Another photo from the booth

The things I need to work in the booth: my script, an icy cold Diet Coke, a pack of gum, a rubber band for my unruly hair, a coffee can full of pens and pencils, and a pink pearl eraser.

Does anybody know what the switch that's to the left of the coffee can is for? I have been dying to flip it.

Oh, and I left out: I also need the Post-its (you do not know how vital those Post-its are. Having them in the booth might be my very own innovation: I use them to mark the audio cues in the book so that I know what's coming up even if I'm not there yet). And I should've gotten a shot of the types of pens and pencils that are actually in that coffee can: most of them lack erasers (hence the need for the pink pearl eraser); some of them are grease pencils (cool! real theater paraphernalia!), some of them are huge gigantic Sharpies, and some of them are the mechanical pencils I brought from home.

I like these.

I don't know why I thought anybody would care, but there you go.

Finally: today I finished re-reading "The Mists of Avalon." I suppose I first read it when it first came out (wait, that would mean I was 10. I was an advanced reader, but I'm pretty sure my mother, who was relatively strict with my reading material until junior high, would've caught this one), well, maybe shortly after it first came out. I know also that I re-read it at least twice during my teens and early twenties (because that's what I do with books. I'm definitely a re-reader), and for a long time I got a lot of enjoyment out of it, and I know the reviews on it were always good and that Jean Auel thinks it's her favorite novel ever (then again, Jean Auel wrote all that soft porn caveman junk, so who really cares what she thinks*. And yes, I realize that is a simplistic criticism that can only be made by someone without a full-on college education who read some of those novels merely for the titillation. Yes. I was a fool. So were you, I would suspect) or something--but this time through (and I will admit I fast-tracked this reading; I think I started it on Sunday of last week and finished it today, after staying up until 3:30 this morning) because I was looking for the hook, the thing that made me love it.

I couldn't find it.

*Wikipedia tells me that Jean Auel is a member of Mensa. So she's way smarter than I am, obviously. Still, I do think "Clan of the Cave Bear" is an icky book.

I want (updated)

I want to listen to songs that have the words "I Want" somewhere near the front of the title. "I Wanna" counts, "I Don't Want (or Wanna)" doesn't.

So far I have the following songs on this playlist:

• I Want To Hold Your Hand, by the Beatles
• I Want You (She's So Heavy), by the Beatles
• I Want Candy, by Bow Wow Wow (listen to that rhythm section!)
• I Want Someone Badly, by Jeff Buckley (Jeff is the man. Or was the man, obviously)
• I Want You, by Elvis Costello and the Attractions
• I Wanna Be a Bear, by Descendents
• I Want You, by Marvin Gaye (smooth!)
• I Want To Tell You, by George Harrison
• I Want You Back, by the Jackson 5
• I Want You, by the Kooks
• I Wanna Be Loved, by Ricky Nelson (wasn't he dreamy?)
• I Want You Back, by Graham Parker
• I Wanna Be Your Dog, by Sex Pistols (classic)
• I Want To Take You Higher, by Sly and the Family Stone (my bad, skipping this one!)
• I Wanna Be Adored, by the Stone Roses
• I Want To Be the Boy To Warm Your Mother's Heart, by the White Stripes

Songs not on this playlist, or any playlist to be created by me:

• I Want To Know What Love Is, by Foreigner: I've got a pretty good idea of what love is*, and I have to say, I don't think having to listen to this song has anything to do it
• I Want a New Drug, by Huey Lewis and the News: You might need drugs, after listening to this song.
• I Want a New Duck, by Weird Al Yankovic: I was tempted to download this song. Something is seriously wrong with my sense of humor tonight.
• I Want It All, by Queen: Cheese on a stick!
• I Want It All, by Ashley Tisdale, et al, from "High School Musical": Not the same song. Not at all.
• I Want To Break Free, by Queen: Clearly Freddy Mercury had many wants and desires; I, however, have no desire to listen to this song
• I Want To Live, by John Denver: Jesus Christ, this song makes me want to slit my wrists and get it over with
• I Want You, by James Blunt: A Bob Dylan cover. I want neither Bob nor James.
• I Want You, by Third Eye Blind: Not now, not ever
• I Wanna Rock, by Twisted Sister
• I Wanna Get High, by Cypress Hill: I don't need the power of suggestion working on me
• I Want Your Sex, by George Michael: this song just confuses me.
• I Wanna Be Committed, by Sweet: hell, no
• I Wanna Be a Cowboy, by Boys Don't Cry: too many weird memories with this one
• We Want a Rock, by They Might Be Giants: Obviously doesn't fall within the parameters; good title, though
• I Want You To Want Me, by Cheap Trick: I've heard this song enough times to last me the rest of my life. And the Dwight Yoakam version is just silly. We will not speak of the Lindsay Lohan version.
• I Want To Be Alone, by Green Day: I don't get why Green Day was (is?) so popular.
• I Wanna Be Sedated, by the Ramones
• I Wanna Kill Sam, by Ice Cube: I'm just glad I'm not "Sam"
• I Wanna Marry You, by Bruce Springsteen: this is a perfect example of why I do not like Bruce Springsteen
• I Want To Take You Higher, by Tesla, Billy Hinton (WHO?), Brian Auger (see note for "Billy Hinton"), Elusions (?), Gougoush (??), John Scott Soto (???), Sonia Dada (great horn section, whoever she is)
• I Want, by Face to Face: I knew somebody at some point who liked this band, but I don't know who it was, or why
• I Want You, by Kings of Leon: I suspect that Kings of Leon is a band I would really enjoy if I would just sit down and listen, but I haven't gotten there yet.
• I Always Get What I Want, by Avril Lavigne: if I were 12 I'd be all over this; also, not exactly working with the aforementioned parameters
• (I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea, by Elvis Costello: my favorite Elvis song, again, not fitting the rules, but man, what a great song. Maybe I'll do "I Do Not Want" songs next...
• I Want To Be You, by Hamfatter: I had never heard of these guys until I started this quest, and just from the couple of songs I've heard, including "The Girl I Love" and "Do Something Stupid Tonight," I'm curious.

I will accept suggestions and/or requests. If you've got your favorite "I Want" song and it's not here, let me know, and I'll consider adding it.

...

I also wanted to mention that I just finished watching the two episodes of The West Wing that follow the episode where President Bartlet is shot (for some reason either Bravo didn't show that episode or the DVR didn't pick it up), and I sobbed like a baby when Toby came across Josh with that big ol' wound in his abdomen (later they said "chest" but he was holding his side, no?). Sure it was only for a second (my bawling), but still. Bradley Whitford as Josh Lyman might be the perfect man. I don't know. I love him. See, Foreigner? I do know what love is.

*It's a nice tub of Ben & Jerry's "Cherry Garcia" ice cream, right?

Me, at work in the booth. / False ending

I know I've been mobile blogging a lot lately. I admit that it's easier to take a photo than to write something, right now.

There's probably more to this story.

Good night.

...

This post is going to be confusing. I sent the photo from my phone at 9:10 p.m. I wrote the words below the photo at around 12:30. "good night' is bullshit because I've been awake all this time, and now it's 2:06. Tomorrow I have to get up kind of early, but I'm not sleeping, yet.

I don't have much to say, but I can't go to sleep. Patrick went to Mr. T's Bowl tonight with his friends to see the band "Carnage Asada." I didn't go because of the theater, of course. I like Mr. T's Bowl - there's a great restaurant next door that I can't remember the name of. Anyway, he wasn't home, so when I got here from Santa Monica, I ate a late dinner. Oh, and I watched two taped episodes of "Celebrity Rehab." Dr. Drew had been getting on my nerves but these two episodes he was less sarcastic. They're an interesting group of people on this show. Amber Smith has some real problems, same with the girl from American Idol (I think her name is Nikki). Tawny Kitaen will probably be okay: she seems like she has it in her to get through this. Jeff Conaway and Gary Busey make me sad. Rod Stewart's kid needs to grow up. Rodney King is way more interesting than I thought he would be, and I hope he makes it (I hope they all make it). But the one I really wonder about is Steven Adler. I guess he was in a coma? Had some major health issues? And the stuff with his mother is really sad. Between the two of them, there are some serious problems. He seems very real, and very hurt, and man, I wonder about that guy.

It made me sad, for some reason.

Now I have to try to go to bed!

The fog

The scene on my way to work this morning.

It looks less mysterious in the photo than it did at the time.

I saw this on my way to Culver City tonight, off the 10 freeway around Hill Street

What are "A-shirts," I wonder?

Also, totally unrelated: I started to realize just how crappy the economy must be when I went to Target in Culver City and there was nobody in there.

Also, and again, totally unrelated: while shopping at Target, one person I did see, a woman about my age or older, who was pushing her young child in the Target shopping cart: she had some kind of elaborate quilt thing that her kid was sitting on. Slightly padded, yes, but I think rather than being concerned for her kid's comfort, she was more concerned that her kid didn't have to have the cold and hard plastic seat come into contact with his/her skin.

Look. I know it's a new day and that parents don't do the dumb-ass things they did when I was an infant. Yes, I grew up in the fucking dark ages: it was a time when mothers smoked in the hospital while holding their newborns and fathers allowed their kids to ride in the bed of the pick up truck on the freeway (what? like that was just my family?). But I do not understand this quilt-y thing. In fact, this woman, who purchased some sort of organic cleaner for her bathroom and Frosted Mini Wheat cereal, seemed like a nice lady. But come on. Use the 21st century wipes they have at the front of the store and get over it. I once almost lost a finger riding in the shopping cart, and at Pic N Save, not fancy schmancy Target, and I made it this far just fine.

Finally, one other thing, yes, totally unrelated: I know I mentioned some grumpy thing earlier today about the weather and seeming pissed off that I can't wear my new coat because it's so damn hot. I wrote that and about one second later realized that, thanks to this weather and the fires, many people in Southern California right now don't have a lot of things. A useless winter coat is the least of their problems. So yeah, I felt like a creep instantly after writing that. Making a donation to the American Red Cross helped alleviate that feeling, well, slightly.

You don't need to feel like a jerk before giving to the American Red Cross - that really only works for me. To make your own donation, click here.

Adventure at the post office

At lunch today I went to the local post office here in East Los Angeles...

• There were many, many people in there getting passports. Most of them were teenagers.
• I've never seen anybody selling socks and various household items from a shopping cart in front of the post office before.
• The older, cranky woman in line in front of me, who dealt with the Asian lady I eventually got, was very funny. She kept making fun of the way the postal lady spoke (which was actually quite clear), and even said at one point, in her awesome thick ELA accent, "Me and you don't communicate, do we." (I wish I could fake that accent. It's totally cool.)
• They were out of the flat rate Priority Mail boxes. Another clerk gave me an empty box that previously held some sort of postal supplies, which was nice of her. I had brought some bubble wrap with me, so I wrapped the piccolo up in all of that (it looked like a very fat box of See's Candy). The box had some empty areas, though, and I wanted to fill that space with popcorn or newspaper. The post office had neither. Not even for sale.
• I went outside and found EIGHT different newspaper machines, but they were all empty (one was for free porn or something; that would've been interesting packing material, esp. since the guy who bought the piccolo got it for his young daughter), so I went to my car, expecting to find a magazine or a newspaper... except I cleaned out my usually dirty car of crap yesterday.
• I ended up using a bunch of Google maps that were floating around under the passenger seat, some empty plastic bags, and a paper J. Crew bag I've had in my car for years (I usually use it for my dry cleaning). Pretty much cussing the whole time (yes, I know I said I cleaned my car: I meant I cleaned it of reading material).
• Because there was no parking at this post office, I was parked about a half a block away, which isn't a big deal, except that it's unseasonably warm in Los Angeles, and I wore a sweater today because I am willing it to get cooler with my winter clothes (dammit, when do I get to wear my new winter coat? Will we ever have a winter? Is this why that $400 coat was so cheap at Macy's?). It's November and 84 degrees outside, and that's just wrong.
• I went back to the post office, and expected them, because they were the ones who didn't have the right (free) supplies, to charge me for the flat rate box, but no: clearly I was dreaming. I had to pay $3 more than I charged the guy I was shipping to (and did he have to live clear all the way across the county? Really. There are high school piccolo players in LA County, aren't they?), which made me kind of mad. Not hopping mad, no. Just kind of mad. But the Asian lady, who smiled all through the cranky woman's teasing, could've cared less. At this point I had been in and out of the post office for the past 45 minutes... I just wanted to go.
• If not for the beautiful and cheering smells emanating from the panaderia next door, I would've been a lot more grumpy.

Whatever. It's mailed. We are once again a one piccolo household. All is right in the world.

Left turn

Taken at the corner of Lakewood and South Street. Trying to get to the post office by 6:30 - didn't make it.

Reprise

I'm a cow, I'm a cow, I'm a cow-cow-cow, I'm a cow, I'm a cow, I'm a cow...

...

Feeling slightly less self-condemn-licious, and maybe just a little bit silly:

I'm a poi, I'm a poi, I'm a poi-poi-poi, I'm a poi, I'm a poi, I'm a poi...

Seriously

On Saturday, I had an acupuncture appointment. I've started up again, and I love it. My acupuncturist is an RN with a PhD in something, and she rocks. She always starts out my sessions with asking me how I'm doing, and if I feel better since my last meeting with her. On Saturday we were talking about my weight.

See, I'm up about 10 pounds from where I had gotten, thanks to Weight Watchers. I stopped Weight Watchers a while ago, and had kept off the weight somehow, but in recent months, I've gained back some of what I had originally lost. And even then, 10 pounds lighter, I still had a way to go. Lily asked me (and by the way, I always trust people named Lily/Lili now. I've had good luck with them) how I feel about my weight, and if I wanted her to target some area on my body that helps with suppressing your appetite. I told her that I know I need to lose weight, but that I haven't really changed anything that I'm doing yet. She said, "Oh, you're not serious about it yet." She didn't say it meanly, just - Okay, you're not serious.

After she inserted all the needles and hooked me up to the machine (I've forgotten already what the machine is called, but it stimulates the needles for some sort of added benefit), Lily left the room. So I layed there and thought about what she had said.

It's true. I'm not serious about it yet. I guess I would prefer to talk shit to myself than actually do something about it. I left the following message for my friend Bo (I leave weird messages for Bo all the time; a couple of weeks ago I sang "Like A Virgin," and told him it was part of my "Praise and Worship Series" because the week before I sang "Like A Virgin," I had sung an old hymn we used to sing at the wacky church my mother attended in the 70s): (Imagine the following sung to the melody of The Who's "I'm A Boy") "I'm a cow, I'm a cow, I'm a cow-cow-cow, I"m a cow, I'm a cow, I'm a cow..."

See, that might be funny. In fact, I know it's funny, because I laughed about it. But it's probably not a good idea. And the really bad part is, that's the least of it. I mean... I've been having some pretty bad conversations with myself about this.

I'm not sure why I'm doing that. Oh. That's a big fat lie: I know exactly why I'm doing it, and I know I need to stop it.

I'm going to try!

(Nice Dream) - Last one

Even though the week is over and so technically I am not required, by my own rules, to share with you any more dreams, I thought in order to make up for the couple of days last week when I couldn't remember (or didn't have any) dreams, I'd give up one last silly example of what goes on in my mind when I'm not controlling it:

Last night I dreamed that Patrick and I were in the White House, cleaning out the refrigerator.

I guess this is what comes of watching so many re-runs of The West Wing.

The Bourgeois Gentilhomme

Notes for the opening.

The Bourgeois Gentilhomme

The 'go' button!

The Bourgeois Gentilhomme

Working!

...

Because of the way the schedule with Charles has worked out, though the show is now in it's second weekend, last night was my first night in the booth. The photo above was taken with my phone - for better pictures, to read the excellent reviews, you can of course visit the City Garage website.

So, in the foreground there is my book - it has the entire script in it, and my cues and notes. This show is fairly simple, technically, and fun for me, because I have a lot of time to watch.

(Nice Dream)

It's finally cold enough for the flannel sheets, and I have to tell you, the bed is now my favorite place in the house. It feels like I'm enveloped in a nice toasty warm grilled cheese sandwich (I've given up cheese. I don't miss it at all. Can't you tell?). And all that cozy sleeping apparently means I'm having strange dreams. So let's do this on a daily basis this week, shall we?

Sunday night: I can't tell you what I dreamed about.

Monday night I thought I had lost the keys to my office's vehicle (long story... we're remodeling, and I remembered putting the keys in my pocket and walking around with them for most of the day, but it wasn't until 6 a.m. this morning when I woke up from the dream I am about to tell you about when I remembered that I had given them to Janet to keep safe in her desk drawer. Janet's cubicle is getting moved next week), I dreamed the following dream (and no, you can pretty much rest assured that this dream isn't going to change anybody's life):

I was hanging out with some of the females of the cast of The Bourgeois Gentilhomme - these are lovely ladies, with terrific personal style - and they were giving me a makeover.

It's rather telling that the makeover consisted of hair and makeup, and these clothes:

a pair of black tights, a black skirt, the raddest black boots I've ever seen,
in a dream or otherwise, and a big black sweater.

Dreaming of a makeover that includes an all-black outfit (one that I could pull off now, should I find those awesome boots) seems a bit... boring.

Ah, well. It's the dream I can't tell you about that was interesting. Some things are just for me.

Tuesday night: Obviously I didn't think this through very well, because I have no backup plan should I wake up and can't remember my dream at all. We got in bed a bit earlier than usual - I was reading something and Patrick was watching television, but we were in bed before 10 p.m., which is quite a feat for us. I think I turned out the light and put in my earplugs around 9:45. Then I went to sleep, and I'm sure there was some sort of dream in there but I have no idea what it was.

I can say that I woke up with "Why Are Babies So Wise" by Bow Wow Wow in head for some reason. I heard that song on my way home from work on Monday night, and it's been percolating in my brain ever since.

Wednesday night: Last night's dream was kind of long and disjointed and I'm not sure how much I accurately remember that makes sense. I remember this: I was staying in some kind of homeless shelter that vaguely reminded me of the house my Aunt Esther and Uncle Tony lived in when I was really small. That house was a rambling, one-story, dark and cool house. I don't know why in my dream I was homeless. My friend Paul was running it. I haven't seen or talked much with Paul lately, but in the dream, he was letting me stay there for some reason. I got into a fight (verbal) with a couple of guys, and was so indignant about the way these guys were talking to me that I called for him. "Paaauuuuulllll!" I even noticed how ridiculous it sounded in the dream.

After that, I was somewhere else entirely: walking through a beautiful park or something - I was outside, and there were lots of hills and streams and beautiful places, and people were camping and hanging out in hammocks and stuff.

There was one more bit that I remembered in the shower but have totally forgotten now.

Thursday night: Well. We stayed up super late last night, and even after I got in bed at 12 I kept reading for a bit. Patrick stayed up, too. I don't remember what time I went to bed, and I don't remember my dreams. I only know that when I woke up at 10:30, the dog(s) next door were barking. Now, 30 minutes later, they're still barking. Usually on Thursday nights I try to remember to wear earplugs but last night I forgot. So I awoke to the longest doggy conversation ever. I don't remember my dream, but I think there might've been dog barking in it. What could they possibly have to bark about? Are they telling me it's time to get up?

Friday night I dreamed that Patrick and I had moved into a new house. It was a pretty cool place, bigger than our current house, which is a two-bedroom, 1-bath. Our house is cute, but tiny. The dream house, which isn't necessarily my "dream house" was still nice. The style, which I've been having a hard time describing, was sort of "refined log cabin." The whole dream was Patrick and I walking through, looking at it and deciding what we wanted to change, if anything.

Saturday night I had the high school dream again. Except, this time, instead of me being 16 or whatever again, I was my age now. A couple of weeks ago they had their homecoming game, and I had been invited by a current member of the marching band to go. I say "I" but she invited as many band alumna as she could. I wasn't able to go because it was opening night at City Garage. I guess I wished I had gone, because here comes this dream, right? Anyway, I have seen photos of but not actually heard the 2008 Culver City High School Centaur Marching Band, and in the dream they were small but mighty-sounding. They were still playing "Minnesota Rouser" as their fight song, but I suspect that's been changed in recent years. Culver City, for those of you without a map, is nowhere near Minnesota.

They're way more casual than we were - I don't think they wear anything close to the dorky uniforms we wore (polyester. Bell bottoms. Furry hats. Epaulettes). Anyway, the dream was about the game, and the band, and I think I might've had fun if I had been able to actually go in real life, which is funny, when you consider that when I was in the band I used to think the alumna band members who came to homecoming were old, losers, and total geeks.

Hmmm.

Stay tuned for the rest of the week's night-time private movies.

...doesn't mean it's fair...

Today was weird! I felt rushed, frantic at times, behind on things, and forgetful. I don't know why - it was all foreseeable, none of it should've been a surprise... yet I found myself taken aback.

Yes. I was taken aback.

Last week they remodeled my half of the office, and this weekend they're doing the rest of the work. They didn't exactly complete the work on my half, either, so there's more shit they need to do. Mostly it looks nice, but it's been hard to tell. I still have boxes in my cubicle, and this big ass pale of filing, and they left off a shelf they're supposed to install, and a couple of file cabinets were ordered incorrectly... so the people who were supposed to be packed up for today either neglected to pack up the communal stuff in our office, or they didn't know they were supposed to, or they expected me to do it.

I'm not sure which it is. I only know that I had to pack up about 8 boxes of someone else's crap.

But the thing, I think, that got me off to a bad start was that I had forgotten that I was scheduled for 3 hours of customer service training in the morning. I had a shitload of stuff to do and while the training (mandatory) was actually interesting, it totally fucked my morning.

Then, as the rest of the day went on, I just found myself in the middle of projects, then asked to go in a million other directions, and I just never got caught up. Usually I can roll better than this, but today was just hard. Then, I had to drive to Culver City, which went a little better than usual (took 45 mins. instead of an hour), which meant I had time to get gas before flute choir (instead of after). At the gas station (which was the cheapest station I know of) some weirdo guy on roller blades (hey, even beggars need wheels) asked me if I had any money, and instead of giving it to him, I turned around and looked at the moon.

That was pretty cool.

I even had time to go to Mi-T-Mart (seriously: I do not care what the new owners call it, it will always be Mi-T-Mart to me) and buy my water, a pack of gum, and a banana.

But once flute choir was underway, it turned out to go the same way the rest of the day went: I felt scattered, unfocused, and impatient.

And of course the drive home was typical Thursday traffic. I honestly do not understand why there's so much weird traffic at 9:30 on Thursday nights. It was all bunched up again, and people were all over me, one guy was playing psychological games with me (the blinker as a huge mind-fuck), and I just wanted to get home.

So. Now I'm home, watching the Tonight Show with Patrick, and I realized something that's kind of ironic, considering all that I've just said:

I've decided that the reason I like staying up at night is... it means the day will never end.

The Great Yard Sign Robbery

If you, having not visited me in awhile, were to stand in front of my house, you might not realize that things look slightly different. Actually, when I came home today from lunch at Souplantation and errands, I didn't notice things looked slightly different either, but that's because I was thinking about cleaning my car of some of the junk I've been lugging around for a couple of weeks, and because I saw that Patrick was standing on the driveway talking to our neighbor Ron. I didn't look very carefully at the front of the house.

After Ron and Patrick finished their conversation, and Patrick helped me bring in the bags from Target, he asked me if I had taken down our Obama yard sign.

I didn't.

Someone STOLE our yard sign.

Fucking sore losers.

Patrick thought we should put up the other signs we have, but I said no. We can rest easy that Barack will be in the White House soon. That's vengeance enough.

Post-election recap - UPDATE

Yesterday I worked again as a poll worker. This time I signed up to be a clerk - last election, I was an NVC director, which required me to direct voters, within one voting place, to the correct table. That was pretty boring, though I did get a pretty cool map and stuff. This time I worked with a woman named Nidra, who was awesome. I was in the same neighborhood as before, which, well, let's just say is not my neighborhood. Everybody was super nice, and Nidra, who kind of bribed us with donuts, pizza, and ice cream, knew her stuff. She was also funny.

The day was mostly smooth, and my fears - that we would be overrun with voters - came true, but the part I didn't consider was how easy it could be with a well-run team. There were again, three precincts in our location, but our table easily had the most voters all day. At 6:45 we were told that there was a line around the block, which scared me, but once we got started, people mostly were patient. There was some grumbling but people react well to a smile. I had a good time.

There was, however, one interesting moment. I think I mentioned how, during my training, they mentioned electioneering? They emphasized to us the importance of not allowing voters wearing buttons or pins into the polling place, or to ask them to remove their campaign items. During kind of a slow period, a Hispanic guy and his girlfriend walked in and were talking to one of the clerks at my table. I noticed his t-shirt right away: it had a huge, bigger than life-size photo of Barak Obama's head on it. The guy himself was slight - he was shorter than me, younger than me, but he had a hard look. I walked over to Nidra and said, "Nidra, there's a guy over there wearing a big ol' Obama t-shirt!" I hoped Nidra would say, OK, I'll be right over, but instead she said, "You can ask him to take it off." O-kay... so I went over, and explained to him that campaign items weren't allowed in the voting area. He agreed to go outside and turn it inside out (he had another t-shirt on underneath), and then I noticed that his girlfriend had one on too. Hers was different, and I didn't realize at first what it was - his was more obvious. So I stood there for awhile next to Tracy, one of my co-workers, who was answering his questions, and he still didn't leave. Then he goes, "How come they didn't tell me outside?" (there were poll workers stationed outside the room to help the flow and answer questions). I said, "Maybe they didn't notice it." He looked at me like I was crazy, but eventually they left and came back in with both their t-shirts on inside out.

They voted, and when they left, he passed right by me, gave me a big ol' smile and waved good-bye. Everyone was all, "Ah, that's your new best friend, Irene." I said, "He probably thinks I'm a Republican!" Not five minutes later, he returned (with shirt turned right side out) and gave Tracy a pen. He said, "Oops, I stole your pen!"

I'll give him an A for effort and execution. He played us very well.

After the day was over, and I came home to watch CNN with Patrick, I can only say that seeing all the people come vote (the father who voted early in the day, and then returned a few hours later with his entire family, including his young sons who were obviously voting for the first time; the little old ladies; the guy in a wheel chair with an oxygen tank; the gay and lesbian couples; the hip 20-somethings - we had over 500 voters in our precinct) was pretty inspiring. I've worked elections where not even 100 people show up. It means something. It makes me proud.

...

In my super positive mood, you know, when I was feeling all joyful and hopeful for my country, I neglected to mention the following things. Now that I've started menstruating, however, it seems appropriate to tell you:

1. At least three people who voted in the middle of the day reeked of alcohol. We're talking, before 5. Before 3.

2. One lady got down the line to the kid who was handing out the ballots, and she goes, "I'm just voting on one thing! I mean, I don't know about the propositions!" The kid, who was raised well and was polite, said, "Me neither!" Then the lady said, "I mean, doesn't Yes mean No and No mean Yes?" The kid looked at me all terrified (he obviously hasn't read 1984 recently) and mumbled something about not really thinking so... I told him later he should have asked her if 2+2=5. He laughed but I'm not sure he got the joke. I suppose I could've hummed the Radiohead song.

3. Many people came in prepared to be treated poorly. The news made it sound like they would have to wait hours to vote. Except for the very early morning (7 a.m.) there was only one other time during the day where we had a line (around 4 p.m.) of more than 10 people. We worked fast, and pushed them through. But lots of people were grouchy or pissed off, without anything we did. They were just expecting to be hassled.

4. I know it's the law that you don't have to show ID at a polling place, but everyone who didn't have their sample ballot (name and address and table on the back) had theirs out ready to go. I felt uncomfortable with it, but it really did speed up the process. And many people who said they registered a month ago weren't in the roster. Someone told me those rosters are printed up 4 months ago, which surprised and perplexed me. That timing seems silly.

5. Speaking of silly: those stupid ballot readers. What's the point? They're supposed to read the ballot and let the voters know if they over or under-voted, or made an error, but the voters are suspicious of them. Even the Inspector at my table was suspicious of them - she thought maybe they were counting the actual votes and reporting back somewhere throughout the day (via undercover Wifi, obviously). Sure, knowing if the voter fucked up before they walked away seems like a good idea, but the kid who was feeding the ballots into the machine told me that everytime an error message popped up, the voter elected to override the error and vote that ballot anyway. What's the point? Technology is cool but this seems wasteful. Stupid, even. What happened to our touchscreen technology? How much money does the County spend each year on new stuff? I don't miss the hanging chad controversy, surely (and every asshole who made a joke about it yesterday thought they were the funniest thing in the room), but come on. There has to be a better way. Voting by mail gets my, ahem, vote. I did it two weeks ago, and I had time to make my choices patiently and thoughtfully, in the comfort of my own home (I did it at work, whatever). Slap a stamp on it and I'm done. Only flaw: no "I Voted" sticker. I got one yesterday. So that's easily solved, right?

This year's model

In two weeks my office will be undergoing a major remodel. We have to fit 4 more people into a space already housing 13, but it shouldn't be too difficult, because there's a lot of wasted space in here. It's an old office, with old partitions and heavy, ugly file cabinets and half-assed design (things don't exactly match).

My cubicle, for instance. My cubicle, which is home to just me, my predecessor's files, my sneakers, my one pile of work, and my computer equipment, has room enough for at least two. And for some reason she (my predecessor) collected quite a few boxes of extremely large envelopes, which are now my albatross. Who needs 11 X 15 inch envelopes? What kind of mail are you sending, anyway? So my point is, my cubicle is so large, you could quite comfortably fit another person in here. As well as quite a few more boxes of 11 X 15 inch envelopes.

But that's not what they're going to do. Instead, they're going to tear down the existing walls and offices and install the Herman Miller Vivo system. I've seen it online: space age technology and hip design! It's pretty cool. Some of us are getting smaller cubicles, but the space planning seems a bit more, shall we say, logical. And I'm getting a chair for guests. For guests.

Now. I have friends who have their own offices. Like, with a door and everything. And that is duly impressive. Those friends also tend to have degrees, but I have friends with degrees who stare at a 15" monitor in a dungeon-like office under fluorescent lights 8 hours a day. So let's not judge.

I am impressed with those of you who skip to work in your electric cars, wearing your fancy outfits and perfect hair, and then get to go in your office and close the door. It's cool, and I think you should know that I think it's cool. Then again, I also have friends who work in their own home, wearing God only knows what, eating or watching television as they please, greeting the mailman by name ("Hi, Cornbread!"), with a kitty or two on their lap while they, you know, work. I have other friends who stand behind a register while they work and bemoan their aching feet; friends who get to play their instrument for a living; friends who work with children, which sounds fun and all, until someone pukes or poos on you (perhaps now you see why I never liked babysitting. And why I don't have children, yet), friends who stay home with their kids. I have friends who would like to work who are without jobs. Think about them for a minute, and then come back and keep reading.

I have a cubicle. I didn't scotch tape out a fake door line a la Less Nessman; I don't have to write my name on my (very own Swingline) stapler. I don't have a designated parking spot, or a window. I have a cubicle, a name plate, a pretty big monitor, and a scanner at my desk, and that's just fine with me. And soon, I will have new furniture, and I'm pretty psyched.

See, the thing is, I really like my job. It's been a long time since I could say that. I've been here almost two months, and I really like my job. It's kind of hard to get up on time, it's a bit further than I'd like, just this week I got a peak at something that indicates that things aren't as happy-happy as I thought at first, but I like my job. Most people are really nice. I find myself smiling at people in the hallway, saying hello to dudes in the parking lot. My inner voice, which tends to be overly critical, is quiet much more often. This is a nice place. I want to stay here for awhile.

But I'm so glad it's Friday night! To be! A Centaur!

This was an interesting weekend, if you ignore the fact that Patrick and I both were enormous slugs and sloths - literally human burritos - on Sunday (excitement of the day: I killed a big black spider in the garage all by myself).

On Friday, I returned to Sam's Club to change out my previously new tires. Based on my complaints, Sam's Club Employees of the Month Larry and Kek replaced my so-called new tires, which have 5,000+ miles on them already, with brand new ones. They're the same exact tires, which, as it turns out, are just fine for my Honda-mobile. In fact, as far as Michelin is concerned, for my car there are no better tires. That previous set may have been defective. But: I still feel the same problem on the 605, the 10, and the 710 when I am driving in excess of 60 MPH, but I don't feel it on the 405 or the 105 (yes. These are the freeways I drive regularly. Please make a note of it). The alignment is perfect. The wheels are balanced. So after a little deductive reasoning I've determined that the problem is not the tires. Oh, no! The problem is the road. (Who said the problem was me? In the back there! Yes, you! Stand up you big jerk! I am a perfectly good driver.)

Still. New tires is new tires. And free new tires? That's cause for celebratory shopping. After that adventure, I went to Macy's and bought a gorgeous $225 Martha Stewart quilt (and two shams) for $164 and $80 flannel sheets for $25 (perhaps unfairly. They pulled the shelf signs after my transaction; I had only gently suggested that they had misread the sale signs. I spoke to another person who visited Macy's on Fridays, and she too was of the opinion that they were practically giving the stuff away). Still, I prefer to think that my Jedi mind trick ("You will give the sale price plus the special Martha Stewart buy-one, get-one-half-off deal on this purchase") worked. Friday was my day. I was the man on Friday.

Now if only it would get cool enough for flannel sheets. We also need a new down comforter and/or mattress pad but I didn't want to press my luck.

...

I think I've mentioned this in the past, but really, any good story bears repeating, no? My friend told me a pathetic story about forgetting her iPod at her last trip to the gym, and finding the ambient noises there too darn boring for words, she proceeded to have a dull workout. I exhibited my usual lack of sympathy and told her that I just rely on my whacked out brain for entertainment when I work out (sure. I work out. Why not?). You may remember that I like cheesy songs ("Feels Like the First Time" has a nice beat, or maybe "Working Man" by Rush; and there's always that old favorite, Christopher Cross' "Ride Like the Wind"); or a Radiohead song (Hail To the Thief has good tunes for walking), or Stewart Copeland's "Too Kool to Kalypso." Today's song of the day for my AM walk with Ana, Hung and Alicia was "We Love You Conrad" from Bye Bye Birdie (I've been thinking a lot about Bye Bye Birdie today. More on this later). Not the dirge version from when the fan club realizes Conrad is joining the army, no - this is the peppy version they sing before Conrad arrives in town in his metallic jumpsuit and melts the crowd with "One Last Kiss." Ooh, that would be a good walking song, too. Maybe a little too sashay inspiring. In my head, of course. Ana, Hung, and Alicia would probably signal for the fire department guys to cart my ass to the hospital in the helicopter the sheriff's department is always landing and taking off not far from our morning route if I started singing out loud.

My friend asked, when I walk with the girls at work, if the fact that there are four of us constitutes a "gang." We're not a gang: Ana's always about a streetlight ahead of me in the morning (skinny so-and-so!), and Alicia and Hung like to talk, so they're a bit behind: really, we're more like a very strung out, out-of-step platoon. Ana went through the Sheriff's academy (or something), so in the afternoon, when we walk through the building (too hot for Hung to go up the hill) and turn around for another lap, she likes to show off with a very military about-face. I, a former marching band geek who never found the militaristic characteristics of marching band "charming," tend to kick out one leg and spin around. It's a very stylized, very Bugs Bunny move. The guys who work in that building (it's a warehouse; all our shops are in there) seem to find it amusing, and I live for their entertainment. The only thing I liked about the actual marching part of marching band was yelling at the rest of the flute section to straighten up, and terrorizing them into memorizing their music, the lazy talentless bums. Sure, on piccolo I was louder than the whole rest of the section (and some of the clarinet section as well), but still. Is that my fault?

Tyrant: that's me.

(How did that old cheer go? "My feet hurt, my belt's too tight, my something swings from left to right? But I'm so glad it's Friday night! To be! A Centaur!")

The reason I was thinking about Bye Bye Birdie is because yesterday I got a comment here from my friend Damon on a previous post (the "I should" post). Damon has grown up to be a successful, educated person who wrote a book on deleting the "shoulds" from one's life. It sounds like a fine idea to me. I should really pick up that book, huh.

Anyway, Damon may not appreciate the story I am about to tell -

When we were in high school, the school put on for the spring musical, a version of "Bye Bye Birdie" that was pretty darn awesome. Now. Our music program was crap: we had a tiny, unmotivated marching band (unless by "motivated" you mean, boy crazy; and that would just be me, thank you), no orchestra, a jazz band full of talent (surprise, surprise, considering the teacher's professional jazz background), but in spite of ourselves, every spring we never failed to put together a pretty good pit orchestra for whatever musical had struck Mr. Mortenson (Morty) the drama teacher's, fancy. Sure, we had some ringers, but mostly it was student power blasting away in Robert Frost's cool little half-moon sunken orchestra pit.

Damon was cast as Randolph MacAfee, Kim's pesky little brother. He was adorable, and perfectly cast. I don't remember who played Conrad or any of the other parts (as a band geek, I didn't run with the drama kids; either too nerdy or not nerdy enough, I do not know, but, um... THANK GOD); I do recall that it seemed to be a very successful production, and Damon did an amazing job. His pitch on "Ed Sullivan" was pretty dead-on.

Speaking of musicals... on Saturday I went to the cue-to-cue for The Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Rehearsals are winding down and they're getting ready for their November 7 opening night. The show's not technically a musical, but Frederique, the director, always finds a surprising way to incorporate music and dance. I'm sort of kicking myself for not participating onstage - I was asked, but I said no. It's such a huge commitment; I think for now I can be happy in the booth. As I've said before you can't really get a feel for the individual performances at the cue-to-cue; what you can see (and I always find this stuff interesting) is to get an idea for the actors: who's a good listener, who doesn't take criticism well, who knows what they're doing, who naturally finds their light without being told a million times, who's flirting, who maybe shouldn't do accents. Many people in the cast are new, and I like seeing them, too, finding out what they're like. At this point they've all been together for something like eight weeks, so to them I'm just a ponytail in the booth, murmuring to and being murmured at by Charles, the production designer (we lucked out: the new headsets worked perfectly. It's such a drag when he has to yell at me in the booth from the audience, where he watches the run through with his cup of coffee).

Tonight's my first real tech rehearsal - I'm pretty sure the plan is to run the whole show with the light and audio cues, which will hopefully be triggered (by me) at the right times. I have rehearsals, I think, every night this week and next week. How those kids have done this for all this time amazes me. I'm kind of already tired just thinking about it.

Update: rehearsal for me ended at 11:20 (the cast had to stay to get notes); I got home by 11:51, and was in bed by 12. However. It was perhaps a mistake to eat 4 peanut butter chocolate chips and drink a mini can of diet coke at 10 o'clock, because I couldn't sleep. I was up until, I think, 1:15. Getting up at 5:30 this morning was a drag.

Today's the day...

I should be getting off my ass.

I should be dressed, and ready to go get new tires (again).

I should have eaten breakfast, I should have shaved my legs, I should have gotten more sleep, I should have read "A Tale of Two Cities," I should have thought before I jumped, I should've done something with my hair after getting out of the shower sooner - now I'm going to have towel hair and I hate that, I should have considered that if I didn't particularly like one Wilco album, I probably wouldn't like another; I should have used more semi-colons in this sentence.

I should be practicing my flute and piccolo parts for the upcoming flute choir concert (December 4 or 11, once we FINALLY PICK A DATE ALREADY).

According to my friend Damon, I shouldn't be saying "I should." He's probably right about that. But without those two words I'd have no entry today, and I feel the need to write something.

This was a long week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - where did the days go? I went to work, I smelled breakfast in the City of Cudahy again, I bought a Wii Fit with Patrick, I talked to my friend Roland about buying his piccolo, I did a load or two of laundry, I read a book, I had a flute rehearsal, I went to flute choir, and I tried to get geared up for the next two weeks of tech rehearsals at City Garage.

It's that last one that's going to kill me. How the fuck am I going to handle that? My father got up at 4:00 for something like 40 years, but he went to bed by 9:30. Rehearsals are, I suspect, not going to be over by 10. And then I have to drive home from Santa Monica, converse a little with Patrick (husbands are so needy), and try to wind down before going to bed, and then be up by 5 so I can be at work at 7. On time! (I struggle with being on time. I can do it, mostly, but seriously, whoever said 15 extra minutes of sleep didn't make a difference was a big fat liar).

OK. I can do it. I can do it. Other people do harder stuff. I'm not a wimp, I'm not a wimp, I'm not a wimp...

I don't think I mentioned earlier this week that on Sunday I saw my cousin Gloria? Gloria is my age. She has five children and looks like a supermodel. She also has no husband anymore but who's keeping track? I remember when Gloria got married (she's 6 months older than me, actually; I was a junior... and she was a senior in high school when she got married), and how I was a little freaked out about that at the time. Seeing her again after a long time of not seeing her... with her oldest daughter, who is now 20, I think? Freaked me out again. This story has nothing to do with anything. Well. Maybe.