Sometimes I forget high school biology. Sure, duh, I know that the brain interacts with the muscles via motor skills, but sometimes it takes fracturing your tib/fib to get the point. Maybe I would have scored an A in bio if I used my body as a study guide/exhibit for dissection. NOT.
Relearning how to use your legs is more than just baby steps. A part of my new routine is standing on something that resembles a cross sectioned beach ball. I have to keep balance so that my stiff ankle can re-record the action the muscle performs as a muscle memories. That way I have greater dexterity when I'm walking off a curb or busting a move on the dance floor.
The body never ceases to baffle me. The fact that the lack of leg activity has not only shrunk my calf, but also caused my muscles to forget its ingrained functions. WHOA.
I know we got off to a rough start, but can we be friends now for the rest of the year? You've been fast and furious, and I've been unyielding and cold as usual. Anyway, let's make up! I'll buy you dinner, maybe take you to the beach. Or maybe I'll make you a mix tape of all my favorite songs. Let's get over our grudges and talk about our feelings. Let's cry on each other's shoulders. Just please don't be mean to me anymore.
I caught Jacko mania. Here are three unappreciated Michael Jackson clips you never really hear anymore.
I like the song, but something about this video makes me really uncomfortable. RIP LINDA TOO.
OMG I LOVE IT WHEN GROUPS FROM THE 60s and 70s HAVE AN EMBARRASSING 80s PHASE. Sorry, Michael basically created the 80s, and y'all were just trying to leverage some more fame. Though I am sucker for the falsetto chorus line ("It's TORTURE") and retro dystopic futures/orientalism.
DIRTY DI-AN-A, no! Not his best, but something about metal guitar riffs and women on the edge go so well together.
And this song (not the iMovie) tugs at my heart strings:
The only thing I have to say about the death of Michael Jackson is how I found out. It was not someone's Facebook status nor TMZ, but I heard about it from something as antiquated as the radio. Yes, I still listen to the radio because I still like an element of surprise in my life. I scan the dial in search of the perfect soundtrack of the moment.
Funny that Michael Jackson didn't fit on the track list yesterday. I like him just as much as anyone but usually in the context of last call, last dance on the dance floor. So when I kept hitting scan, one by one each station started playing Michael Jackson songs back to back.
It's amusing to call it viral because anything viral in the media you usually think of the internet, i.e. Twitter. Though it was one of those creepy moments when you suddenly feel claustrophobic as you're forced to pay tribute to a man you didn't know. Yes, I agree, he is quite iconoclastic for changing pop music and inflating celebrity to a higher degree. Blah Blah Blah. But do we need to escalate this news to emergency broadcasting levels? Is it an emergency that I should feel obligated to pay respects because "Thriller" was playing when I sloppily made out with someone forgettable at a party? I'm not heartless, my thoughts are with his family. But when comes to entertainment, really I was in the mood to hear Madonna on the radio that day, not MJ.
Other thoughts:
1. If the radio is going to play back to back MJ songs, then MTV should definitely pay their respects by playing his videos on one of their 10+ channels. Each party brought the other much success; though it is curious to see how both brands devolved at the turn of this century. 2. My grandmother wants to me to write an expository essay on why Michael Jackson is such an pivitol figure in our society, which due is for discussion upon our Saturday evening PIZZA PARTY.
Who wants to go with me tomorrow? I just read about it in today's Inquirer. I'm hoping the exhibit will get me amped enough for a quicker recovery time so that I can start biking again.
So I got back on a bike today! Well a stationary one at physical therapy for about eight minutes. Funny that the therapist asked if it was "too soon" and I figure it's not soon enough. Don't get me wrong: I've been debating whether or not I'd be biking again, but it's probably the best to get over residual anxiety and hop back in the saddle.
I know I'm going to stop at every intersection and probably pedal at a turtle's pace. Cars are going to freak me out and I have to remember not to space out in the middle of traffic. I'm also going to sport a helmet and roll up to places with matted, sweaty hair. HAY.
It's going to be awhile before I start traversing town, and at all hours, but I know I will get tired of cab fares, SEPTA meltdowns, and exhausting my hot rod (the 1993 SUBARU LEGACY is on its last legs). Hands down, biking is still the fastest and easiest way to get around. PLUS, I score progressive points for keeping emissions low. But really, I just want to get those quads pumping to feel the wind in my face again.
I promise: No more fooling with monkey business, I'M PLAYING IT SAFE.
I remember watching a forgettable movie/program where a character laments something about suburbanites isolating themselves with cable TV. Ever since the household upgraded to Verizon's FiOS, my face time with the boob tube has increased 200%. Which means my suburban visa has been extended.
I mean it's exciting to know that I can watch GOLDEN GIRLS on not only Hallmark Channel, but also WETV and the Family Network. Let's talk about how easy it is to eat your feelings on estrogen alley that spans from Lifetime Movie Network to Soap Opera Net.. The liberal in me wants to watch currentTV all day where 20something newscasters say shit like "yeah, man, things in Palestine are totally messed up" (direct quote) while the art fag wants to watch documentaries about Jeff Koons and Ray Johnson on Ovation TV (MAKE LIFE CREATIVE). The real fag snickers at Logo(and cringes at old US Queer as Folk episodes), but I pay my fairy dues by watching shows like Beautiful People which oddly resembles my sissy middle school years. And then there's the guilty pleasures of Degrassi marathons where I wish my high school years were that dramatic. Though NYC Prep on Bravo hits too close to home.
For other members of the household: My Dad, the WWII history buff, can escape to 5 History Channels, including THE MILITARY CHANNEL (???). My mom can redecorate our house again by following tips from not only HGTV, but also DIY, which sadly does not take place in a West Philly basement show, but in the collective cul-de-sac of boom years past.
The upside: I am so ready for water cooler conversations that I always avoided and can pick up any meeting with clients by referencing the Office. Downside: holy shit I stay up all night watching Twin Peaks marathons on the Crime and Investigation Network. I am currently terrified that Laura Palmer's murderer is going to dice me up and James (<3)/Agent Cooper are twenty years too old to save me.
If you don't know my mother, she is a complete control freak. So it's no wonder that she planned her pregnancy exactly one year after she married my father. She married him sixth months after they met at a party. Prior to that she turned down three proposals because she felt her suitors lacked certain qualifications to raise a proper (Catholic) family. Suitor A had a bad temper, Suitor B had a moody orthodox family, or Suitor C worked as prison psychologist. All justifiable I suppose. Typically, nothing really surprises my mother and she is always prepared, but she was thrown off guard when my father mumbled a proposal over dinner. "I couldn't understand what he was babbling about and all I wanted to do was eat my fish." I like her word choice of babble, because she always implores me to quit babbling whenever I'm expressing my emotions on full blast. I'm sure my dad's nerves were high as well. I wonder if he had been circulating scenarios is his head: You know, interrupting dinner to get on the Hollywood knee, woo her with the question she has been waiting to hear all her life. Or not.
But my mother had no patience for silver screen romanticism, and wanted him to get to the point, so that she could eat her fish. Though, my mother did find my father not only charming, but much more suitable than her previous flames. However, if marriage was now on the table, the terms would have to be negotiated. No baby until a year has passed to ensure that all parties were committed. After a year, plans would be implemented as long as it would be baptized Catholic. My parents passed the one year milestone and I assume they began to make preparations.
As my parents continued to plot my debut, they also scheduled a trip to Quebec to celebrate their anniversary. It would be on the New York Thruway where my mother would realize that pregnancy would follow its own schedule and arrive unannounced in spite of vigorous planning. While thrilled that she and my father succeeded, she was disappointed to learn that she would have to forgo wine with dinner while frequenting Quebec City's finest restaurants.
P.S. my parents both abhorred this song, and totally reveled their dislike for it by rocking out to it on full volume circa 1996.
There are now nine minutes left of June 18, 2009, but I believe there are some places that still linger around April 17th, May 2nd, and June 14th. My room on S. 15th street is a museum of time stamps in corners. Here lies, in the left corner, the pile of winter coats that I need to sort, store, and/or donate. Pictures I never bothered to hang up from the last move in December. My senior thesis lies beside my bed, ready for a face lift and a tummy tuck, but at the last minute got bumped. There are too many books I need to page through, space is limited in the luggage. Besides, something tells me I need to get reacquainted with ghosts before I can get reconnected with the living. Busy signals have been sprouting since November, but now the cord is cut.
At 12:09 A.M., June 19, 2009 I am closing my eyes and imagining the rest of this summer, the past summer, and the winter that bridged the two. I have the scripts ready, the blocking looks good, but the stage keeps changing. There's always a car barreling through the fourth wall, just at the moment when you're feeling ambitious to make it happen. And of course the actors failed to show up. If someone is behind this, they sure got a good laugh and a better production down the block. I'd believe the footage as long as they just press play. I hope they hurry because I've got revisions to make.
HOLY SHIT I'm going to the mother of all MALLS: King of Prussia. Haven't been back there since '07, and with a high school friend back in town, it's going to be like '02 like whoa. My home gurl is turning 25 and I have to look real good. It's always interesting trying to find a way to accessorize with a black giant boot and crutches. I can't believe I still I have the crutches because I hoping they would be doneso by late June. I want my debut with a cane. God I want a cane really bad to hit cute boys like a creepy cranky old man that I've become. Whoa I'm nervous about finding the "right" outfit. I haven't showered in 3 days and I wear mesh shorts all day long. Whatever, they are super comfy and make me feel sporty when I look gimp.
I think I'll take an extra two minutes to find an appropriate youtube video to emphasize my glee. I bet you can guess what it will be. Oh and I'll take an extra 30 seconds to express my hope in running into someone from high school, now fashioning a beer gut.
Mother: Oh I would get the white, how should I say this, "pottery style" dish set, but it chips easily. I think I'm going to go with Nantucket Basket. The same set I gave Wendy for her wedding gift. Uncle: Well, as long as you don't get them in black like our brother did. He said it made the food look better. HMMPH. Grandmother: His taste is simply too contemporary. Father: I remember when he first got that set after he moved back to D.C. He lived in that dreadful basement apartment. The one where you had to trip over his parasail to get to the kitchen. HA!
Uncle: You're right. That was right off Connecticut Ave.
Mother: And then he and John bought that much nicer colonial townhouse north of Georgetown. I wish they still had that place. The condo in Dupont is hardly impressive.
Son: Mom, their old house was up on a steep hill and far from any public transportation. It was too residential. I like their new place. It's close to Whole Foods, restaurants, the metro, and other stuff. Plus, the windows provide a good amount of natural lighting [of course I would say this].
Uncle: You're right. It is closer to downtown.
Mother: Spencer, they paid all that money for a view of the parking lot with a foul-looking dumpster.
okay go. I feel like I need to update this blog since it's been a week and that's a no-no in web 2.0 world. I'm so livejournal, but really never had one and have been with blogspot since 2001. you are not going to look at my old blogspot. it is full of high school embarrassment. i totally took like a 5 minute stream of consciousness break to talk to an old friend in iceland. i've been fantasizing a lot about having residency somewhere like corsica, but NOT ibiza. can you imagine the poetry/creative writing exercises that would come out of that? it would probably be a lot of one-word abstraction coupled with participles like "sex thumping." actually that is it. I took a thirty second break to make sure participle is the right word. I have no retention which is why I failed the SATs and GREs. WAH WAH. Thank god I have a personality. Sometimes. One more minute and I have to go to physical therapy. I have a post in the works about how my work out routine is so European. I remember the last time I was there my film professor told me that Europe is Dead, but I keep writing about it. Never did take that obligatory backpacking trip that all boring liberal arts majors are supposed to take. Instead I opted for South Philly, thank you very much. Blogging is hard because it really takes me 2 hours to write a post, but look how much I wrote in 10 minutes with a 6 minute break.
Typically I'm not a fan of people touching me. This changed when I went for a doctor's visit on Friday. When I was called to one of the patient rooms, I discovered that I would be joined by three male Penn med students. I don't think I've seen a male under the age of 35 in a month. Of course I was pretty tight lipped in the event I uttered my love for one of them. I almost died when the doctor encouraged each student to feel how tender my skin felt around the battle wounds. Was I in someone's doctor-patient fantasy? Brief as it was, it got me aroused enough to listen to the following on repeat.
I'm sorry but 2009 has been a total let down. So I'm declaring that this summer be a SUMMER OF SENTIMENTALITY. This means indulging romcom marathons, bad grammar, blogging Web 1.0 style, talking about feelings with hearts on the sleeve, crocheting said hearts on twitter feeds, and tuning into DELIAH ON THE RADIO.
I've come to this conclusion after listening to the following on repeat
It's no surprise that I do everything in my power to avoid pain. In high school, I participated in the low impact sports of track and crew. If an opportunity for conflict erupted from an aggressive classmate, I negotiated a cease fire, made strategic alliances with older kids (and hot girls), and just played Switzerland. My idea of rough housing was climbing trees and seeing how long I could ignore my mother's pleas to come down for dinner.
I knew one misstep could send me to the emergency room. That's where pain is celebrated for its most traumatizing achievements. Pain gets accolades when you receive a cast on your foot, crutches to bear your weight on, and unlimited hours of daytime television. The only perk is that you get your cast signed by the cute boy that you really wanted to become "friends" with, but of course he's absent that day or rather he's the one person that doesn't care about your accident.
Anyway, I figured I take extra precautions in my ascent to the top of the tree. Double check each branch to see if it could handle your weight. Know that the limit comes before the sky so never reach too high. Should have taken my eight year old advice when I was barreling down Tasker Avenue on my bike in pursuit to make it home in record time from god-knows-where- at-4 am. Sadly, I didn't make it across Passyunk and ended up in that damn emergency room. Pain had finally conquered me.
I was surprised to learn that pain was a lot smarter than I ever gave it credit. It's not the dog you yell "OW" at when it bites you in the leg. Severe pain doesn't strike upon impact, but it likes to assess the damages and test out a few bruises and fractures. Before it seeps into your consciousness, pain's more compassionate, yet distant cousin adrenaline barges in to provide initial support that prepares you for what's next.
Pain is spoken on a scale from 1-10 with doctors and nurses. If you can utter, " a sharp 8 with increasing potential for a 9," that will guarantee you a four day post-op hospital stay with morphine drip on the house. The metal rod now permanently lodging in your leg will activate a steady 7 for a good week. When you are speaking in 5s and 6s, you are sent home with a goodie bag of Percocet and Vicodin. You make up modifiers to get your point across for anything below a 3. This works well in physical therapy when the Jane Fonda leg lifting causes you to a have a slight but achy 2, which excuses you from completing the ridiculous exercise.
However, when reach those levels, your time for easy sympathy is running low along with your stash of pain pills. Pretty soon everyone will want you to quit your whining, learn how to walk again, and get back to work. At least I can count on the isolated 2-and-3 level pain to check in through the metal rod to let me know a storm is a-brewing.
I often let things stew or marinate for too long, which is to say I've been slow with coming to terms with the emotional toll from my bike accident. Probably it's because the incident itself happened too fast. I remember that my internal monologue went from something like, "fuck where did this car come from I hope I can wing it" to "holy shit am I paralyzed bleeding where are my glasses?" But it's the middle sequence that haunts me. The part where my thoughts are silenced, and I'm flying through the air, ending up on the other side of the car that hit me. The only footage I have resembles what would happen if someone flipped a camcorder in the air.
I suppose I'm also a visual thinker as well. I'm not exactly sure what that exactly means, but something familiar registers while I was watching Ghost tonight. Towards the end of the film, Sam's (Patrick Swayze's) killer runs into traffic and gets hit by a bus. He meets his death by flying unto the hood of another oncoming vehicle.
I could finally capture my own flight path from the initial impact to air and then to the crash landing. My memory adds a few more seconds to the playback and cuts to a POV shot at a side angle. This new sequence, however, begs more questions than answers
A few days ago, a friend posted this video on their Facebook wall and referenced their painfully embarrassing Tori phase. I had one, too, right after my three year Smashing Pumpkins binge that led me into trouble. I wonder if my life would had been any different had this been a hit song. Would I be more well-adjusted? Would Kurt Cobain still be alive and well, or even relevant? Would Y Kant Tori Read be our number one export to keep our economy strong?
If only "The Big Picture" made the top of the charts, we'd all be happy and have our problems solved.
(Favorite lyric: Mothers on my case/I told it's my life/WELL SHE JUST DIED. WHAT?)
Out of a class of 25 boys, I definitely lingered at the bottom five on the popularity rankings at the small catholic boys school I attended. I had zero coordination in the outfield, talked real funny, and had a brief Tori Amos phase.
This is a year after I listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails on heavy rotation to get me through seventh grade. This self-diagnosed prescription for my angst problem led me to believe that I really was Billy Corgan. Such to the extent that I begin penning my own lyrics for the band's follow up to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Fortunately, Adore would come out that summer before publication.
(Let's pause for second to think about how fabulously melodramatic that title is. If I ever compile a list for a Listener's Guide to Seventh Grade in the Mid to Late 90s, Mellon Collie would be firmly ranked as number one on its title alone.)
Anyway, I envisioned myself as Billy Corgan because, as an only child with strict parents that banned everything R rated and above, I had to entertain my penchant for all things grotesque and macabre somehow. Smuggling contraband (Parental Advisory CDs and other offensive materials from the local mall) and the petty theft from my mother's purse to fund the operation was not enough. My delinquency was too small scale, and I needed to escalate to something more permanent. Plus, I had a lot of time to kill on the hour long bus ride from Bryn Mawr to West Chester. So, under the influence of the Smashing Pumpkins' discography, I wrote my first poem.
I'm not sure how to describe my seventh grade sonnets. I'm sure I lifted lyrics like "I lie just to be real and I die just to feel," peppered with "fuck you," images of severed body limbs, and post-apocalyptic landscapes. Suddenly, the other kids noticed me scrawling away and I was a hit on the bus. I was even commissioned by a devoted few. I knew the humor was at my expense, but no longer was I the kid that hid under the bleaches during gym, or who kept the bench warm outside of the school psychologist's office. So what if I was still a loser. At least I secured a position as back seat poet with a mean publicity machine.
Soon enough my English teacher would get word of my nascent literary career. Some eighth grade snitch found a draft buried in my desk. My school was too small for lockers so personal property was easily subject for confiscation. I was too shocked and embarrassed to build a defense case at the time. Not that it would save me in a catholic school where you're guilty until proven innocent in the eyes of a nun. Besides, I'd always shutdown in the face of male aggression and think of a happy place. A place where the teacher would instead tell me to lighten up and rewrite the poem in the form of a dirty limerick.
