Reading (between) the lines.

Because of the nature of my work, I read a lot of ridiculous entertainment-related news articles throughout the day, mostly searching for story ideas, but also (and a little too much) for personal amusement. I'm pretty sure that writing for a living has skewed my ability to glean information as I read. Well, to glean useful information, anyway....

For instance, Kanye "Caps Lock Commando" West wrote a (drunk? megalomanic? tongue-in-cheek?) e-mail to Rolling Stone, which read in part:

IT IS THE CRACK IN THE WALL THAT ALLOWS LIGHT TO SHINE THROUGH... SOOO THANK YOU SENSATIONAL NEWS REPORTERS... THANK YOU GOSSIP SITES... THANK YOU BARBER SHOPS... THANK YOU TO ANYONE WHO THRIVES ON THE DOWNFALL OF OTHERS FOR I WILL NOT FALL!!!

I read that and instantly thought: Is he saying that barber shops "thrive on the downfall of others"? I thought they thrived on cutting hair. Then again, I don't go to barber shops, I go to "hair stylists," so maybe barber shops are actually very cruel, vindictive places...which would also explain why most guys I've dated were so opposed to getting their hair cut. ("You said you wanted an inch off the top, but fuck you!!! I took an inch and a quarter!!!")

Other points I missed:


The Schenectady Daily Gazette about Chrissie Hynde's wardrobe at a Pretenders concert: "Wearing tight jeans tucked into high-heeled boots and a sleeveless vest..."

Wait, aren't all vests sleeveless? Otherwise they'd be blazers...


The Kansas City Star about performer Todd Snider: "It takes a lot for one guy with nothing but a guitar to command a big room, especially when he's not wearing shoes. But that's what Todd Snider did Wednesday night, inside a casino, no less."

This makes it sound like he, literally, had nothing but a guitar. After all, he wasn't even wearing shoes. No shoes, no pants. Isn't that how it goes? Anyway, it seems like being naked on a stage would actually be quite an easy way to draw attention to oneself. I think it's called "exotic dancing."


I've either been reading too much, or these people haven't been reading enough.

Repetitive music listening.

One thing you need to know about me is that I am a repetitive music listener. When I hear a song that I love instantly, I need to hear it again. And again. And again. I can listen to the same song over and over again for hours, days and even weeks at a time.

This makes me think I should probably live alone for the rest of my life because I remember one of my best friends in college complaining about this type of behavior. One day, someone in the dorm room below her had the same song playing on a loop for over 24 hours...straight. I vaguely recall her fuming that she hoped the person was dead, not out of spite, but simply because she couldn't understand a person listening to the same song on repeat for any other reason. (Note: I invested in a pair of headphones for the three years we lived together so she would never discover that I'm a repetitive music listener.)

Now, I'm not that bad. I don't listen to single songs on 24-hour loops, and I'm very selective about which songs are good enough to merit frequent repeats. But I'd say there are usually one or two songs every month that get excessive iTunes playtime.

Last month, it was probably Ra Ra Riot's "Suspended in Gaffa" (a great cover of the Kate Bush tune) and Fleet Foxes' "Your Protector." Last week it was Amy Wino-house's "Back to Black." This week, it's been this song:

"My Girls" - Animal Collective
According to my last.fm account, I've listened to this song 16 times since Friday. Not disgustingly excessive, but excessive enough that my college friend would probably want to stab me once for each time I hit "repeat."

Anyway, I was just in the shower, where I happen to do most of my best thinking. And it occurred to me: "My Girls" is like the anti-gangsta anthem.

This song should be playing in youth centers across urban (...and suburban...and rural...) America. I envision all the little ne'er-do-wells listening and saying, "Material possessions do not matter to me. I merely want to be monogamous and protect my family! I do not need an ostentatious house, nor do I need to effect a higher social status than I can afford. I just need basic shelter."

I could write a whole thesis about this! But I won't -- because thesis writing is so 2008. Never again. But if I did write a thesis it would declare this song the beginning of a "new gangsta" movement. Hipster gangster, if you will. (Just don't tell the kids that the main vocalist is a guy named Panda Bear. Minus 500 street cred points!)

OK, so it's a long shot. Then again, if today's youth listened to this song on repeat as much as I do, it might have some sort of brainwashing effect. It's worth a try.


EDIT: I've noted this elsewhere, but let me just add that the music video for "My Girls" gives me the creeps. Something about those neon pink lips and little teeth nubs....

A typical Saturday. (Atypical Saturday?)

I've been feeling a bit restless recently. Probably because, after six months of this arrangement, I finally realized that I'm living out of a suitcase. I work about 70 miles away from home so I spend a few nights every week in a hotel to reduce my time on the road. With all the packing and unpacking that I do on a weekly basis (and can now do quite efficiently), it finally hit me this week that I feel a bit too transient and without root.

Lying in the hotel room, eyes closed and head nestled among pillows, I felt so relaxed and comfortable. Not the alien sort of comfort that one can feel in a nicely accommodated hotel despite being emotionally detached from the surroundings, but the sort of deep ease and comfort one feels at home, regardless of whatever state of disarray that home might be in.

Suddenly, my eyes shot open, and I thought, "Holy shit. I live in a hotel."

Since then, I've been looking more actively at apartments closer to where I work. Not sure when I want to move, but hopefully before the end of the year. (And since it's still only January, I guess that gives me some time to sort things out...like the fact that the only furniture I "own" is technically my parents'.) I've even been drawing up budgets, trying to figure out how much money I can afford to spend on rent and still have plenty left for food, other bills and necessities, and a nice amount of savings.

How mundane and...adult!

I think it'll be nice to have a place of my own, though, so I can settle a bit (but not too much) and stop rushing around. Since I spend so much time traveling for work, weekends are usually the only time I can see friends -- which usually requires more traveling and leaves me feeling more exhausted by the time Monday rolls around than when I got off work on Friday.

Sometimes it's nice to come home for weekend and just relax -- to not have plans, to not make plans. Today, I spent the afternoon in my room with a cup of tea and empty CD cases and loose discs strewn around me. I coupled the orphaned discs with their appropriate homes, and then reorganized my CD rack: alphabetically by artist name, and chronologically by the original release dates for each artist's various albums.

That's a totally normal way to spend a Saturday, right?

Anyway, I at least feel better having done that. All the elements of my music collection are in their right place, even if I'm not so sure about myself.

A question about phlebotomy.

Is there an ethnic requirement for becoming a phlebotomist?

Maybe it's just my doctor's office or the region where I live, but I swear, every phebotomist I've met in the past few years has been Russian -- or some form of Eastern European, at least. (Excuse me for being unable to distinguish exact heritages from their thick accents.) Now, for the average person, the statement "every phlebotomist I've met" might not hold much bearing, but as someone who gets blood work done several times a year, I've met my fair share of individuals in the bloodletting trade.

The last time I had blood drawn (before this week), I met up with a friend soon afterwards and shared my observation: "Every phlebotomist at my doctor's office seems to be Russian. Why is that?" She gave me a vague explanation involving Transylvania and vampires, but I don't think that's it.

Maybe there's an International University of Phlebotomy tucked down some back alley in Saint Petersburg. Take the first forsaken-looking street past the square, push through the third unmarked door on your left, and enter a palatial hall -- plastered with sterile white tiles, awash with flickering fluorescent lights from overhead, and filled with stifled moans caused by repeated botched needle insertions. "You missed the vein, Svetlana! Pull it out. Try again." Or, "Very good, Yekaterina -- no tears, no fainting! And it looks like the patient's made it through, too..."

I can only imagine.

Or maybe it's an ancient familial trade, passed from mother to daughter, from generation to generation. Long after the men of the house have gone to sleep, the women gather by candlelight and practice binding off tourniquets, sterilizing syringes and swapping out filled vials of blood mid-flow. At first, they nicked unfortunate stray dogs from the streets to use as test subjects. But as instinct expanded to cover which streets were safe after dark and ignorant mutts became harder to come by, they began practicing on themselves, on neighbors, on drunk and unresponsive spouses. "It must have been a hard day at work, my dear. Have another glass of vodka, no, finish the bottle -- I insist."

Wherever this knowledge comes from, it's pure gold. The reassuring smiles, the nimble fingers, the stoic warning -- "Just a small prick!" -- but no pain. And even the most stubborn and sunken veins are coaxed to the surface with a few taps of the finger, so vial after vial fills without trouble.

It's magical. So much better than the first time I needed bloodwork done. I couldn't have been older than nine or ten -- still young enough that being subjected to a needle's pinch is the worst physical and mental torture one can imagine. The nurse, some Americanized jumble of nondescript Caucasian, unfolded my arms towards her as she closely examined both, unsure which arm's vein would bleed the most, as though each was attached to a different and varying source. Finally, she chose one, possibly just out of exasperation, and dove in.

No blood. Out the needle came, and back in it went -- this time a fraction of a centimeter to the left. Still nothing. Once more, out and in -- another location, over to the right. And the next time, desperate and pale from the struggle, she didn't even have the patience to pull the needle out fully. She just wiggled it around in my arm, hoping to hit something (anything, please!) that would bleed for a little while. Finally, she found a vein -- and went right through it ("Oops!") before easing back a bit and tapping blood.

I'm still surprised that it took me a full five to ten minutes before mumbling, "I don't feel well," and passing out into the arms of a doctor who just happened to be walking behind me as I was on my way to the office's reception area. My vision was dark as they pulled me into the nurses' lab and pressed cold compresses against every inch of exposed skin they could find.

After about 45 minutes I was free to go, but for the next few weeks I looked like a junkie who had tapped the same vein a few too many times. (Think "Requiem for a Dream.") My vein looked black underneath the bruised flesh, but the emotional scars went much deeper.

Well, maybe that's a bit melodramatic.

But needless to say, I wasn't prepared to ever not-hate having bloodwork done. But now, I can't say it's half bad. The worst part is probably ripping the adhesive bandage off my arm after leaving the doctor's office. Hell, I can even smile and hold friendly conversation with the phlebotomists as they work. It's become routine -- they hit the mark on the first shot and it never takes more than a minute to fill however many vials they need. I leave the office shortly after and never, ever pass out. Not in the office lobby, not in the parking lot, and certainly (thankfully) not while I'm driving home.

So may the gods bless these phlebotomists of Worcester, Massachusetts -- whatever their ethnicity may be. They can take my blood any day of the week.

Dream job.

Last night, I interviewed for my dream job. Not my figurative dream job, which would probably involve lounging on a sunny, secluded beach. Rather, this was my literal "dream job" -- meaning the one I was offered in the hours between sleeping and waking.

I couldn't tell you much about the job itself. As far as I'm aware, there was no job title, description or even a salary. (I wasn't worried about getting paid, which is how I know this was a dream.) However, I can tell you that I'm the newest employee at the Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf in Providence, RI.

The interview started off simply enough. I arrived promptly at 9 a.m. and was greeted by a concierge on the sidewalk outside a stately building. A nautilus-shaped sign proclaimed Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf, and the institution's motto was emblazoned underneath: Just Because. As I gave my name to the concierge, school directors and tenured faculty flowed out of the doors to greet me and mill anxiously about the streets until my interview began. (It ran from 12 to 1 p.m., and then again from 5 to 6 p.m.)

The time passed quickly, as I was almost instantaneously ushered into what appeared to be a pottery workshop adjacent to a kitchen stocked with barrels of various wines and spirits. Faculty surrounded me in an informal brain-picking: Do I live in Providence? (No. But I'd be willing to relocate.) Do I mind that they don't actually proctor any classes, opting instead to complete random artistic endeavors throughout the day? (No, that seems perfectly in keeping with my own work ethic.) And so on.

As the primary interview session concluded, the day rapidly progressed and the second began. I was informed that I was a lovely girl, but the faculty was concerned that I wouldn't be able to mentally/emotionally/physically handle inner-city Providence. As a result, I was forced to climb the side of a building while wearing a short, feathery skirt and then pay for a round at the local tavern. (I call it a "tavern" because it seemed to be located in an alternate, Medieval universe.)

Having completed those tasks set before me, I was deemed worthy of a new hire and was handed a large stack of papers. I thought these would be the perfunctory forms for background checks and tax purposes, but no. They were papers to be graded. The blind and deaf children weren't going to teach themselves jazz, and the faculty had some pots to glaze.



I should note, I took the precaution of Googling the phrase "Jazz School for the Blind & Deaf" and there is no such thing. ...Which is a pity because I imagine the music created by such a venture would be, at the very least, unlike anything else.

A product of insomnia. A beginning.

Whose bright idea was it to make personal blogging the next big thing?

Everyone can be a writer, is a writer, while I -- an actual, honest-to-goodness, paycheck-earning writer -- feel invalidated in my craft because I really hate writing about myself. And by "really hate," I mean "vehemently detest." (Note to self: Learn new adjectives. Or, at the very least, use the adjectives you already know. You're beginning to bang out words online like a cookie cutter on a sheet of dough.)

And so in early June, after graduating triumphantly and completing a thesis begrudgingly, I claimed this corner of the Internet for myself to declare unto the masses: Behold! I am a writer. Thou shalt embrace me, throw money at me, and name thy firstborn in my honor.

...But the time never seemed right and the thoughts never seemed appropriate to begin cluttering the interwebs with insightful verbosity. And as the weeks passed and I let writing prompts slink into the recesses of my scatterbrain, it was no longer just an anxiousness about setting words in digital stone that barred me from doing anything so decisive as hitting a few keys and pressing "publish." It was the passage of time itself, the slow settling of apathy and the resignation of "If I haven't begun already, what difference will it make to wait another day or week -- or perhaps to never begin at all?"

After all, it's difficult to convince myself that anyone else will care when I make a new inscription because, who am I kidding, I barely care myself.

But today, in this moment, at 4 a.m., when I should be sleeping but am instead listening to a loop of the Fab Four's harmonizing ooh-la-las and hey-na-nas, the time is write (right?). So here you go. This is my first offering. (And, let's be pessimistic, folks -- this could be my only offering for all you and I know.)

And so, before I trade my pounding head and bleary eyes for a spell of sleep, I make my opening bow on the well-worn and painfully self-indulgent stage that is personal blogging.

Hair: A haiku

Late morning, I wake,
my hair looped and messy like
second grade cursive.

Now, sleep.