Monday through Friday on Facebook, once a day, I upload a song for the sake of playing 'mister DJ' and sharing music I enjoy that others may or may not have heard. It's called Chas Music Picks. Recently I was made aware of a song called “My Mom's on Facebook.” I checked it out and laughed my ass off.
It's so true.
Facebook, that viral webpage that surpassed MySpace as THE King of Social Networks, brings us all one step closer to a bright and shining future where we'll find ourselves having to update our statuses on how dinner is while we're having it.
DAD: Can you please pass the salt?
SON: Dude, why don't you get it yourself?
DAD: Why I outta...
MOM: Henry!
DAUGHTER: Why must we always fight?
JOHN: Dinner time again?
DAUGHTER: Yeah, my folks...
SON: Stay out of this!
DAD: Who is John? And why is he commenting?
MOM: Henry, don't make me de-friend you!
DAD: John just tagged in a picture of a horse's ass! Cindy!
I'm sure that in the Sixties when they envisioned a future where all the kids were in separate locations and with the push of a button -viola!- all parties were notified to come to the dinner table the “Like” option was just a formality. But as families grew apart and we all became dysfunctional and fed drugs and pharmaceuticals there had to be something to tie us all together. To unite us. To give us the space we need to stream our mass boredom from isolationism and yet to keep us tethered to the rest of the world. Facebook has filled that need.
Case in point: my mom. Outside of driving my dad, sister, and youngest brother to their jobs she cleans the house. And cooks. And has nothing else to do. Enter the electronic world of Facebook. She befriends me. Then, begins commenting on what my friends say about me and even adds one or two of them to her friends list. She keeps tabs on what I'm doing, what I write, what I say, what I link to, what I upload, so on and so forth. It's the nightmare of some Eighties “after school” special where the mom or dad finds the diary/journal of their kid and combs through their life piece-by-piece because of their power of household. Only now it's not private. It's publicized.
And I find myself caught between generations: the generation older than me warned of computers taking over, the loss of freedom and privacy, the thought that we would cease to be individuals and instead become numbers (“they're giving you a number, and takin' away your name”) meanwhile the generation after me has none of those fears because all those rights -privacy, individuality, freedom- have already been taken away from them. You need your Social for this, you get a job by knowing such-and-such person, fill out this form, and make sure you have nothing less than perfect credit.
I may be digressing here but my question is: where is this all going? While I'm not going to automatically sign-up for conspiracy theories or world orders it does call for some concern. With people actually being fired for their FB statuses or divorcing because they're hooking-up with someone else, really... does this train come to an end? And if so, what?
My second concern is that FB is an electronic “tether” that parents think they have on their kids that replaces talking with them. It always changes. When I was in my teens it was parents giving their kids pagers so they would know when to call home. That gave way to cellphones. Then to MySpace pages. Now the 'rents can logon and watch the YouTube clip of whatever their kid is doing.
Back to my mom. There seems to be that instant “gotta know everything” once someone, especially your mom, becomes your friend. The only good thing about it is that it's a passing phase -my mom stopped caring what I put up on FB within about a month. Others may not be as lucky. The thing to keep in mind when using FB, or the Internet period, is watch what you say. Even if you exclude your mom or dad from reading it that doesn't mean someone else won't tell them or even show them what you put on there. Plus, it IS considered publication and therefore saved to some computer somewhere to be possibly recalled at sometime (paranoid now?)
More and more I use FB mainly for chatting and business purposes. Since I've “hidden” all the Farmville/Mafia Wars/Cafe World crudola, people really aren't saying much at all.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Aye Lassie Or, My Excursion to the Tilted Kilt
“Are you between the ages of twenty and twenty-two? Check. Do you have big breasts? Check.”
I'm sitting in an area dubbed “the Captain's Quarters” at one of the newest restaurants in Louisville, the Tilted Kilt. As of this writing the restaurant has been in service for two weeks.
And what a restaurant it is, folks.
Take the pub atmosphere of The Pub restaurant in Fourth Street Live! Add a sports bar's worth of widescreen/big screen TVs. Give it a “Hooters”-feel with girls in tartan mini-skirts, one-inch wedge shoes and cleavage that puts Hooters to shame and you've got Tilted Kilt. Oh yeah, and there's even Valet parking.
“Captain's Quarters.” It's an oblong table that stretches across the room, located between the bar area and the tables. The guy sitting across from me is Daniel who came to the place around five with a group of friends who left. He decided to stick around.
“Yeah, it got so dead and here that there were five girls surrounding my table,” he says with pride, leaning back in his chair. He's in his thirties with gelled black hair, white polo shirt, Blackberry phone and trendy designer sunglasses. I make a comment that he'd win the Jeffrey Donovan look-a-like contest (the guy who plays Michael Weston on “Burn Notice”) He laughs and says that he gets that a lot.
Jesse, a trainee with long, blond hair, plops in the chair beside him. She's learning the ropes from Amber who becomes my waitress. Both are in their early twenties. Amber ask me if I want to order and says there are thirty-six different beers. I ask for BBC Amber but they're out and opt for a BBC Stout instead.
Continuing to hang out with others congregating in the section, Jesse gets a backrub from Daniel. A short time after a group of guys walk in and take the seats to my right. They've been coming to the restaurant since it first opened, getting “VIP” seating the first night. The guy who sits to my right is named “Flash.” Small head, big body, and wears glasses. He's wearing one of those weekend t-shirts you pick out because you're doing chores on a Saturday and don't care what fitness club or sports team's logo is on the front.
“When you get off the plane in Philly you know what you smell? That.”
Daniel makes the comment because I tell him I ordered the cheese steak. He and Amber talk for a bit where Amber gives him her number and they chit-chat about where they live. He gets up to leave and says he's heading for Molly Malone's off Shelbyville.
“Just one more!”
Someone rings the bell and the tradition, if you can call it that, is to yell “Just one more!” any time it happens, Amber explains. I'm talking more with Flash who tells me he's an undercover cop. He shows off his two tattoos: one on his left shoulder that says Iowa Football and the other on his right that signifies that he was a military medic. I tell him a little about my regular job and that I do writing and photography.
Looking around I notice a few of the girls playing pool at one of the tables. Amber sits across from me and tells me how embarrassed she feels when she sees her old high school teacher from Oldham County come in. I make a note at how Tilted Kilt succeeds in a way that Hooters fails: the waitresses engage conversation with you. They come to where you're sitting, talk with you, play around, whatnot as opposed to taking your order and coming back around just to see what you thought of the meal and if you want something else (though they do that, too). They'll also let you take pictures with them.
Some jokes with a few of the guys, two beers, and a meal later and I'm heading home. Flash tells me to come hang out with him and his friends again. I hope the Tilted Kilt does well and stays around at least long enough for my next birthday.
I'm sitting in an area dubbed “the Captain's Quarters” at one of the newest restaurants in Louisville, the Tilted Kilt. As of this writing the restaurant has been in service for two weeks.
And what a restaurant it is, folks.
Take the pub atmosphere of The Pub restaurant in Fourth Street Live! Add a sports bar's worth of widescreen/big screen TVs. Give it a “Hooters”-feel with girls in tartan mini-skirts, one-inch wedge shoes and cleavage that puts Hooters to shame and you've got Tilted Kilt. Oh yeah, and there's even Valet parking.
“Captain's Quarters.” It's an oblong table that stretches across the room, located between the bar area and the tables. The guy sitting across from me is Daniel who came to the place around five with a group of friends who left. He decided to stick around.
“Yeah, it got so dead and here that there were five girls surrounding my table,” he says with pride, leaning back in his chair. He's in his thirties with gelled black hair, white polo shirt, Blackberry phone and trendy designer sunglasses. I make a comment that he'd win the Jeffrey Donovan look-a-like contest (the guy who plays Michael Weston on “Burn Notice”) He laughs and says that he gets that a lot.
Jesse, a trainee with long, blond hair, plops in the chair beside him. She's learning the ropes from Amber who becomes my waitress. Both are in their early twenties. Amber ask me if I want to order and says there are thirty-six different beers. I ask for BBC Amber but they're out and opt for a BBC Stout instead.
Continuing to hang out with others congregating in the section, Jesse gets a backrub from Daniel. A short time after a group of guys walk in and take the seats to my right. They've been coming to the restaurant since it first opened, getting “VIP” seating the first night. The guy who sits to my right is named “Flash.” Small head, big body, and wears glasses. He's wearing one of those weekend t-shirts you pick out because you're doing chores on a Saturday and don't care what fitness club or sports team's logo is on the front.
“When you get off the plane in Philly you know what you smell? That.”
Daniel makes the comment because I tell him I ordered the cheese steak. He and Amber talk for a bit where Amber gives him her number and they chit-chat about where they live. He gets up to leave and says he's heading for Molly Malone's off Shelbyville.
“Just one more!”
Someone rings the bell and the tradition, if you can call it that, is to yell “Just one more!” any time it happens, Amber explains. I'm talking more with Flash who tells me he's an undercover cop. He shows off his two tattoos: one on his left shoulder that says Iowa Football and the other on his right that signifies that he was a military medic. I tell him a little about my regular job and that I do writing and photography.
Looking around I notice a few of the girls playing pool at one of the tables. Amber sits across from me and tells me how embarrassed she feels when she sees her old high school teacher from Oldham County come in. I make a note at how Tilted Kilt succeeds in a way that Hooters fails: the waitresses engage conversation with you. They come to where you're sitting, talk with you, play around, whatnot as opposed to taking your order and coming back around just to see what you thought of the meal and if you want something else (though they do that, too). They'll also let you take pictures with them.
Some jokes with a few of the guys, two beers, and a meal later and I'm heading home. Flash tells me to come hang out with him and his friends again. I hope the Tilted Kilt does well and stays around at least long enough for my next birthday.
Friday, August 20, 2010
FOUND: Chas, next to the cars keys underneath the couch cushions
What a week, what a week, what a week, folks.
First off I had mentioned my trade before -Canon GL2 for a Canon 40D- and that it finally went through. Monday afternoon the package came to the business I work for and I drove 40 mins roundtrip to pick it up. Wow. Just fuckin' wow. I was digging the camera. It's nice, well-kept, and works beautifully and takes incredible pictures. It really is amazing. I loves my camera, loves my camera.
So I've been taking a sort-of sojourn from writing for the week. Not that it's a bad thing but I sit here in the coffeeshop tonight in the corner of the room, the older-citizen bridge club (could be spades) playing a few hands. I digress. I sit here and wax laconic about getting a feel for the camera. I know it sounds weird, right? Kinda like when you get a new car. You're not so much afraid of having it totaled (you are, but still) as you are of handling it. Getting used to it. How it turns. How it stops. How it goes. I'm doing the same thing with the 40D -getting my barrings with it. And it's fucking cool.
What else happened this week? We found out that we're stupid. Sometimes, fucking stupid. Maybe that's harsh; maybe we're more indignant. I've spent so much time thinking that I just needed to be by myself when I honestly needed to be around people who were nice, who I could trust, who really had no preconceptions of me. Case in point Thursday night the local Singles Meetup group gathered at Wick's Pizza in the Highlands for a giant get-together and the place was PACKED -bigger than any other meetup I had been a part of. And the people who came were good, decent. They came to have a good time and meet others. I enjoyed myself, met some new people, ate some pizza... I had a really good time. I brought along my 40D in case it went to suck and no one showed but it wound up being huge and I enjoyed being there.
And Chasness came back. The self-confidence of who I am. I got that back. I told people that I merely worked for a state/federal government agency and that I wrote and did photography. And I felt good saying that instead of “my job sucks because...” I think the poison has finally coursed its way on out.
And I met a woman. Christine. Exotic look. Nice body. Military. Two small kids. Pursues music while on active duty out of Ft. Knox. We got along great, she laughed with me several times, and we got closer. And closer. At some point I remember her arms rubbing up against mine but neither of us backed up. It got intensive and I couldn't say how long we stood personally close to each other but I remember her laughing and Ronald walking up, bumping against me. That broke Christine and I out of the “spell” and she said she had to drive home alone. I got her number and she told me to text her about my blogging stuff. Done and done.
So if I have any complaints about the week it's how do I go about doing what I want to do. I might be on my own now, I don't know. I wanted to do the blogging group this week however it canceled. That sucked. I have a camera and people are coming out of the woodwork and want me to shoot pics of them and that's cool; I could use the cash. I'm waiting to do Sabrina's Senior Pics and see how they turn out but I'm fairly certain I can pick up some cash on this. I have a friend of two who might be concerned that I'm leaving the world of writing and there's nothing farther from the truth. I love writing, it helps me survive and I would not give it up for anything. I might pursue more money doing the photography thing.
But yeah, it sucks taking a psychic “beating” every day by over a hundred callers. My ears feel shot. My patience has almost depleted. I need something else. And we're working on that, as always...
First off I had mentioned my trade before -Canon GL2 for a Canon 40D- and that it finally went through. Monday afternoon the package came to the business I work for and I drove 40 mins roundtrip to pick it up. Wow. Just fuckin' wow. I was digging the camera. It's nice, well-kept, and works beautifully and takes incredible pictures. It really is amazing. I loves my camera, loves my camera.
So I've been taking a sort-of sojourn from writing for the week. Not that it's a bad thing but I sit here in the coffeeshop tonight in the corner of the room, the older-citizen bridge club (could be spades) playing a few hands. I digress. I sit here and wax laconic about getting a feel for the camera. I know it sounds weird, right? Kinda like when you get a new car. You're not so much afraid of having it totaled (you are, but still) as you are of handling it. Getting used to it. How it turns. How it stops. How it goes. I'm doing the same thing with the 40D -getting my barrings with it. And it's fucking cool.
What else happened this week? We found out that we're stupid. Sometimes, fucking stupid. Maybe that's harsh; maybe we're more indignant. I've spent so much time thinking that I just needed to be by myself when I honestly needed to be around people who were nice, who I could trust, who really had no preconceptions of me. Case in point Thursday night the local Singles Meetup group gathered at Wick's Pizza in the Highlands for a giant get-together and the place was PACKED -bigger than any other meetup I had been a part of. And the people who came were good, decent. They came to have a good time and meet others. I enjoyed myself, met some new people, ate some pizza... I had a really good time. I brought along my 40D in case it went to suck and no one showed but it wound up being huge and I enjoyed being there.
And Chasness came back. The self-confidence of who I am. I got that back. I told people that I merely worked for a state/federal government agency and that I wrote and did photography. And I felt good saying that instead of “my job sucks because...” I think the poison has finally coursed its way on out.
And I met a woman. Christine. Exotic look. Nice body. Military. Two small kids. Pursues music while on active duty out of Ft. Knox. We got along great, she laughed with me several times, and we got closer. And closer. At some point I remember her arms rubbing up against mine but neither of us backed up. It got intensive and I couldn't say how long we stood personally close to each other but I remember her laughing and Ronald walking up, bumping against me. That broke Christine and I out of the “spell” and she said she had to drive home alone. I got her number and she told me to text her about my blogging stuff. Done and done.
So if I have any complaints about the week it's how do I go about doing what I want to do. I might be on my own now, I don't know. I wanted to do the blogging group this week however it canceled. That sucked. I have a camera and people are coming out of the woodwork and want me to shoot pics of them and that's cool; I could use the cash. I'm waiting to do Sabrina's Senior Pics and see how they turn out but I'm fairly certain I can pick up some cash on this. I have a friend of two who might be concerned that I'm leaving the world of writing and there's nothing farther from the truth. I love writing, it helps me survive and I would not give it up for anything. I might pursue more money doing the photography thing.
But yeah, it sucks taking a psychic “beating” every day by over a hundred callers. My ears feel shot. My patience has almost depleted. I need something else. And we're working on that, as always...
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Got Any Spare Change for the Psychic Toll?
Been a bit since I last wrote here in Blogging Chasness. It's weird -I remember almost dutifully keeping up with the blog on MySpace now... not so much. I can't say if it's being busy or the fact that most of my life has already been conveyed in chats on Facebook or wherever and those reading this may already be clued-in. Or maybe I have just shirked from talking about my life.
There's always “of them them/those days.” The kind where you don't know why you're doing what you're doing. The kind where you don't care -grabbing a change of clothes and a wad of cash and heading for the mountains feels like a good idea. When you're at the bottom who cares, right?
But logic pervades the argument. It interrupts it. Tells you that no matter what ya gotta keep going because it means something. You don't know what but you're praying that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train. Or a level going to a dungeon in which you find that the princess is in another castle.
Tuesday night. I'm tired. Coltrane plays through my surround sound. BBC APA in a bottle on my floor. Writing in hardboiled style. It suits.
Pissed off a filmmaker. The guy may have a degree of talent but the giant chip on his shoulder might as well be a white albatross. He tried going “English major” on my review of his movie which is fine. He called me out on the fact that I didn't seem serious about it but could only follow with “it's better than anything else that's came from here.” Fuckin' scruples. That's tantamount to saying “It's all about the story” when most people in Cinema Land don't know dick about story. Sorry. I'm not saying there are those who don't, some do, but for the most part “no.” Sorta reminds me of the quote “Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” Feel free to hide behind whatcha ain't got.
Brokered a deal on my videocamera. $40 lighter. Canon 40D with accessories and lenses heavier. SWEET camera. I almost feel guilty having it, now. Been snapping pics all around where I work and found a path to a forest behind a building. Nice walkway. We got shorted on being in a good spot but at least it's not far away. Talked with a woman who was outside. She asked me about doing photography and I may have ran my mouth a little long. Oh well. Everyone knows that by now. Will go out again tomorrow.
Loneliness. It's a trap where you reach inside and feel nothing. Pull out and you get scraped by shards. Talked with a chick working at the coffeeshop. Seemed cool but got that vibe she had been around too many assholes -had heard nearly everything. I'm not running against that. Have fun and a nice life.
Never thought I would say this but I miss being with someone. There. You got my confession. Been trying to be happy being by myself but it's no good. Everyone tries to point me toward someone when I'm trying to be alone and when I'm not I fail. Will this reflect down the timeline? I wouldn't mind spending my time with someone but I find myself terrified. Mortified. I don't know why. It's like opening myself up takes a Congressional Act and when I do no one wants the contents. Fuck me.
Talked to a redheaded chick on FB. Discussed metaphysical theories for redheads. Interesting. Maybe we're closer to some aspects and abilities (clairvoyance, telekinesis, etc.) than those with different genetics. Or maybe it's a person-by-person thing. Wonder if there's a study on it...
Talking with another filmmaker about letting him film one of my stories. “Broken Time.” A guy finds that time has stopped at 3:15pm and observes the consequences. Good story. He loves it. Says it's very “Twilight Zone.” Says he's figuring out how he could film it.
Working on “Sayonara Sunset.” Sequel to “The Big Adios.” Finished a chapter called “The Girl with the Tramp Stamp.”
Just tryin' to get by, man
-Chas
There's always “of them them/those days.” The kind where you don't know why you're doing what you're doing. The kind where you don't care -grabbing a change of clothes and a wad of cash and heading for the mountains feels like a good idea. When you're at the bottom who cares, right?
But logic pervades the argument. It interrupts it. Tells you that no matter what ya gotta keep going because it means something. You don't know what but you're praying that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train. Or a level going to a dungeon in which you find that the princess is in another castle.
Tuesday night. I'm tired. Coltrane plays through my surround sound. BBC APA in a bottle on my floor. Writing in hardboiled style. It suits.
Pissed off a filmmaker. The guy may have a degree of talent but the giant chip on his shoulder might as well be a white albatross. He tried going “English major” on my review of his movie which is fine. He called me out on the fact that I didn't seem serious about it but could only follow with “it's better than anything else that's came from here.” Fuckin' scruples. That's tantamount to saying “It's all about the story” when most people in Cinema Land don't know dick about story. Sorry. I'm not saying there are those who don't, some do, but for the most part “no.” Sorta reminds me of the quote “Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” Feel free to hide behind whatcha ain't got.
Brokered a deal on my videocamera. $40 lighter. Canon 40D with accessories and lenses heavier. SWEET camera. I almost feel guilty having it, now. Been snapping pics all around where I work and found a path to a forest behind a building. Nice walkway. We got shorted on being in a good spot but at least it's not far away. Talked with a woman who was outside. She asked me about doing photography and I may have ran my mouth a little long. Oh well. Everyone knows that by now. Will go out again tomorrow.
Loneliness. It's a trap where you reach inside and feel nothing. Pull out and you get scraped by shards. Talked with a chick working at the coffeeshop. Seemed cool but got that vibe she had been around too many assholes -had heard nearly everything. I'm not running against that. Have fun and a nice life.
Never thought I would say this but I miss being with someone. There. You got my confession. Been trying to be happy being by myself but it's no good. Everyone tries to point me toward someone when I'm trying to be alone and when I'm not I fail. Will this reflect down the timeline? I wouldn't mind spending my time with someone but I find myself terrified. Mortified. I don't know why. It's like opening myself up takes a Congressional Act and when I do no one wants the contents. Fuck me.
Talked to a redheaded chick on FB. Discussed metaphysical theories for redheads. Interesting. Maybe we're closer to some aspects and abilities (clairvoyance, telekinesis, etc.) than those with different genetics. Or maybe it's a person-by-person thing. Wonder if there's a study on it...
Talking with another filmmaker about letting him film one of my stories. “Broken Time.” A guy finds that time has stopped at 3:15pm and observes the consequences. Good story. He loves it. Says it's very “Twilight Zone.” Says he's figuring out how he could film it.
Working on “Sayonara Sunset.” Sequel to “The Big Adios.” Finished a chapter called “The Girl with the Tramp Stamp.”
Just tryin' to get by, man
-Chas
Monday, August 9, 2010
You Got to Make it Happen (and other notes on a week)
Sunday night and I'm whomped. Beat. Tired. It's past midnight and I'm drinking the last beer in the fridge. Here's a look back at the week that was...
I remember once telling my friend Cindi that just when you think you can't dig any lower, there's still more dirt to go. I'll use that in the case of psychobabble -if I discover one more thing about myself I think I'm going to hang it up. Shit. So I've figured out the major malfunction, the disconnect if you will, that I have. It's not necessarily emotional baggage as it is emotional trust issues in regards to being intellectual. To clarify: trusting people after being hurt. I did some research and most emotional trust issues come from the fact that the person with these issues had been molested as a child or teenager and these issues just come to current light.
That's not my story. My parents never did such a thing.
What my story is about is not fitting in with others due to being smarter, or having to learn differently, or having high-functioning autism (as I've been told I possibly have). Whereas others who would be my age would be emotionally mature I'm... not there. I wish I was. It sure as hell would've save me a lot of grief and time understanding this instead of running around asking “What's the problem with me?” People can marvel at the fact I know movies, music, and a lot of other things but when it comes to connecting with someone, or understanding feelings, or playing stupid people games I'm out in left field. Which sucks. So this has became part of a laundry list of things I'm working on within the next year. A friend of mine calls it the “Me Plan.” Fair enough. To quoth the Cindi, “Baby steps...” It never feels or seems any easier...
And this “emotional trust” maturity has to extend to something else. I got out my digital camera (not the greatest, mind you) and flipped through the myriad of pics still on it. It holds everything from when I took pics of snow when I first bought it to Fright Night Film Fest, LIFF, Derby City Film Fest and most recently my pic with Roger Corman. Sandwiched in-between all these are pics I took at the BBC on Shelbyville, ones of me and Jennifer. I've known the pics were on there but have held back on deleting them. There are also pics of “Psycho” (person, not the movie) that I'll gladly get rid of. But I've been holding on to hers. The general consensus is for me to get rid of them. Delete them. On one hand I don't want to because they're good pics and it's a time when for a moment, she smiled. She was honestly happy. I have nothing filling that void and remembering making someone happy makes me feel better about being me. Then again everything went sour, went to shit, and nothing to fill the void (see: emotional trust issues). But I'm going to have to get rid of them. Why do I feel so bad about that considering everything else?
I'm finally back to feeling like “me” again. Remembering the things that made me happy and that others liked about me. Maybe I've said this before. I dunno. I've got to buckle down and deal with finances, setting up a webpage, etc. There be a long road ahead... More on that as I can provide the info.
Strapped for cash the majority of this weekend was spent talking. And talking. And talking. I've blown through at least $60 (food, gas) and I have $20 to last me until Thursday. Great. Not having coffee as much is gonna be rough... But yeah, I've been talking. Neighbors. Friends. Acquaintances. Romans. Countrymen (wait...) It's been suggested, or rather advised, that I speak with a counselor about stuff. The only problemo with this is the dollars. I don't want to really pay but I need to deal with the issues. “Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues and you know it don't come easy.” Astute, Ringo.
Saturday night I sat up at the coffeeshop and witnessed an interesting cavalcade of characters all indigenous to the area. I sat at a table on the outskirts of a group that ran along the three back walls of the place. In the center was the Miss Leading Lady, an attractive blond chick with long hair, thin body and nice legs sporting black high heel pumps. To her (and my) left Mr. Hipper Than Thou – gray shirt, blue jeans with factory-made holes with patches (to make it seem like you could see through the holes in the jeans), gelled and spiked hair wearing a yellow “LiveStrong” wristband and sporting an iPhone on which he was playing some video. To his left, as we proceed counter-clockwise, shorter blond chick of an average build with a purple short-sleeved shirt. To her left another guy wearing a black shirt. Next to him Mr. Reserved; thoughtful, somewhat happy guy with a nice, not too brand-name shirt over another shirt. Moving on Mr. Good Ole Boy sat taking up space in the chair as if he owned it. Large build, ponch stomach, and big hands wearing a navy blue polo shirt and baseball hat. To his left another guy; thin build, black hair, wearing a brown shirt with a creative design on it. Sitting at the table opposite him (I'm guessing) is his wife in a large sea-green dress; she's looks about due. At some point she does the waddle-shuffle over to Miss Leading Lady to watch the guy's iPhone. All have state-of-the-culture cellphones and are waiting for instructions as to what bar they were going out to and where. The acoustics and overhead sound killed what I could understand of their native drawl.
Spent two hours today scouting photography locations with Sabrina. She's the daughter of a couple I've known for as long as she's been alive. She wants me to take Senior Pics of her which is fine; I'm up to the challenge. To paraphrase her, “You've got to do better than the crappy photographers here.” She likes my style because it's different and I'm willing to shoot outside, even spending a whole day to do so. We traveled to the train tracks around Clifton and Frankfort Ave. then downtown to the Kentucky Center of the Arts, the Galt House, the Muhammad Ali Center, Louisville Slugger, Frazier Museum, and finally over to 21c where I showed her around and bought her a soda. I took her up to the parking garage roof and she wants to shoot there, too. Everything done within 2 hours with major amounts of walking around (didn't stay at any one place longer than a few minutes). All-in-all a good day. Now it's just a matter of getting the camera and spending a whole day to do it.
Wow. This was a friggin' tome. Killed the beer. Time for bed.
I remember once telling my friend Cindi that just when you think you can't dig any lower, there's still more dirt to go. I'll use that in the case of psychobabble -if I discover one more thing about myself I think I'm going to hang it up. Shit. So I've figured out the major malfunction, the disconnect if you will, that I have. It's not necessarily emotional baggage as it is emotional trust issues in regards to being intellectual. To clarify: trusting people after being hurt. I did some research and most emotional trust issues come from the fact that the person with these issues had been molested as a child or teenager and these issues just come to current light.
That's not my story. My parents never did such a thing.
What my story is about is not fitting in with others due to being smarter, or having to learn differently, or having high-functioning autism (as I've been told I possibly have). Whereas others who would be my age would be emotionally mature I'm... not there. I wish I was. It sure as hell would've save me a lot of grief and time understanding this instead of running around asking “What's the problem with me?” People can marvel at the fact I know movies, music, and a lot of other things but when it comes to connecting with someone, or understanding feelings, or playing stupid people games I'm out in left field. Which sucks. So this has became part of a laundry list of things I'm working on within the next year. A friend of mine calls it the “Me Plan.” Fair enough. To quoth the Cindi, “Baby steps...” It never feels or seems any easier...
And this “emotional trust” maturity has to extend to something else. I got out my digital camera (not the greatest, mind you) and flipped through the myriad of pics still on it. It holds everything from when I took pics of snow when I first bought it to Fright Night Film Fest, LIFF, Derby City Film Fest and most recently my pic with Roger Corman. Sandwiched in-between all these are pics I took at the BBC on Shelbyville, ones of me and Jennifer. I've known the pics were on there but have held back on deleting them. There are also pics of “Psycho” (person, not the movie) that I'll gladly get rid of. But I've been holding on to hers. The general consensus is for me to get rid of them. Delete them. On one hand I don't want to because they're good pics and it's a time when for a moment, she smiled. She was honestly happy. I have nothing filling that void and remembering making someone happy makes me feel better about being me. Then again everything went sour, went to shit, and nothing to fill the void (see: emotional trust issues). But I'm going to have to get rid of them. Why do I feel so bad about that considering everything else?
I'm finally back to feeling like “me” again. Remembering the things that made me happy and that others liked about me. Maybe I've said this before. I dunno. I've got to buckle down and deal with finances, setting up a webpage, etc. There be a long road ahead... More on that as I can provide the info.
Strapped for cash the majority of this weekend was spent talking. And talking. And talking. I've blown through at least $60 (food, gas) and I have $20 to last me until Thursday. Great. Not having coffee as much is gonna be rough... But yeah, I've been talking. Neighbors. Friends. Acquaintances. Romans. Countrymen (wait...) It's been suggested, or rather advised, that I speak with a counselor about stuff. The only problemo with this is the dollars. I don't want to really pay but I need to deal with the issues. “Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues and you know it don't come easy.” Astute, Ringo.
Saturday night I sat up at the coffeeshop and witnessed an interesting cavalcade of characters all indigenous to the area. I sat at a table on the outskirts of a group that ran along the three back walls of the place. In the center was the Miss Leading Lady, an attractive blond chick with long hair, thin body and nice legs sporting black high heel pumps. To her (and my) left Mr. Hipper Than Thou – gray shirt, blue jeans with factory-made holes with patches (to make it seem like you could see through the holes in the jeans), gelled and spiked hair wearing a yellow “LiveStrong” wristband and sporting an iPhone on which he was playing some video. To his left, as we proceed counter-clockwise, shorter blond chick of an average build with a purple short-sleeved shirt. To her left another guy wearing a black shirt. Next to him Mr. Reserved; thoughtful, somewhat happy guy with a nice, not too brand-name shirt over another shirt. Moving on Mr. Good Ole Boy sat taking up space in the chair as if he owned it. Large build, ponch stomach, and big hands wearing a navy blue polo shirt and baseball hat. To his left another guy; thin build, black hair, wearing a brown shirt with a creative design on it. Sitting at the table opposite him (I'm guessing) is his wife in a large sea-green dress; she's looks about due. At some point she does the waddle-shuffle over to Miss Leading Lady to watch the guy's iPhone. All have state-of-the-culture cellphones and are waiting for instructions as to what bar they were going out to and where. The acoustics and overhead sound killed what I could understand of their native drawl.
Spent two hours today scouting photography locations with Sabrina. She's the daughter of a couple I've known for as long as she's been alive. She wants me to take Senior Pics of her which is fine; I'm up to the challenge. To paraphrase her, “You've got to do better than the crappy photographers here.” She likes my style because it's different and I'm willing to shoot outside, even spending a whole day to do so. We traveled to the train tracks around Clifton and Frankfort Ave. then downtown to the Kentucky Center of the Arts, the Galt House, the Muhammad Ali Center, Louisville Slugger, Frazier Museum, and finally over to 21c where I showed her around and bought her a soda. I took her up to the parking garage roof and she wants to shoot there, too. Everything done within 2 hours with major amounts of walking around (didn't stay at any one place longer than a few minutes). All-in-all a good day. Now it's just a matter of getting the camera and spending a whole day to do it.
Wow. This was a friggin' tome. Killed the beer. Time for bed.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
How Much Do You Need to Know About Yourself?
Cool?
Check.
Arrogant at times?
Check.
Self-centered and/or self-absorbed?
I'm in the arts. Check.
Stubborn?
Check.
Intelligent?
Check.
Ability for list to go on endlessly?
Check. Roger. 10-4. Over and out.
Take any number of Facebook quizzes. Or the Meyers-Briggs test. Or the Enneagram. Or numerology. Or whatever. Take all these and somewhere in the middle you find yourself.
I was standing in my kitchen, which amounts to a two-and-a-half foot wide and six foot deep plastic surface and realized: I'm back. I'm me again, as much as I can be. Everything that's happened before now seems surreal. Maybe my conscience is doing some clean-up.
I'm at a point way after a failed relationship; I'll settle for calling it a “double fault.” I've lost weight. I completed a story. I left a group. I got kicked out of another group. My freelance movie critic contract got canceled.
A friend of mine, Sandy, said that one of these events alone would bury her under her blankets for a year, let alone all of them. There's something to be said for my resilience or rather my ability to keep going after the fact. Maybe I'm stubborn. Maybe I'm quixotic.
It hurts to think about these things. How do I not register them as failure? I remember at the end of my relationship with Jen I said, “Keep the good things.” It's funny -it feels a million years ago.
And I feel like a different person.
I spent so much time on the outside that trying to get in banged me up bad. I took time out to figure myself out, to figure out what I want, to figure out what I needed. It was like wearing a new suit and thinking I was six-foot tall and bulletproof. But I wasn't.
And so after getting shat on and booted, the soul-searching I did yielded interesting results. I figured out who I was and how I operated down to the minutiae. Why I react to things the way I do, etc. The problem is “what do I do” with an answer of “go out there.”
But seriously, I've digressed from my point: how much do I need to know about myself? Currently, I've got me down to a science. Knowing how something works is one thing; application is an entirely different beast.
On a different note, why is it that the more we unravel about ourselves the less sure we are of anything? Is it self-doubt? Is it conscience? Or are we making a facade real? I'll have a moment where I'm fine, where I've figured things out, then BAMM -a hole in the boat.
Questions and answers and more questions...
Check.
Arrogant at times?
Check.
Self-centered and/or self-absorbed?
I'm in the arts. Check.
Stubborn?
Check.
Intelligent?
Check.
Ability for list to go on endlessly?
Check. Roger. 10-4. Over and out.
Take any number of Facebook quizzes. Or the Meyers-Briggs test. Or the Enneagram. Or numerology. Or whatever. Take all these and somewhere in the middle you find yourself.
I was standing in my kitchen, which amounts to a two-and-a-half foot wide and six foot deep plastic surface and realized: I'm back. I'm me again, as much as I can be. Everything that's happened before now seems surreal. Maybe my conscience is doing some clean-up.
I'm at a point way after a failed relationship; I'll settle for calling it a “double fault.” I've lost weight. I completed a story. I left a group. I got kicked out of another group. My freelance movie critic contract got canceled.
A friend of mine, Sandy, said that one of these events alone would bury her under her blankets for a year, let alone all of them. There's something to be said for my resilience or rather my ability to keep going after the fact. Maybe I'm stubborn. Maybe I'm quixotic.
It hurts to think about these things. How do I not register them as failure? I remember at the end of my relationship with Jen I said, “Keep the good things.” It's funny -it feels a million years ago.
And I feel like a different person.
I spent so much time on the outside that trying to get in banged me up bad. I took time out to figure myself out, to figure out what I want, to figure out what I needed. It was like wearing a new suit and thinking I was six-foot tall and bulletproof. But I wasn't.
And so after getting shat on and booted, the soul-searching I did yielded interesting results. I figured out who I was and how I operated down to the minutiae. Why I react to things the way I do, etc. The problem is “what do I do” with an answer of “go out there.”
But seriously, I've digressed from my point: how much do I need to know about myself? Currently, I've got me down to a science. Knowing how something works is one thing; application is an entirely different beast.
On a different note, why is it that the more we unravel about ourselves the less sure we are of anything? Is it self-doubt? Is it conscience? Or are we making a facade real? I'll have a moment where I'm fine, where I've figured things out, then BAMM -a hole in the boat.
Questions and answers and more questions...
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