examples of blue-eyed boy and green-eyed girl, I only observed them. Perhaps they were intelligent, funny, and passionate, and my detached evaluation could not sense the complexity underneath the exterior. But I think not. There's a "zap" to a personality that, even in passing, I -- I think we all-- sense, no matter what our sexualities and tastes.

Then again, what do I know? I don't have a single porn site bookmarked.

Horror-scope

Ok. I'm letting you in to my innermost being. This is my natal chart from astro.com. Theoretically, I am laid bare before you.

My reaction?
Look at the pretty triangle.

My mother said that when she was pregnant with me she went with my father to visit a friend of his. The woman met my mother and ran upstairs (which, if you've met my mother, would be a perfectly understandable reaction). What is odd is that this woman--supposedly a witch-- came down about twenty minutes later with my chart. She said that I would be headstrong (hell yeah) and other sorts of things, and she said that my father would be an influence on my life-- until I was about seventeen or so. If you know my history, you'll know that my father died a little more than a month before my seventeenth birthday. If she knew his history, it would have been a safe claim to make, as few men on my father's side made it past their fortieth birthdays, much less their fiftieth (my father was fifty when he died).

But that's not the point of this post (really!).

I find the concept of the so-called "occult" (which is just a creepy way of saying "hidden") to be fascinating. According to the woman who interpreted the above chart for me, some astral body is in a house that makes me want to research and uncover the hidden, the unknown, the forgotten. Perhaps, then, it makes sense that I love to research lines of old texts and question imagery in art and literature.

"There are more things in heaven and earth... than are dreamt of in our philosophy."

Yet the skeptic in me (or is it the re-searcher) returns and wonders if my "reading" was based on this woman's knowledge of me, or if the "witch" based her analysis on her knowledge of my father (who could out-stubborn me). Still I fight, caught between the perennial Christian paradox of free will vs. predestination/God's plan, although I left institutional Christianity many years ago.

Perpetually curious, constantly questioning, ever unsatiated.

Ten Terrifying Things About Turning Thirty-Five

10. Rebel songs of youth are now "light hits" on oldies station.

9. That crunching noise is my knees.

8. Realizing that I am not now, nor will ever be, a "hottie."

7. That one "la vecchia" rodent-type hair growing out of my neck.

6. Choosing comfort over coolness.

4. Forgetting what I'm doing in the middle of doing it.

3. Leg warmers are coming back.

2. Oh my god! I forgot to have kids!

And the most terrifying thing about turning thirty-five...

1. Three words: ass fat dimples.

Bare Fardels

Notice how blogs seem to be the ultimate rant medium? Try clicking a few hundred times on the "Next Blog" link and you'll realize how much everyone wants to complain (or post attempts at writing erotica/porn, but as always, that's another blog). I have a feeling that the blogs in Cyrillic concern someone blasting Putin-omics or bitching about the crappy service from the cashier at Perekrestok. There are the anti-Bush blogs, portraying W as everything from Alfred E. Neuman to the antichrist, the pro-Bush blogs, exalting Bush as the savior of all that is Good/God and liberals as Satan's henchpeople, the Walmart as American Strength group, the Walmart as Capitalist Hypocrisy in Action faction, those who decry the death of marriage and those who state they're saving it. Some complain that Americans are forced to be live in a nation "under God" while others cry we need more (Christian) religion in this country. There are complaints against datelessness, stupid people, bad manners, bad choices, bad people, and bad breath. I came across one in which a fourth-grader is calling her Algebra teacher a "cameltoe" because she couldn't get an extension on her test. I don't even think she knew what "cameltoe" means.
Philosophical question:
if I rant about ranting, does anyone care?
only if I blog it...

The Wee Hours.

Consciousness came to her just as she was about to be hit by the motorcycle.
She gasped, half awake, making sense of the staccato reverberations, getting louder as she came to.
She poked him in the back.
"Bobby," she growled, "stop snoring!"
Bobby lifted his head and turned it, one eye open, to face her. He sighed, making one of those typical half-awake grunting noises, and went back to sleep... and snoring.
She counted to ten, counting each time he inhaled, hoping each exhale would become quieter.
When it finally became obvious that an entire posse of motorcycles were about to invade her bed, she poked Bobby again.
"Hey!"
Again, the head lifted, turned, turned back, sighed... and snored.
"Bobbbbbbbbyyyyyyyy!!!!"
His body jolted. She could see the disgust on his face.
"That's it. You've got to get out of here. I need to sleep."
He turned again, his eyes conveying a a plea for pity.
"I have to get up early tomorrow. I need to rest."
Bobby sighed again, stretched, and jumped off the bed. Making his way to the throw rug, he turned around three times, lay down, and dreamt of chasing motorcycles.

Lonely Words

So, after two weeks, the charge finally came through for the Spamalot/Broadway Cares photo op.
I had told Gi that it wasn't showing up on my statement... her response? "Free pictures!"
I don't know why, but that really ticked me off. I'm not some hyper-super-ego afflicted moral zombie, but it just struck me as so self-serving. I know she's not like that, and it was probably a joke, but lately I feel so divorced from the world. I don't understand why people do the things they do and say the things they say, why people aren't kind just to be kind-- not for some reward either in this life or the next, but just to be kind. It usually takes as much time and energy. We know what it is like to hurt. Why do that (even if by inaction) to others?
I feel so alone sometimes.

In Vain

The hand
(that reaches out,
that reaches beyond,
stretching,
grasping)
is consumed
by the ink-black waves.

Soundtracks for Life

I spend far too much time commuting. The focuses (focii?) of my drives is often anything but what I'm supposed to be thinking about (you know, supposed to think about lesson plans, grocery lists, paying bills, and to-do lists). Instead, I'm pondering obscure lines of Old French literature, crafting imaginary dialogues (thankfully, I do know they're imaginary), composing articles that I will never actually type up and submit, and creating or re-creating characters or personae, complete with mannerisms and odd voices (another good defense of the handsfree cell unit-- people don't realize I'm actually not on the phone). It passes the hour or so, and I keep myself amused-- I especially like my impression of Elmo singing Limp Bizkit. Anyway... Another time wast--errrr, way of spending my time is to think about "Soundtracks for Life." We've all played this game on some level, whether it was going along with that gawdawful prom theme or the mix tape we made for 'that special someone.' It's the music that, if your life were a movie, would be beginning, ending, or filling up the scenes. So here are my choices (feel free to play along).

Birth

• “Instant Karma”—John Lennon

Crush

• “Jackie Wilson Said”—Van Morrison
• “She”—Mighty Purple

Falling In Love

• “Let My Love Open the Door” – Pete Townsend
• “Burn for You”—INXS
• “I’ll Fly for You”—Spandau Ballet

Realizing It’s Love

• “On Your Shore”—Enya

Thinking It’s Love, But …

• “Piece of My Heart”—Janis Joplin
• “This Love”—Maroon 5
• “All I Want Is You”—U2
• “Tempted”—Squeeze

Dumped

• “Something I Can Never Have” – NIN
• “Gone Daddy Gone” – Violent Femmes
• “Victims”—Culture Club
• “Midnight”—Yaz
• “Behind the Wall of Sleep”—The Smithereens

Waiting for “The One”

• “Somebody” – Depeche Mode

In Love—and Still Liking Each Other

• “Dream a Little Dream of Me”—Mamas and the Papas
• “Avalon”—Roxy Music
• “Say a Little Prayer”—Aretha Franklin
• “Into the Mystic”—Van Morrison

Self-Realization

• “Brilliant Trees” – David Sylvian
• “Break on Through”—The Doors
• “Galileo”—Indigo Girls
• “All Along the Watchtower”—Jimi Hendryx

‘Bad’ Things that You’ll Probably Regret the Next Morning

• “Whole Lotta Love”—Led Zeppelin
• “The Only Time”—NIN
• “You Can Leave Your Hat On”—Joe Cocker
• “Father Figure”—George Michael

“Feelgood” (Would these be for the driving scenes??? :-) )

• “Heart and Soul” – T’Pau
• “Three Little Birds”—Bob Marley
• “Don’t Leave This Way”—Thelma Houston (should be a dumped song, but the riff is just too catchy. Guess that’s why it’s disco)
• “Dark Clouds Dance”—The Gravel Pit
• “Clint Eastwood”—Gorillaz
• “Cruel to Be Kind”—Nick Lowe
• “Life is A Highway”—Tom Cochran

The End.

• “I Can See Clearly Now”—Jimmy Cliff
• “Who Wants to Live Forever”—Queen
  

Sychronincidence?

On Saturday (my New York Spamalot day), something very strange happened, and I’ve been kind of unsettled ever since.

I know. It’s New York. Strange is the norm, right?

Well, yes–

(as a woman passed me going down the street yelling to the air, “You’re Napoleon, I’m Napoleon, and when we have a few drinks, we’re all Napoleons.” Of course, there is the possibility that she was talking on a hands-free cell phone that was actually connected to a live and at least semi-coherent human on the other end of the line [or would that be wave?], but that’s another post)

–but it wasn’t strange in the possible multiple-personality disorder/bipolar or stereotypical wacked-out New Yorker sense. I’m talking about strange in the beyond-logic-don’t-know-what-to-make-of-it sense.

My eyes met a complete stranger’s, and I felt something that I could best describe as electrical.

Now before anyone thinks that I just got the hots for some guy, this really wasn’t sexual (and I don’t mean love at first sight). I felt like I had some connection with this person, and to be honest, it’s still freaking me out (hey! Weird topics call for overdone and trite phrasing). I felt this strong sense of sensitivity—vulnerability—and an almost childlike sweetness. I felt profoundly touched. As this person’s eyes met mine, something about the expression made me think that we may have both felt something…perhaps, the same thing.

Many years ago, I read James Redfield’s The Celestine Prophecy. I read it more as a psychology book than as a spiritual or psychic awakening guide, but I found it fascinating. One bit of the book, however, has always stayed with me: there is no coincidence; should someone, even a total stranger, “grab” your attention, you have something to learn from that person.

Nice sentiment, but I tend to be a socially phobic wuss even under “safe” conditions. This was not a time nor a place to say anything (even though it was quite likely the one and only time we’d meet in this lifetime and [melodramatic flourish] now it’s gone forever). Then there’s the obvious. I’m not going to run up to a complete stranger and say something like, “excuse me, but did you just have a psychic jolt?” Though I want a vacation, I’d prefer not to spend it at a psychiatric facility (even if I do get to have a chat with the Napoleon lady).

So I said nothing, and kind of scurried away.

—ok. The literary repertoire is coming out here. I’m reading this back and thinking of Parzival, who screws up the whole Grail quest because he is too shy/afraid/ultra-polite to ask his uncle the Fisher King, “what is it that troubles you?” Problem is, I’m not Parzival (feeling a bit more Polonius-like lately). And what is my Grail?—

So I sit here, typing à la Doogie Howser, questioning life and connections, missed opportunities and roads not traveled. I google “connection to strangers” and I come upon a page that I read to find some solace or insight… and I reach the bottom, and I see:

“2 User(s) are reading this topic (2 Guests and 0 Anonymous Users)”

and I wonder, just wonder, if he’s on that page with me, trying to understand this same riddle.

Sadness

Yesterday, I found out that Clare died. Even now, I can't believe I've put those words together.

I found out on Friday that her cancer had returned and that she was in the hospital with pneumonia. I came to school Monday and asked Xan if she knew how Clare was doing; Xan said no, but she'd let me know, and the department was going to send a card, and all that usual stuff... then ten minutes later Xan walked into the adjunct office with tears in her eyes and said to me, "you wanted to know. Clare died this morning. I just got the call."

You know when you've heard something, but you can't actually believe you've heard it, because now the blood is rushing to your ears and all you can hear is your heartbeat?

I said, "what???" but I knew the words I had heard.
It took me a long time to cry--I wanted to, I still need to, but I'm not sure if I have earned the right.

It wasn't until later in life that Clare realized (in every sense of the word) her purpose. She was a bookkeeper who went back to school and kindled (or rekindled; I do not know) that love of language and literature. She worked hard to earn her Master's; I remember her once saying that she had given birth to a child, but giving birth to the thesis was a much more strenuous and painful process. She began to teach writing, and she reveled in guiding others to create words and meaning. Sue Ellen was her mentor and her friend, and I think she kept Clare strong on her path through encouragement and (deserved) praise. Perhaps it took Clare a long time to know her purpose in life and work to achieve that purpose, but how many of us ever get to that point? Sadder still, how many of us realize it, but build obstacles to stymie us-- "I'm too old," "I can't do it," "It's too much work," "I can't afford it." I know I'm guilty of this. Yet Clare, at a time when many were looking to retire, decided that it was time to start living. If only for a few imperfect years made harder by cancer, treatment, and surgery, in the shadow of death Clare began to live.

I respected Clare, and at a time I feel we were friends, but we had drifted apart in so many ways. Clare was staunchly loyal with a fiery spirit. She had a strong, unwavering sense of what she felt should be, and perhaps my decisions did not sit right with her. We never discussed it, and now we never will.

So my grief is like so much grief, selfish in that I grieve missed opportunities and lamenting that I cannot change the past. As Clare was always first and foremost a teacher, she may have left me with a final lesson that (as most teachers challenge) the student must make meaning of on her own.

Spamalot!

So what do you do when you meet famous people whose work you actually, well, respect and admire?
If you're me, you turn into a mumbling (and a bumbling) idiot.
Thankfully, I did not do a Sir Robin impression and soil myself.

I did, however, get off the stage and, perhaps too loudly, voice my sympathy for whomever had to clean up the bucketsful of confetti strewn about the theater. If any of the cast heard me, yes, they probably thought I was a bit off (true, I am, but people usually don't find this out until much later).

Of course, once I recovered sufficiently (about 20 minutes later as I was walking down 5th Ave towards the Village), I thought of all the Really Insightful or Humorous Things to Say and Intelligent Questions to Ask but Was Too Shy/Agog/Phobic to Say So at the Time (RIHTSIQAWTS/A/PSST):

1. (on being thanked for making the donation to Broadway Cares):
   Should have said, "It's wonderful for you to do this as an incentive."
   Said: (mumble) "thank you."

Wait a second, I'm reading this and I'm not that insightful or humorous. Probably better I did shut up. Kind of the way certain animals play dead to avoid becoming part of the food chain.

Well, I still wish I could have thanked each of them for what they do. Acting is often ridiculed as a "fluffy" field-- not that influential or important, but convincingly emulating emotions on cue is damned difficult. Comedy's even harder because it's much more dependent on timing and delivery.

I wish I had the chance to tell, for instance, Hank Azaria that his Agador brought a lot of needed laughter into a friend's life. As she was dealing again and again with cancer and recurrence, I'd call her on the phone and sing "She Work[s] Hard for the Money" or just carry on a conversation with her in my best Agador voice, and she'd laugh so hard she'd cry (and possibly do a Sir Robin impersonation, but I never did ask her as it was a bit more personal than I wished to be and we were, you understand, only talking on the phone). I wish I'd said to David Hyde Pierce how much I loved and related to his deadpan delivery (how can anyone keep a straight face?). I don't think I needed to say anything to Tim Curry. Gi was probably giving off such a strong aura of total devotion his chakras will be realigned for months to come.

I really wish I could have voiced to everyone in the cast--and I do mean everyone from those in the above photo to everyone in the ensemble--that thanks to them and their work, I was kind of able to escape what can be a pretty shitty reality, even if it was for only two hours.

Was it worth a week's pay for the opportunity? You betcha.