This Afternoon In Drama

Musing

I found myself standing next to Weird Al Yankovic today while at the La Brea Tar Pits Page museum.  We were both watching the animatronic sabre tooth cat try to feed on the animatronic sloth.  Weird Al's hair looked just as lustrous as it always has.  I was so tempted to be like, "Dude, me and my brother used to study the lyrics of "Like A Surgeon" for hours," except the move seemed the wrong note for that moment-- us, in silence, watching the fake animals duel, sharing a sort of unspoken weariness about the dog-eat-dog nature of the world, and then me forcing him into the old, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, so kind" routine.  On the way home in the car, Vanessa Carlton's "A Thousand Miles" came on the radio, and from the backseat The Baby said, "I think this is a kid singing," which I thought an insanely astute critique.  I have a feeling she would say the same had Jessica Simpson's new, cooey single come on next.

I've been meaning to say something about David Mead's new CD, which came out at the end of May, but that intended post kept on slipping away from me due to cancer and Vermont and writing a sentence in the previous post that pissed off the editor of an anthology I was supposed to be in so much that he kicked me out of it.  I owe a lot to David, seeing as how he was the muse for both of my books.  I wrote Panda after hearing the song "Robert Bradley's Postcard" off of his first album, The Luxury of Time, which is one of the top three albums that completely changed my life.  Then I came up with my character, Elodie, from Stuff after listening to...um, "Elodie," off his album, Mine and Yours.  I wrote a semi-review of David's newest album, Tangerine, for him, and I'm putting it up here with the sincere hope that it will encourage readers to get into his entire oeuvre, which is nothing less than magical.

David Mead
TANGERINE

by Andrea Seigel

I used to dance topless to David Mead’s first album, and perhaps I should quickly clarify by adding that this was not professionally.  His songs were so anthemic that they required the tearing off of the shirt; I needed full wingspan.  And when I say anthemic, I do not mean the “home of the brave” type of anthemic, where you’re being microphonically vibratoed that you are one of the “brave” when you’re really just wanting Whitney to trim that final note so you can sit down and eat your hot dog. I mean the kind of anthemic that unfurls from beneath you, closes over your scalp, creates its own magnifying force field, and for three minutes or however long, captures momentousness in the act.  That’s David Mead.

It’s always been obvious to me that nostalgia is the color orange.  Orange is that elusive photographic magic hour right before sunset that nobody in this world does not like.  It’s the color, in different shades, of A) pretty much every carpet that shows up in my childhood photographs and B) the color the corners of those photographs are starting to turn from time and improper storage.  Orange is (I’m willing to guarantee) the color of the light that fills at least ninety percent of your all-time best memories.  So it is with Mead’s album Tangerine, which is an aural testament to those things, like the present, that are always already gone, but you can’t help keeping warm anyway.

The title song, mostly instrumental, is like the theme to a TV show that will change your life forever, then get prematurely canceled.  “Hard To Remember” has the long lost quality of a nursery rhyme, a merry-go-round soundtrack for big people with turning, churning, obsessive memories. And with Mead singing “as long as you remember me” like it’s his most dire living wish, it’s also a song about the need to be a memory worth obsessively returning to.  When you reach the chorus of “The Trouble With Henry,” the track unfurls into the decadent Love Boaty swirl of the nights of your yesteryear, stars bursting apart, raining down glittering dust on the notes.  “Chatterbox,” my absolute favorite song on the album, puts me so in love with its stomping rhythm that it makes me wonder where I’ve been all my life.

By the middle of this album, I swear, you’ll already be missing it.  That’s the way it is with all things good—they house a bittersweet undercurrent because you can’t help but imagine the cost of their leaving.

There’s a part of “Fighting For Your Life” that sounds just like that move performed by little girls in tap recitals, when they bend their backs and cris-cross their hands over their knees.  And then after that part, those little girls go into a full-blown Fame dance-off, spinning madly, trying to get their insides out (and at some point, ending up topless in an apartment, swinging their arms, listening to David Mead).  “Sugar on the Knees” is leaves falling because they’ve turned too red.  Amid Halloweeny theremin, “Suddenly, A Summer Night” has Mead singing like the benevolent ghost you wish would come haunt you.  And the closing number, “Choosing Teams,” tries to convince a love that “I think we’re old enough not to be sweatin’ that playground stuff,” but from the sounds of Mead’s voice, I hear him suspecting that we’re never old enough.  The optimism is there, though. Pretzel-like, it twists itself into faith in another person, someone hopefully closer than all other memories.

I don’t get people interested in actively striving for inner peace.  Nothing sounds worse to me than a calm immunity to those past moments in which your heart tried to punch its way out of your chest, those future ones that have the potential to rock the shit out of you.  Orange, tangerine: that’s the state of always keeping those time bombs near and dear for the simple fact that they matter most.  Which means thanks to David for another great album that proves the gorgeousness of a life lived riled up.

Someone Also Asked Tonight Why I'm So Pale

Maybe it's because I'm close to graduating, but everyone keeps asking me what I've learned from my MFA program.  My dad asks because he's ultra practical, a financial tit for tat guy, so he looks for the unit of education received in return for every dollar spent.  Other Bennington students ask because they think my original "I'm learning that I'm going to get a degree" is a totally assholic answer and want to see if it's changed into something more romantic.  My UCLA Extension students ask because they're trying to figure out if they should even bother or just put the thirty thousand toward a Silverlake bungalow.  The only answer to the question I can honestly give is that I've learned a deeper level of something I already three-quarters-knew, which is that it's wholly impossible to escape the core version of yourself.  You can switch out people, states, travel shampoos, rooms, teachers, and the stories that you write, but you'll never overcome the same things you were crying about to your mom back in eleventh grade (unless, and I'm pretty serious, you go into the Starting Over house and let that psychiatrist/life coach team beat it out of you.  But I'm not entirely sure how long that shift lasts.  I have no proof of permanence, even after all the cast members from all the seasons showed up this spring for Christie's 5k run and they all looked somewhat okay with life on the outside, but doesn't everyone.)

These are the books that I read over the past term, and the top lesson I learned from each one:

But here's the thing.  In between the writing of that last sentence and this one, I paid a visit to the new Bennington Chili's, where I had an Electric Lemonade, an Appletini, and then another Electric Lemonade.  So maybe lessons learned won't be quite so clear to me as they would have been had the list been compiled about four hours ago, is my point.

1. As Seen On TV— by Lucy Grealy

I learned that apparently Lucy got just as bored and impatient with conclusions as I do, since every ending of every essay comes as a complete shock, almost as if she'd left off mid-sentence.

2. Magic For Beginners— by Kelly Link

I learned that Kelly has written probably the best story ever about watching television and the glory inherent in serial television and the creative power of incorporating television into one's life and very being.

And then in between that last sentence and this one, I had some shitty white wine at a party that depressed the very core I was speaking about above, as most rooms filled tightly with people speaking at raised volumes tend to do.  For whatever reason.

3. To Feel Stuff— by Andrea Seigel

(I had to read the galley that had just come from Harcourt so I could turn in edits to the copy editor.  This wasn't just an act of horrific self-love.)

I learned that in the course of only few months, there are sentences I no longer recognize having written.

4. Genius Factory: The Curious History of the Nobel Prize Sperm Bank— by David Plotz

I learned that some guys just really like to give and give and give sperm, hoping that one day they'll have tons of anonymous babies running around the nation, and that this somehow combats a fear of death (and obscurity), even though their legacies might never become any more concrete than hypothetical abstractions.

5. The World Of Ted Serios: “Thoughtographic” Studies of an Extraordinary Mind— by Jule Eisenbud, M.D.

I learned that I am happily willing to believe that there was a guy a few decades ago who could be in a room with a camera and deposit images on the film using only his mind.

And I learned that sometimes me and my ex-boyfriend, Ryan, are still able to like the same things, although it is still very difficult for me to admit this to him because then he will start harping on Cormac McCarthy or Japanese ice cream balls or whatever, and then all communion I felt with him a second ago will instantly dissipate.

6. America’s Report Card— by John McNally

I learned that weirdly, I share the same view on current politics as Jon Bon Jovi: "It's too obvious to bash Bush."

7. Finding Ben Cheever—by Ben Cheever

I learned that I have a still simmering nostalgia for when I used to work a "real" job, not because I ever liked doing any of those jobs, but because I found so much meaning in the intimacy shared with co-workers as every day we shit-talked, spread rumors, and molded fantasies about quitting.

8. Radio On— by Sarah Vowell

I learned that I think there's no author I'd rather take a trip across the country with than Sarah Vowell.

9. The Men Who Stare At Goats— by Jon Ronson

I learned that the government is just as into the supernatural (if not more) as your average goth kid.

10. Them: Adventures With Extremists—by Jon Ronson

I learned that there is a white, British Jew named Jon Ronson who is so amazingly (supernaturally!) likable that he can pretty much win anybody over, including terrorists who would otherwise like to kill him, and that the idea of a person this likable has haunted me for the past few months.

11. The Language of Elk— by Benjamin Percy

I learned that my suspicion I have a good eye for talent is not just a suspicion.

12. Fraud: Essays—by David Rakoff

I learned from this book that this is exactly the level of neuroticness that I, in my own writing, hope someday to achieve.

13. Fear Of Flying— by Erica Jong

I learned that I am immediately suspicious of a novel with a narrator who's a "writer."

14. Candyfreak: A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America—by Steve Almond

I learned that if I had a developed palate I would not like the Hershey bar because it is supposedly shit chocolate, but I do like it, a lot, so I guess I have shit taste.

15. Don’t Get Too Comfortable— by David Rakoff

I learned that even if your second book isn't as good as your first book, it can still be good, if you're willing to allow for different levels of goodness.

16. A Girl Becomes a Comma Like that— by Lisa Glatt

I learned that I learned more things about Lisa from reading Lisa's book than I have from actually talking to Lisa, and I don't know if that's because of my acknowledged weakness as a conversationalist or if that's because there's just some information that Lisa doesn't like to bring up.

17. The Secret History— by Donna Tartt

I learned that I am absolutely willing to go along with wanky literary language when that language is being used to show how wanky the narrator strives to be.

18. Please Don’t Come Back From The Moon—by Dean Bakopoulos

I learned that no matter how many times I emailed various people telling them this was what I was reading and that it was engaging, I still had to go look up the spelling of Dean's last name on Google.

19. Postcards From The Brain Museum: The Improbable Search for Meaning in the Matter of Famous Minds— by Brian Burrell

I learned that I'm still just as grossed out by the physical properties of the brain as I've always been, yet I keep reading accounts of dissections and lobotomies that make me want to cut open my skull and toss my brain across the room anyway.

20. The Magician and the Cardsharp: The Search for America’s Greatest Sleight-of-Hand Artist— by Karl Johnson

I learned that reading about the close and closed community of magicians in the twentieth century made me wish that these sorts of small worlds still existed, especially in regards to writing, so at least everyone would know who to sleep with for maximum biographical impact, but also that I think relationships have just become far too far-flung and diluted for this sort of mythology to exist anymore, except in highly obscure fields.

21. Possible Side Effects—by Augusten Burroughs

I learned that even if I don't always like Augusten's stories, I always like Augusten's overarching presence, and that's mostly because I can constantly sense through his current lightness how sad he was for so long.

22. The Time Traveler’s Wife— by Audrey Niffenegger

I've learned that there's a second book to add to my "Books That Have Made Me Cry" list.

23. Marley & Me— by John Grogan

I learned that no matter how much I love dogs, this doesn't necessarily mean I'm ready to recommend what basically amounts to a book version of the movie, Problem Child, except with a Lab instead of a redheaded boy.

24. The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel— by Amy Hempel

I've learned that the story all the anthologies love best is not the same one I do.

Beautiful On The Inside

I'm in Vermont.  While I was waiting for Greg The Doctor and Karen at the airport, I saw a chauffeury looking guy holding up a poster-board sign.  Usually those things say, "McGooley Family!  Welcome to Albany!" except this guy was holding a sign that said, "Colon Mobile."  With a jaunty Colon Mobile drawn on it.  Then, behind that sign, he was holding another one that read, "Colossally Beautiful Women & Men On The Inside: Model Mobile!" and the "C" of the "Colossally" was either an intestine or a colon-- sadly, I still can't tell the difference despite the fact that every time my dad gets a colonoscopy, he sends me the .jpg's of the interior of his asshole.  Eventually a young, attractive girl came and sheepishly walked over to the driver, pointing toward the Colon Mobile sign, as if to indicate that the assy automobile was her ride.  Then she and the driver proceeded to stand around awkwardly, stealing embarrassed glances at each other every two minutes while they waited for the rest of her group to show.  How could I not wonder if that girl had a spectacularly beautiful colon, and what that even meant?  Because she was cute, but, externally, not spokesmodel material-- too short, too chubby in the face.  But if she was "colossally beautiful on the inside," I figured she had to have totally destroyed the competition at some national colon pageant I missed when it aired on C-SPAN at 4 a.m.

My mom came home from the hospital today and I could thematically connect her story to the one above, except she would murder me.  So I'll just let my writing be a little less rich and simply say, good job with the healing.

All In The Family

Yesterday my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and right now I am sitting in the surgery lounge, waiting for her to get out.  Seriously, my family has got to be up for "Most Cancerous Family '06."  Maybe we wouldn't take home the trophy, which has got to be pretty ugly, but I have a strong feeling we've at least reached semi-finalist status.  Now that my mom, my dad, and I all have various cancer situations, my brother remains the lone holdout.  I feel sure he's going to be the only one of us not to get cancer, since he's the only one who isn't a major fucking stress case.  Your cells have got to feel it when constant swells of neuroticism and worry constantly roll up and down your body like one of those neon-watered mini-wave machines executives put on their desks. My brother is more like one of those cylindrical things with the drippy teal glob that's in no rush to get to the bottom and extremely flexible during the journey.  He's currently living in the Caribbean. He dries his laundry in the fresh air.

Somewhere in this hospital I have lost one of the pom-poms hanging from my hoodie, and this seems like a bigger deal than it should be.

My mom bitches at me for never going to see a doctor when something's suspicious, but she's the same.  A few weeks ago we were in the Sak's 5th Ave. outlet store, looking for jeans tight in the ass, yet relaxed and low on the waist, and she said, "You know, I think my stomach's getting bigger."  And I said, "Yeah, join the club.  Let's go in for a two-for-one lipo deal together.  It will be fun, I promise."  My mom said, "No, really, I feel like my stomach is kind of how it was when I was pregnant," and then she pulled her shirt tight to show me.  Sure enough, she looked five months pregnant.  I've always wanted a little sister (named Penelope), but unless God had decided to implant the second immaculate coming of Christ in a fifty-something Jew, I thought it unlikely that she was growing a baby.  It turns out that my mom has been carrying around nine extra pounds of something that's hopefully being removed right now, and that's only two ounces less than I was at birth.  When the nurse was prepping her for surgery, she appeared to put the stethoscope nearer to my mom's stomach than her chest.  "Can she hear the second heartbeat?" I asked, and my mom told me to shut up.  Then she started talking about how she's missing her manicure appointment today and freaking out about what her acrylics are going to look like by the time she can get back to the salon, but was less than thrilled with me when I suggested that if she needs chemo and loses her hair, I can finally show her how good she'd look with chestnut, shoulder-length hair.  I've been saying this for years.

The last time my mom was in a hospital was when she was having me.

The friends and family sitting here give me these looks like they're waiting for me to wig out (oh shit, and already I'm starting with the cancer puns).  My cousin is currently treating me like a retarded, autistic nine-year-old.  "You know, this is serious," she says like I've been throwing sparkle dolphin confetti.  I realize from the outside it seems flippant to explain that cancer has never surprised me in my family, as it's just always seemed like something to wait for.  Since I've been old enough to understand the possibility, in my mind we have seemed like we might be Cancer People.  When my dad, the first, got cancer, the surprise was, "Oh, we're starting this now?"  This is probably partly because we lived in Irvine, where everybody and their dog-- literally-- has gotten cancer, where high schoolers have had deforming brain tumors, where my Poli Sci teacher often warned that there was secret, toxic sludge running beneath our nature-named streets.  It's been in the atmosphere.  Add to this my familial history of cancer on both sides, and also, maybe, the ways in which the Seigels have been lucky otherwise, and the bad suspicion I've long had that the universe feels a necessity to balance that kind of thing out, transfer the luck to someone else so that during its vacation from us, we realize luck was what we had.  And what we're waiting for again.  Also, add my mistrust of the microwave, which my family used often to heat up our tortillas on turkey taco night, among others.

At the very least, the doctor said the surgery could take forty-five minutes, but now we're heading into two hours.  The big plant across from me has a sign sticking out of it that says, "Do Not Water," but I honestly doubt that anyone sitting here is concerned about the nourishment of the spider grass, which is so green and healthy that no one could possibly think it needs anything anyway.

Mi-Space Es Su-Space

I've created an account for Elodie, the main character of To Feel Stuff, on Myspace.  If you'd like to be "her" friend, go here and click on the add request.  The great thing about being "friends" with someone who technically doesn't exist is that your obligations to her are very minimal.  If you start a relationship with Elodie, I promise it will be very low maintenance.  In the coming weeks, she will be giving away some early copies of her book, and all she'll be asking in return is for you to, like, click on a link and indicate your interest in the contest.

On a side note, if you keep a blog on Myspace, you can show my sales some love by listing Like The Red Panda (and eventually To Feel Stuff) under the "currently reading" tab.  The site has started keeping track of most popular books, and although it's a pipe dream, I want to crush that fucking Harry Potter kid.

Also, Harcourt just announced my tour dates, with the exception of San Francisco, which will probably be announced in the coming week.  I hope I go back to the same bookstore I went to last time in SF, since it was the only one that offered me a free book of my choice.  I took the hardcover of Tom Perrotta's Little Children (before the pending lawsuit had his publisher yanking the Cheddar Goldfish), but only because I hadn't thought things through and I really liked those Goldfish.  If I return, I'll spend some time preparing on Amazon, researching bound sets and gigantic photography books and other glamorous options nearer to the hundred dollar mark.

My schedule:

August 8, 2006
7:00 PM
B&N .. 2823
13712 Jamboree Road
Irvine, CA 92602

August 15, 2006
7:00 PM
Book Soup
8818 Sunset Blvd
West Hollywood, CA 90069

August 30, 2006
7:30 pm
Powells
1005 W. Burnside
Portland, OR

August 31st
7:00 pm
University Bookstore
4326 University Way NE
Seattle WA

September 12th
7:30 pm
Newtonville Books
296 Walnut St.
Newton, MA

September 13th
7:30 pm
B&N .. 2017
396 Ave. of the Americas (8th St.)
New York, NY 10011

The Boom Boom Room

It's come time to purchase the boombox that I'm going to travel with on the book tour this fall.  My mom keeps rolling her eyes whenever the dancing comes up, saying, "Nobody wants to see you dance," but I still hold no one really wants to watch me (or anyone else besides David Sedaris) read either.  So I might as well cram two things people, underneath it all, don't really want to be sitting through into one evening.  Primary reasons people will attend my book readings:

1.  They were involved in my conception  2.  They went to high school with me and want to see if I remember them.  3.  They want to write/sell their own novel and think I can do something about that.  4.  They just like to get shit signed.  5.  They feel like they want to meet and date someone who "reads," and my event seems like a good venue.  6.  Someone joked that they're dumb at a party last night, and they want to prove that this is not true.  7.  They have a very, very broad concept of fame.  8.  They will attend anything to escape the crushing loneliness.

None of this means that I don't want to see you there. 

In the cities that are not hometownish, I will give the audience members the option of skipping the dance.  This is just because I gave thought about my scheduled reading in Portland, Oregon, and I imagined it like this because I've never been to Oregon:  Four organic farmers.  Me.  "What, this isn't the night that the guy comes to talk about growing bigger carrots?" they ask.  "Sorry," I say.  "Just me."  A grumbly silence ensues.  I feel anger radiating from bandanas.  "Ummm, so what can I do to make it up to you?"  Collective sigh.  "Make it quick, so we can be home in time to sing our corn to sleep." 

So I have my boombox choices down to top two. 

Aesthetically, I prefer the Strawberry Shortcake boombox, since I really like how you can throw it on like the sauciest bag ever (I would wear it like Flava Flav wears his clocks), although I don't think the design is very practical for dancing.  I worry about it tipping over when placed on a table.  My mom will roll her eyes some more to read that I want a kiddie boombox, but all the adult models don't have the same power to organize memories around themselves.  For this tour I want a boombox that, after it gets trashed post-travel, will occupy a sunsety corner of my mind, and inspire me, on my death bed, to get the private nurse to go on Ebay and try to track me down another one, no matter the cost. 

(I don't have the death-bed nurse yet, but on my own, I've been trying to track down this miniature roll-on perfume that my friend, Katrina, had in eighth grade.  It was called China Mist and god, I want it back.)

The Hello Kitty boombox seems like the more practical choice, but I have no emotional connection to the Kitty.  Years ago I chewed her grape flavored gum and loved it dearly, but then her stores stopped stocking it.  The thing that's always stuck with me about Kitty is that her creator once said the character was so beloved because she doesn't have a mouth.  You know what that means?  No book readings, ever, from Kitty.  I respect that.

P.S.  I have a short recommendation/essay in the new issue of Post Road.  Also, Rick Moody writes some stuff about me in there, not all of it a hundred percent true.

P.P.S.  I've given a lot of thought to it, and I think that after a pounding womb, a silent birth would just make a baby feel ditched.

P.P.P.S.  Where the hell is Mischa Barton's original dog now that she has the tiny one?