Dude.
When they say shame, they are not kidding. Not one bit.
I want to write about last night, because I got here early enough to do the writing that I had to do (stepwork) but not the writing that I want to do, morning pages, whatever - but I'm just glad I got here remotely close to the time that I wanted to be here, and that the first number on the clock was 7 and not 8. And I packed lunch. Although I forgot the eggs I took the time to make last night to have for my salad. But yeah - I'm all distracted by this poor kid in the window, who is all, like, I'm going to have my coffee and read my book and be like, on my date with myself, and he's so fidgety that I'm uncomfortable for him. He's got a book and a cup of coffee and he's just totally unable to sit with himself - and I'm looking at him, like, fuck - I remember when that kicked the shit out of me. I still do it now, sometimes, but not much. But he's got this mess of floppy hair that he's unsure of, and he keeps pushing it all off to the side, and having to rearrange the way he is sitting because he can't just sit. Sit consciously, dammit. Maybe he's just gay and like, preening. But from what I can tell, he's pretty inwardly agitated.
That, and he's got a pencil thin mustache. Like he asks his friends at parties, what do you think, should I keep it? Yeah? Are you sure? I don't know... my rule is, all of that is just fine, but once you've left the house, you've got to own that shit. It happens to me when I wear my boots. But I digress.
So last night was like, The Most Fun Thing Ever. And I hear Janet right now going, "Victoria, but you like, say that every day, about something" - and maybe that's true, but - I don't even know if, outside of my well-intentioned capitalization, if I can convey with proper weight and girth the goodness that is Salon of Shame. Going was Kristin's idea, as are most of the Awesome things that I either attend or that happen to me on most levels. Something and something as a result of KEXP, a line in a song, a phrase in a book, a moment in a movie, or attendance at an Interesting Event. Things and Items.
For those of you lazy readers (and remind me to write later about people who get self-important about blogging) who did not take the time to follow yesterday's link, Salon of Shame is based on a thing in New York called Cringe. Picture this: 150 of your closest (friends) strangers, packed into a tiny little theater where you might expect to see some experimental play... black curtains, black painted stage below a small set of rows, a microphone, a spotlight, a knowing soundman, and your notebook -
from when you were twelve.
I am not kidding.
It's so bad that it's good. It's so revolting that it's key. It's so beyond any level of, well, cringing, the kind of cringing that you get when you want to change the channel (say, when Angela falls in the mud and proceeds to stay in the living room with Jordan Catalano instead of leaving), where you are just about too embarrassed to watch - but you watch - you stay - and it's totally delicious.
Marked moments from last night, before I head off to Work. Where I will undoubtedly not have much to do in the way of Work, but will be ready and available for the three hours (maybe, that might be pushing it) where they need me to be Ready and Able:
A guy reading from a journal from when he was at some kind of bible college, complete with self deprecating accounts of masturbation, maybe from a lack of love from Jesus;
Two separate women and accounts of girls they met and what they did and did not like about them, all the while proclaiming how not gay they were (who were like, totally gay);
Three years of a letter to the same boy, equated with the powers of God and many religious scriptures;
and Ariel herself with all of her unrequited eighth-grade play angst. And many, many declarations of love - how love just is, how it's a feeling, this love, this way of feeling, the drawing of breath, the gazing afar, the, I like her / him, but not like that - I mean, really.
I am sad to report that my "box" of items (read: angst-loaded little diaries with locks, photos, and notes fervently passed back and forth from desk to desk throughout most of junior high) is no more, having been stolen from Steve and Jon's mom's front porch years and years and years ago. But, as Kristin put it - it's not like the angst stopped at 15 or 16. Fuck, I was just getting ramped up, starting to take myself all seriously and shit.
It may not equate to Kristin's divine layers of copy, everything from the age of eight forward, including (but not limited to) the lack of God and the unfairness of parenting over New Kids On The Block tickets - but I'm sure we can come up with something. She'll be reading next time at the 3rd anniversary show on December 2nd (I think). Confirmation to follow. Oh - on the date, not on whether or not she's getting up there. It's too good to pass up.
On the run - kisses, and little moments in the margins of a diary hid purposefully between the boxspring and the mattress -
vvb
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