This Afternoon In Drama

Oh, Yes I Am The Muffin Author

I'm in Logan airport racing against the credit card clock. As of this period --->. I have 4 min, 48 seconds remaining. Today I did my reading at Brown, where a couple gave me a chocolate chip muffin after asking me if I spoke French. I speak very, very elementary French, but I guess they decided to gift me the pastry anyway. After the Newton reading I was given shrimp in some sort of fancy glaze, which I guess bests the muffin quality-wise, but the muffin seemed to truly be from the heart. And when things come from the heart, how can you possibly put a price on them?

And now, I'm off to use my remaining 3 minutes to check TV listings for the week. Can't start fresh Monday if you don't know what's swirling in the cable hot tub Tuesday through Sunday.

Quick

In Providence, home of the incredibly dirty Brown hippie co-op white kids with dreadlocks, who curiously smell like meat, despite being vegetarians. I spent four years trying to get to the bottom of this while sitting through classes, breathing only through my mouth. More at a more convenient time.

I Fly JetBlue Because Of The TV's

Tomorrow I'm off to the East Coast for a one-two punch of readings. First it's Newtonville Books in MA on May 27th, which will be a bewildering event for me because part of the deal is that I'm supposed to go get drinks afterward with reading attendees. We walk down to the bar together. Do we link arms? Don't know. Lately, when I drink even the smallest amounts of alcohol, my heart starts pounding so loudly that I can't help but bounce a little to the internal beat (some who have been around me consider this "autistic-like" rocking, but potato/potawwwwto), my forehead temperature rises a few degrees, and shortly thereafter I feel incredibly sick. If anyone wants to buy me a drink there, I think I'll just go with my favorite pink hussy, Shirley Temple.

Then it's off to the old alma mater to read at the Brown bookstore on May 30th, but I'm following a guy who's reading from his Benjamin Franklin bio, and can already hear the murmurs of "More Ben...more Ben" floating through the commencement slap-happy audience, because people just can't get enough of that guy. While in Providence I hope to eat at my favorite Indian restaurant where the proprietor always used to roll his eyes at me when I ordered the same mild dish for take-out every week. As he'd hand me the bag he'd ask, "Don't you want to try something new?" and I'd say, "No" and leave. This exact conversation went down a number of times.

I unintentionally forgot to bring my laptop, so this means the blog is mostly likely going quiet for a week. I know other blog keepers will usually do something like, "Hey, in the meantime, here are some sites to keep you occupied:", but I find that sort of condescending and figure that you can easily fill the dearth of me in your daily schedule if you have cable television or a handful of paperclips.

But I will leave you with a voluntary project, if you're in dire need of direction. If you're the kind of kid that likes to get pushed around. These one star reviews on Amazon are worrisome not because they change my feelings about the book, but because they totally mess with my sales. They seem to be coming from people with wrong expectations or dispositions for the book- either they read a review touting me as a girl Salinger and expected Catcher In The Vagina (and I wish those J.D.-heavy magazine/paper reviews would stop because they're misleading), or they seem to believe that suicidal intentions should be unequivocally rational and are pissed when Stella's "reasons" don't explain enough. Anyway, I know certain people are liking the book because I'm getting those emails, so if you genuinely enjoyed the book and are so inclined, please let people know this on Amazon.com or BN.com. Prospective readers have the right to hate the book, but I'm concerned that they won't even get the chance to hate it if pre-emptively deterred by the latest bunch of pissy online reviews.

Talk to you soon. Call me this summer. B.F.F. (K.I.T.) I can't believe eighth grade is over so fast!
L8trZzZz,
andreaa.

Postal Torture

I was planning to come home and write a little on the subject of why the latest Bachelor's second choice was cruelty in action, but then, on the way to my door, I stopped to get the mail. It was only then that I realized that my mail key had dropped off of the ring and disappeared sometime during the day. My heart raced as if I was a parent and had absent-mindedly left one of the kids at the mall. Because it's Friday, and if I can't get into my mailbox on Friday, then the world is a hub of sadism. Friday is Entertainment Weekly day. Friday is US Weekly day. And sometimes, because the delivery is all over the place, Friday is Soap Opera Weekly day.

Through the cracks of my mailbox I can see the little feet of my maggies, trying to kick their way out. I hear soft, almost mute cries of, "It's so dark in here. It's so cold."

And it depresses me so.

If I can't find out why J. Lo's wearing a new ring from Marc Anthony, then I don't want to do anything.

God Wants You To Trim

This ad stopped my fingers in their tracks as I was flipping through Publisher's Weekly. And I hate being an "Ew" girl, but "Ew." I'm always creeped out by long nails on fingers, but I especially hate the cultivated look of long nails on toes. I'll never, ever grasp the French Toenail Manicure. Why is it a positive to have excess nail growth on your feet, snagging the sheets and giving you the look of something that should actually be walking on all fours, since you really just have two sets of identical claws? And why a semi-close-up of long toenails is an attractive lure to readers I'll never understand, but this company must know something that I don't because their teen magazine bibles sell like hotcakes and my book's slipping on Amazon.

Possibly Why I've Felt Stuck In Time Lately

When my ex-ex-boyfriend was at Princeton, I used to take the train up and down in between Providence and New York all the time, and one cold evening- snow all around- I embarked on such a journey back up north via Amtrak. Of this particular trip I remember the extreme chill in the air that even cut through the train's cabin, and I remember the girl in the seat in front of me who put Natalie Imbruglia's hit, "Torn," on repeat on her Discman for the entire four hour ride. The song was pumped up on her headphones, spilling back into my seat, and the first few times I heard "Torn" back to back, I was like, "Fine, she just got the CD. She loves the song. So be it." About a half hour later, I was trying to peer in between the crack of her seat and her neighbor's, to see if I could deduce any behavioral signs that pointed to her being, you know, "slow." Because the only time I've witnessed something being repeated to that extent has been during babysitting, when the kids really, and I mean, really just can't get enough of The Lion King. Or when Audrey, the baby I sit for now, can only fall asleep if I put (on repeat) track 17 of the National Geographic Lullabies CD, which happens to be a Native American chant, and dance rhythmically around the room while she rests her head on my chest- the repetition doubled by the song itself and my bouncing movements.

So this girl in the seat in front of me listened to "Torn" repeatedly, on a high volume, for the entire trip up the eastern seaboard. I kept trying to study for winter final exams, but was constantly distracted by my own engrossment: I'd find myself ignoring my reading as the final chorus of "Torn" hit. My muscles would clench, and I'd mentally dare the song to go another round. And it always did. As I exited the train in Providence, I saw the ticket stub of the girl- continuing onto Boston- and her song had just started over again.

I have a neighbor like the "Torn" girl now. She lives in the bungalow next door, and she really likes to listen to songs more than once. She likes to listen to the same song for an hour plus. The other day it was Dylan's, "Like a Rolling Stone," and, after hearing it fifty times, I began to respond to the lyrics "How doooooes it feeeeeel?" with a resounding, "Pretty shitty." Yesterday she had some R&B song on a loop, a song that I was familiar with and could probably identify, except I could no longer remember the lyrics once she wiped them from my brain with a hundred consecutive spins of the Go-Go's "We Got The Beat." Then I finally left the house to go swimming.

More Good Friends

When Jakey's mom left his dad, all of the single men in the school district delicately nudged their young sons and daughters to befriend him, as Jakey's mom was a total M.I.L.F. She'd pick him up from third grade with her hair always wet, like she was constantly just getting out of the shower, and her red bras always showed through the variety of neverending white tank tops that she liked to wear. Jakey was aware that his mom was considered hot, and since his dad hadn't been an especially fun or wealthy guy, he was actually looking forward to her reeling in a charismatic millionaire, who would buy him a personal mime and eventually die young from "too much living", leaving Jakey bonds and stock options.

When Jakey's mom started hanging out a lot with Irma, Jakey assumed that they were just friends. He looked at Irma, with her salt and pepper hair, her gold-tone rimmed glasses, her crow's feet, and was unsure why his mom was getting so close to such an old bag. But they stayed out of his way, so he couldn't complain. They spent a lot of time upstairs in Jakey's mom's bedroom. "Painting each other's nails?" he assumed.

When Jakey's mom finally announced that she and Irma were going to spend the rest of their lives together, Jakey's eyes widened in disbelief. "This old bag?" he asked, his nervous lisp accentuated by the heightened circumstances. "Does she even have any money?"

"She doesn't, Jakey," replied Jakey's mom, smiling warmly, hopefully. "But Irma has lots of love."

This answer was not, in any way, soothing to Jakey. After the commitment ceremony, he set about making Irma's life miserable, figuring that she had contributed nothing to his. He replaced her toothpaste with denture adhesive; he took her glasses while she was napping and had the prescription lenses swapped out at the nearest Lenscrafters; he wrote "GRANNY PANTIES" in fat black marker on the seats of her granny panties.

Finally, one day, a tormented Irma confronted Jakey while his mom was out, tanning at the neighborhood pool. "Listen, Jakey," said Irma, her eyes watering and blazing at the same time, "Your mom is the best thing to ever have happened to me. I can't lose her. I cannot. Do you understand?" She flung a potholder across the kitchen. "What do you need from me?"

"Do you have a retirement fund?" asked Jakey.

Irma grimaced.

One 401k later, Irma and Jakey were, at the suggestion of Jakey's mom, posing for the Kashi "Good Friends" Cinna-Raisin Crunch box.

"Only 10 grams of fiber in it, you old bag," whispered Jakey into Irma's ear, and she just smiled with teeth.

For The Record(er)

So the big O.C. Register interview/article came out, and I've discovered that I feel the same way about journalists who don't use tape recorders as I do about waiters who won't write down my order. It never, ever comes back right. Usually the end result will resemble my hamburger, but it will have all that extra shit on it that I, being a plain, plain eater, was trying to avoid. In the same way, this interview is sort of gucked up, like it's been slathered in mayonnaise. I recognize some of the statements from the talk with Wilson, but I also recognize certain lingual patterns that are unfamiliar, parts of sentences that I know I capped off in a different way (and of course, in different context). But what really gets me the most is the mis-naming of my next book because I'm so in love with the real title, To Feel Stuff, and have spent the better part of a year swooning over it. I might officially be on a crusade- no more fucking shorthand!

Anyway, I have to go to work now. I'm signing at the Irvine Barnes and Noble tonight at 7 PM (the one across from Tustin marketplace and near Loehmann's, the place where I literally buy 99% of my clothing), so come out if you like to be read to like a small child.

If There's A Bustle In Your Hedge Row

I did tons of driving between L.A. and "the O.C." this weekend, so I was bound to hear Stairway to Heaven a few times. The opening notes conjured the crispest photographic memories of the dank multi-purpose room/pit in which my middle school used to hold dances. I saw the boy-girl couples swaying with their arms out like zombies, almost coincidentally touching each other on the shoulders. The "this can't be your real job?" DJ pushed back into the corner of the stage with his Bar Mitzvah repetoire of LP's- celebrate good times. Come on. The Bad Kids who'd been suspended from the dance for smoking, ditching, or fighting, and who had decided to come anyway and peer in through the tinted wall of windows running the length of the "dance floor."

The images were so cemented to the song that it only took about ten years for me to snap out of the association and realize not only that it's pretty weird that Stairway to Heaven became the closing anthem of every Lakeside dance held during the 90-92 season (why didn't Boys II Men take pole position? I'll never understand it. They had both End Of The Road and It's So Hard to Say Goodbye, which, in my opinion, means that they should have easily trounced the Zep, even without their coordinated outfits on), but also that we considered it the romantic anthem of the night. It was the do-or-die song, the intro chords signalling that now was the time to take your trimester-long crush by the hand and lead him/her to the dance floor. It was even the song that made it okay to take a risk, to live dangerously for the next few minutes. To rest your head on your dance partner's shoulder. The night was closing down upon us, our bored parents were waiting in the outside parking lot with their motors running, our curls and hairsprayed waves of bangs were failing us, and yet, we swayed, hearts boiling to a song that's actually about being a better person in this life because material things aren't going to mean a thing when we die.

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold/ And she's buying a stairway to heaven/ And when she gets there she knows if the stores are closed/ With a word she can get what she came for...

How is it that this song persisted and pummeled all others through the decades to become the one that embodied modern seventh-eighth grade romanticism, even though there wasn't anything essentially romantic (in the traditional "hey, you want to go make out?" sense, I mean) about it?

I became blown away by this mystery on the 405 South, finally conjecturing that because everything was amplified during that time, we needed lyrics to outdo us. I remember mediating conflicts at the dances- some friend running out onto the patio in tears and another stomping into the bathroom, haughty- and I remember the crushing impact of the smallest details. We religiously observed how much tongue Shawn and Georgia, the most sexually precocious couple in the school, were slipping each other like we were gathering info on the steps that go into making an A-bomb. So all I can think is that because we had already raised the bar so high, there was no place to go but toward the grave. Which I believe, in our heads, was abstractly pictured as high school. But I'm still not really sure.

Another thesis question for another day: What is it about classic rock and middle schoolers?

P.S. By the way, be sure to watch the America's Next Top Model update show, tonight at nine.

In Deference To Mother's Day, I'll Keep It Short

Reni Martinez, should we ever meet in a dark alley or uhh, like a poor-to-semi-lit walkway (or even in a sunny place- I'm comfortable doing this in a sunny place), be very, very afraid, because I will destroy you using only telekinesis and a tightly rolled up copy of that literary magazine you supposedly edit. Listen, it's fine and understandable not to like the book, but I feel safe saying that it's at least a two-starrer. Because when you go and give me only one, it's not just me that you're messing with, but my mom-- bearer of me, one half of my contributing gene pool, the mother in "mother's" day-- as well.