Demons

I'm sure I mentioned that in this writing class, we're digging for autobiographical material. And as a result of the broad-based topic I stumbled into based on some strong earlier in-class pieces, I'm in depressing-land here for all of my writing material. (I will certainly make a note of this for future in the next creative nonfiction class I take.)

Anyway, as part of this process, I wrote about PK (for those who knew him). I thought it would be pretty easy, given the distance and the subsequent expunging of the guilt, but it was harder than I thought. The piece that come out of it was relatively strong and cohesive, though. Naturally, this meant that my teacher picked it for me to read out loud tonight.

I'm kind of mortified that I choked a bit, and I also had some funny-to-me-only guffawing instances on the weirdness that he was. Jesus. It's like goddamned therapy in there, I swear.

One of Those Irritating Days

Does this happen to you: You are some unspecified, incoherent species of annoyed with the world? Where service workers are likely fortunate not to have to deal with you? Where, if your mood were to physically manifest around you, you'd look something like Pig Pen from Peanuts, lost in a cloud of grunge and blackness? And the incoherence of the source of the irritation (and thus your inability to address same and get rid of it) increases your baseline level of irritation?

It could be the sudden cold snap or the time change. Or it could be the fact that it takes me eons to fall asleep these days (random coworker greeting from this morning: "Jeez, did you have your late class last night? Your eyes are all red"). Bah.

So That We May Better Serve You, Please Identify Your Nerd Type

Okay, There Are Approximately Three of Us Left Watching Heroes

Do we want to talk about it? Personally, I thought it was kind of dull. Yet, aspects of it were somewhat amusing.

Rain. Day 2.

It being March in Chicago environs, this counts as a Good Thing, and those lazy days where you are obligated, obligated to sit inside and sip hot beverages are sadly few and far between. I can't think of a better day to get some grade-A musings in on the new crop of incidents that I'm trying to write. I'm going to try for some lighter, funnier stuff because I'm starting to get drained from the relentlessly dark.

Work went, so that's also a good thing. There was a paucity of cinnamon rolls, because we were all on our own recognizance, and I had a wrong perception on where the place was. Bummer for me. There was also minimum of chaos because there weren't that many people at our event. I mainly spent the day sitting in back of a desk and smiling at people cheerily. Overheard chatter in the lobby was that the event itself was first rate. And reports back from the performance portion that I missed were that it too went well, and that our conductor ruled the place and was a "sex god" (that last observation coming from my friend M after an unspecified amount of wine; no one told me there would be an open bar).

I get a comp day out of it, so that's good. I also got vaguely insulted by a prominent music and cultural critic.

It May Be Friday, But Alas, I Must Work This Weekend

You may remember my last conference hell experience round about this time last year. (Hmmm, it seems like I bitched about it more at the time, but I guess I was too tired to.)

Anyway, we have a mini-deal going on this weekend, for which I have to work but one day. And there will be cinnamon rolls, which always offset a lot of grief in my book.

Random ten, since it's Friday.

1. bricks & mortar, the jam
2. dimmest star, pernice brothers
3. heart shaped bruise, elvis costello and the imposters
4. take your carriage clock and shove it, belle & sebastian
5. beetlebum, blur
6. dirt, the stooges
7. i don't want to hear it anymore, dusty springfield
8. take me with u, prince
9. always for you, the album leaf
10. 19-2000 (soulchild remix), gorillaz

bonus number 11: big night, megachoir.

I don't need to point you to the link in the sidebar there, do I people?

Where Bjork is Bjork, and the Elves Are Under the Mountain

Want to read about Iceland's fascinating economic meltdown?

Just after October 6, 2008, when Iceland effectively went bust, I spoke to a man at the International Monetary Fund who had been flown in to Reykjavík to determine if money might responsibly be lent to such a spectacularly bankrupt nation. He’d never been to Iceland, knew nothing about the place, and said he needed a map to find it. He has spent his life dealing with famously distressed countries, usually in Africa, perpetually in one kind of financial trouble or another. Iceland was entirely new to his experience: a nation of extremely well-to-do (No. 1 in the United Nations’ 2008 Human Development Index), well-educated, historically rational human beings who had organized themselves to commit one of the single greatest acts of madness in financial history. “You have to understand,” he told me, “Iceland is no longer a country. It is a hedge fund.”

Speaking of Bjork:

Because Iceland is really just one big family, it’s simply annoying to go around asking Icelanders if they’ve met Björk. Of course they’ve met Björk; who hasn’t met Björk? Who, for that matter, didn’t know Björk when she was two? “Yes, I know Björk,” a professor of finance at the University of Iceland says in reply to my question, in a weary tone. “She can’t sing, and I know her mother from childhood, and they were both crazy. That she is so well known outside of Iceland tells me more about the world than it does about Björk.”

And this is all kinds of awesome:

Alcoa, the biggest aluminum company in the country, encountered two problems peculiar to Iceland when, in 2004, it set about erecting its giant smelting plant. The first was the so-called “hidden people”—or, to put it more plainly, elves—in whom some large number of Icelanders, steeped long and thoroughly in their rich folkloric culture, sincerely believe. Before Alcoa could build its smelter it had to defer to a government expert to scour the enclosed plant site and certify that no elves were on or under it. It was a delicate corporate situation, an Alcoa spokesman told me, because they had to pay hard cash to declare the site elf-free but, as he put it, “we couldn’t as a company be in a position of acknowledging the existence of hidden people.”

Sign 'o the Times

Your quarterly 403(b) statement arrives. The envelope says: "Take a Deep Breath. It's Still a Great Time to Contribute to Your Retirement."

Do you: (a) laugh, (b) weep gently, (c) hibernate until 2020 when this thing should start turning around.

Another Question for the Ages: Why? Why Do They Do This?

Call me practical, but if I were going to launch my career in politics, I would have a few guiding principles in mind that I've acquired from years of observation.

1. Don't embezzle, do favors, engage in quid pro quo, even if it seems insane to "fucking give it away." In the latter case, I would most definitely not comment on the injustice of the arrangement while I'm being wire-tapped.

2. No sex scandals. Assume that even if that hooker seems trustworthy or that club where fellow rubber-hose fetishers congregate seems discreet, you will be found out.

3. No embellishment of really good stories. I know it's tempting to think this stuff will fly under the radar in normal conversational matters, but truly, they've got really awesome technology these days that let you record. It's a bitch to be famous.

So with principle 3 in mind, I'm left to wonder just what Bobby Jindal could possibly have been thinking, because he seems like a smart guy, Rhodes Scholar and all.

The Postal Service, Indeed

Today's music list wants to rub salt in my wounds. First, it's a music list and thus reminding me that the excellent mix (labeled thusly) that I painstakingly made and sent to someone got stolen from the envelope. Stolen, people. As in arrival of an empty envelope, said envelope naturally getting delivered, as the post office knows from delivering envelopes, empty or otherwise. Then, of course, the ipod imps have to mock with putting the Postal Service in there. Sigh.

1. down in the tube station at midnight, the jam (live version)
2. cadillac on 22's, david banner
3. if you find yourself caught in love, belle and sebastian
4. theme for a very delicious grand piano, olivia tremor control
5. identity, x-ray spex
6. white boy, bikini kill
7. too tough to die, the ramones
8. love you more, the buzzcocks
9. come see about me, the supremes
10. recycled air, the postal service

But my pretty crummy and stressed-out week is over! And tonight will feature a well-earned happy hour saturated with Spanish wine. Yum.

Oh, curious at all about the state of housing prices? They're down ten percent in one month.

Yes, Well. You've Got to Die Sometime

A drink a day raises a woman's risk for cancer:

For years, many women have been buoyed by the news about one of life's guilty pleasures: That nightly glass of wine may not only take the edge off a day but also improve their health. Now it turns out that sipping pinot noir might not be such a good idea after all.

A new study involving nearly 1.3 million middle-aged British women -- the largest ever to examine alcohol and cancer in women -- found that just one glass of chardonnay, a single beer or any other type of alcoholic drink per day increases the risk of a variety of cancers.

I Should Have Known, When I Watched His Baffling Amble into the Camera Frame

I should have turned up the sound and watched while I was on the phone. The snap analysis of Bobby Jindal's speech seems to be coalescing:

But context notwithstanding, Jindal was something of a disaster. The delivery was awkward and sing-song (comparisons to Kenneth from "30 Rock" are ubiquitous). The arguments were tone-deaf and tiresome. The anecdotes were long and pointless. Jindal hadn't quite practiced enough with a teleprompter. He not only seemed like a guy selling a bad product in an infomercial, Jindal seemed like he was new at it.

It was painful to watch, both because the speech was bad and because it was hard not to feel bad for the guy embarrassing himself on national television.

On one of the cable networks, viewers were told that Jindal was "almost childish," and this "was not Bobby Jindal's greatest oratorical moment." The network? Fox News.

Kenneth from 30 Rock? For real? And I missed that? Damn.

And I missed a lot of broad strokes on Obama's speech, as well because I was transfixed with Nancy Pelosi's jacket? Sweater? Sweatsuit? Was that a zipper? Did it have a tassle? You can see how one might get lost there.

Oh Dear God

I'm in such a place where we have a suite-only restroom, accessible only to staff. I'm also unfortunately in a place where I have had to fish unflushed paper towels out of the toilet, put there by an unspecified person who is apparently accustomed to flushing all manner of materials down their home toilets.

I was happy to take the bullet (or the coathanger, as it were) the first time this happened. But since then, staff meetings have been held and e-mails were sent updating the gathered on the inadvisability of such things. Everybody onboard, it would seem, and in agreement.

So when it happens again, I think you have to say we're no longer operating under the rules of a civilized society.

I Do Love Me a Little Bit of This

Soul.

So, How About Those Oscars?

Did you laugh? Did you cry? Was it better than Cats?

My observations:

Panning to Angelina Jolie while Jennifer Aniston was presenting--oh, so National Enquirier-covered cat fight!

Kevin Kline--morphing into Vincent Price? Discuss.

Resolved: No one, but no one, looks good in a strapless dress. Either gravity is working against you, you're mushing up weird bits of loose skin, or you have weird bones jutting out in strange places.

Mickey Rourke--are those his real teeth?

Sophia Loren--doesn't she look a bit like the statuette herself?

Was it a plus that it didn't feel interminable this year and that there weren't any serious diva moments?

Hugh Jackman--charmingly entertaining, or irritatingly cloying? Is he, as Barbara Walters would have it, the last of the true song-and-dance men?

It's That Time of Year Again

The time when I stock up on Hello Kitty writing implements to flourish in meetings and generally make people uncomfortable and/or confused by my whimsical and childish tastes.

Behold: my new Badtz Maru pen.
I also got a really nifty three-way one featuring Kuromi, who likes the color black and skulls, writing in her diary, reading short stories, and playing a mean guitar. Perfecto.

Aaaannnnnd, We're Back

Reentry into the real world is never a good thing, is it? No matter how sunny and cheery you feel, getting smacked with "Oh, god, my deadlines, I'm never going to get this done in time as long as people keep thinking, 'eh, no rush on my part, it's Laura, and she can crank it out likethat'" just brings you right back.

But, eh, whaddya gonna do? We've reset the postal meter by a good couple of weeks, easy.

I Need a Bit of Music Infusion

It's not Friday, but as I'm outta here after today, I declare it officially so. So random music queuing.

1. all the old showstoppers, new pornographers
2. sweet soul music, the jam
3. high on a mountain top, loretta lynn
4. catching the butterfly, the verve
5. no growing (exegesis), olivia tremor control
6. wishful thinking, the album leaf
7. beechwood park, the zombies
8. room 13, black flag
9. lust for life, iggy pop
10. nothin', townes van zandt

And it's nice and schizophrenic, which is always a good thing. Class was eh, since we had a substitute whose style could best be described as haranguing and who decided for some reason that I would serve as a nice example for proper in-class participation (following the haranguing, of course). Did she pick on the scowly girl who left halfway through class? Nooooooooo.

I'm also gearing up today for some teeth-gritting office dysfunction and staff togetherness. Inmates ==> asylum.

Beyond that, senioritis, baby. Checked out. Weekend on the horizon.

It Is a Truth Universal

That the day you're getting a haircut--after reaching a state of fed up with your hair's ugliness--is the day that everyone tells you how awesome your hair looks.

Surreal Conversation of the Day

On Friday, I had one of periodic outbursts of righteous explanation on the way things should be in my sphere of apparently little influence. It's goofy, it's frustrating, I get on my high horse to try to right it all on occasion, but such is the way of a power vacuum and no one wanting to make decisions.

Anyway, as a predictable result of a situation that I've been trying to point out for the past 8 months or so, we are preparing to arrange an emergency meeting to address editorial follow through on conference papers and our publisher interest in same (i.e., the person who should be following up to publish things is not, ergo presenters are baffled and offended). I was talking with a quasi-muckety muck about topics for our next upcoming venture, and he was expressing concern on whether these things would be high-quality enough to publish. To which I had to point out that it's really beside the point if your whole system breaks down on the follow-through, isn't it? I don't think he quite got it.

You laugh or you cry, no?