Range Rovin’ with the Cinema Stars

Hey friends. Guess who wants to borrow my blog again? Nabbalicious! You know Nabbalicious, don't you? You may remember her from such guest posts as Radio on the TV and... Um, I guess just Radio on the TV? Did she really do only one guest post here at Stefanie Says? Dang, and I totally thought I had a perfect Troy McClure thing going on there.

ANYWAY, Nabbalicious has a story for you, and I am all about any way to bring Nabbalicious back to the Internets (not to mention all about free posts arriving magically and unexpectedly right in my Inbox). Take it away, Heather...
_________________________________

It seems like everyone in LA has a celebrity story, and I just think that's really unfair, because I work very hard for my celebrity sightings. Whenever I happen to be on Robinson (where the Ivy and other celeb-approved restaurants are), I keep my eyes out for them in their natural habitat. When we drive by any of the Coffee Beans in Hollywood, I silently chant, "Celebrities... celebrities... where are you..."

Darren often sighs and says, "I'm telling you. The minute you stop looking, you will see one."

"Yeah, yeah… where's Jennifer Aniston?"

In the hunt for my own celebrity encounter, I'm not sure what I'm looking for, exactly, because it's not like I haven't seen them. I saw Hank Azaria jogging in Central Park (he's not as lanky as you'd think), Judy Blume passed me on the street in New York. I saw the back of James Spader's head at an Andrew Bird show, and Sandra Oh walked by me at a Wilco show. I was nearly trampled by the paparazzi in their attempts to get a shot of Holly, one of Hugh Hefner's Bunnies.

But I never really felt like any of those encounters counted. The first four had to be pointed out to me, and the last one I just didn't give two shits about. I wanted my very own encounter. I wanted to be the one to recognize the celebrity, and I wanted to maybe even care a little bit who they were.

I'm also not sure why I care about spotting a celebrity to begin with. I guess I'm like my dog Nabby when she chases squirrels – what would I do if I actually got one? I'm not interested in talking to them. I certainly don't want an autograph. I guess it's like when you want to see a band live after you've heard their music – you want the whole experience. What are they like in person? Well, Us says they're Just Like Us™, but I'd rather find out for myself.

This weekend, it finally happened. Right next to Dominique Dunne's grave.

Me, Darren and my friend Melissa went to Westwood Village Cemetery this past Sunday afternoon to check out the graves of the famous people who are buried there. Westwood Village is easily my favorite cemetery of all the ones I've visited out here because what it lacks in easy-to-findness, it more than makes up for in the bonanza of dead celebrities it houses, including Bettie Page, Roy Orbison (although it's unmarked), Dean Martin, Brian Keith and, most famously, Marilyn Monroe. Westwood is also so tiny that in 90 minutes, you can see every grave in the place and a good third of them belong to industry people. And of those, another third have hilarious headstones.

Jack Lemmon's marker says simply:

Jack Lemmon

In

Merv Griffin's says "I will not be right back after this message."

Billy Wilder's says, "I'm a writer, but then, nobody's perfect."

So, Melissa and I were standing by Dunne's grave when a charcoal-colored Range Rover pulled up.

The man inside wearing shades asked us, "Excuse me. Do you know where Marilyn Monroe's grave is?"

Holy shit, I thought. That's Pauly Shore. That low, Jeff Spiccoli-like drawl is unmistakable.

"It's over that way," I gestured back and to my left.

And even though on the inside I was remembering how much I enjoyed "Son-In-Law" and "Encino Man" when I was in college (don't judge) (I also smoked a lot of pot then) (are the two related? Probably.), I didn't let on that I knew it was him or even cared. But that didn't stop him from pulling up part of his black jacket to conceal half of his face.

"Uhhh, who else is buried here?"

Melissa and I rattled off some names. "Jack Lemmon… Walter Mattheau… Merv Griffin… Rodney Dangerfield…"

"Rodney Dangerfield is here?!"

"Yep, right over there."

"Okay, great. Thanks."

Melissa looked at me after he pulled away and said, "That sounded a lot like Pauly Shore."

"It was Pauly Shore!"

Darren, who had been hanging back about 10 feet, started making his way toward us to tell us who we were talking to. "I know," I said before he could say anything. "That was Pauly Shore!" Because that's the other thing. When I do see a celebrity, I never, ever know it. I've probably seen dozens and dozens without ever having realized it. Los Angeles is tricky, too, because so many people act important and smug. How can I separate the someones from the no ones if they're all acting entitled?

And that was it. My very own celebrity encounter. I know it's not A-list, but I think the air of total absurdity about the whole thing more than makes up for it.

And now, if you're anything like me, when someone tells you that they met or saw or in any way interacted with a celebrity, you pepper them with questions. In anticipation of such questions, I'll ask and answer them for you.

Did he seem nice?

Eh. He seemed absolutely, perfectly neutral. I suppose "reserved" is the word I would use. Or stoned, if he still is into that sort of thing.

So, he didn't say "Thanks, Buuuuuddy!"

In a cemetery? That is so inappropriate.

Did he apologize for "Biodome"?

He did not.

Was he tall?

He was sitting in a car, so I have no idea. He did get out near the area where Jack/Walter/Rodney are buried, and although he was far-ish away, he didn't look particularly short or tall. He also didn't look fat or thin. Just fit.

How was he dressed?

Not like Pauly Shore, that's for sure. Dark pants, black top, black shades, short curly hair.

Was anyone with him?

See, I thought it was a small woman with black hair and shades. But Melissa thinks it might have been a kid, and Darren seems to be leaning toward this one, too. This person never got out of the car, so this question belongs to the ages.

He must be doing well if he's driving a Range Rover!

I know! That's totally what I said, too!

Come on, he's from LA, he's never been to Westwood Village before?

Hey, it seemed a little off to me, too, but you know how locals never take advantage of their area attractions. Ah those celebrities... they really are just like us.


(Note: Photographic evidence of Heather's Pauly Shore encounter is here. Click on through, please, as I am far too lazy to save and repost to embed the photo on this page. This is a free post for me, after all, and free posts should involve as little work as possible, don't you agree?)

_________________________________

Thanks, Heather! Remember, you can borrow my blog any time. Though I still think you should just re-start your own instead. (No? Well, I tried.)

I Looked Homelessness in the Face and Said, “Not Today, Sir”

_________________________________________

Those of you with blogs of your own... Do you ever wish a post would just appear in your Inbox some morning, already written for you? It turns out, sometimes that actually happens! Or, it does if you have a friend who's a former blogger who still has a story or two in him every now and then.

Friends, our pal Darren is back. At this rate, we may just convince him to reinstate his own blog yet. In the mean time, I'm happy to host his guest posts. Take it, Darren.

_________________________________________


I have lived in New York City off and on for more than eleven years now.

Well, sort of. I mean, I stayed in New York for ten weeks during the summer of 1997 for a college internship and then returned permanently in the fall of 2000 before leaving in 2006 only to come back in 2007. Did you follow that? Eh, it doesn't matter.

Let's just say that my relationship with New York has spanned enough years that I could be one of those annoying New Yorkers who say things like, "The Lower East Side? The Lower East Side, man?! Man, I remember a time when these college kids woulda been scared shitless to find themselves in the Lower East Side! Now they got Starbucks down there and Urban Outfitters and I don’t know what all…"

In the two decades I've spent in New York (sounds even more impressive, huh?), I have never once given a homeless person money. Not a single dime. It's not that I don't feel sorry for homeless people or don't realize that many if not most of them are suffering from mental illness or from addiction or don't think that there's something absurd about the idea that anyone living in the wealthiest nation on the planet should be homeless. Wait. Let me see what the stock market is doing right now.

Yep, okay. Still the wealthiest. Wait! Yep, still the wealthiest.

I don't give money to homeless people because the cynic in me doesn't believe the man begging for change on the steps of the uptown Sixty-sixth Street 1 stop has been saving the change he's received from all the various subway passengers who have dropped money in his paper cup and that my twenty-five cents will be the twenty-five cents that will finally allow him to get a shave and haircut, buy a passable off the rack suit, run copies of his long dormant resume off at Kinko's, get a job at an accounting firm willing to take a chance on a long shot, and reclaim the long-suffering wife and children he left all those years ago when the grind of our work-a-day world just became too much and he "dropped out for a little while." No, the cynic in me tells me that that twenty-five cents is going directly toward the purchase of a pint of Nikolai 100 Proof. I don't want to be an enabler, teach a man to fish, etc., etc., which is why I prefer to donate a little money every year to homeless outreach organizations and shelters and that kind of thing*.

So you can imagine the irony or whatever you'd call it when I gave not a dime nor twenty-five cents nor even a dollar to a homeless man last night after work but a whole twenty bucks. To put this into perspective for you, I cancelled my Netflix membership because $16.99 a month?! Oh, that money could go toward so many other things every month!

I'm a tightwad is what I'm saying.

It all began after leaving the grocery yesterday evening after purchasing cottage cheese and getting twenty dollars cash back for the Laundromat I'd be going to later that night. As I walked along the sidewalk, I saw a hulking man in dreadlocks, dressed from head to toe in orange, and lumbering right down the middle of the path directly toward me. He was wobbly, and I could smell even from that distance that he was drunk. He yielded none of the sidewalk to me, and we collided. I felt his hand catch on the plastic grocery bag I was carrying and then release a second later. I turned to see if our knocking into each other was intentional on his part and saw him bend down to pick some of his belongings up off the pavement. He seemed fine, I was fine, no harm-no foul, so there was no reason to stick around.

On the next block, I stopped to tie my shoe, and as I was finishing with the lace, I saw a huge orange mass fill up the corner of my left eye. "This can’t be good," I thought to myself.

I'm not a racist person. I'm not. Whatever my thoughts are about people of different color is learned behavior from growing up in a predominantly white suburb and raised by parents who responded to driving through the rougher parts of Indianapolis by referring to black people euphemistically as "minorities" and telling my brother and I in hushed tones to lock our car doors. To this day, my mother will warn me whenever my visits to my home city coincide with "Black Expo" – an annual convention held, according to the organization's website, "to be an effective voice and vehicle for the social and economic advancement of African-Americans" – to stay inside the house. For the love of God, stay inside the house! "It's Black Expo," she'll whisper as if that sums up everything there is to know.

So as one of the only white people in my predominantly black and Latino Harlem neighborhood, I am forever resisting the ingrained response to view all around me with a case of raging heebie-jeebies. "Don't panic," I told myself as I stood to face the towering dreadlocked man in orange. The one who had followed me for an entire city block. The one reeking of beer. "I bet he just wants to talk about Obama."

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

"What?" I asked back.

"Can you hear me now? Because I've been calling after you for a few minutes now." His lower teeth were brown nubs.

"Oh! Right. I had my headphones in." Which was true. I hadn't heard a thing as I had been listening to my beloved collection of soft rock hits from the nineteen seventies, AM Gold. As the collision and shoe tying and everything else had transpired, I had been on Volume Four, 1974, which is why Charlie Rich's "The Most Beautiful Girl" will forever remind me of this man in orange.

"But you can hear me now," he said more than asked.

"Yes...," I said with hesitation.

"All right. Let me tell you what happened." The man in orange went on to relate his version of events; how I had knocked into him, caused the fingers of his right hand extreme pain as they caught my grocery bag, and he had dropped the possessions in his hand to the pavement as a result.

Whenever faced with a difficult situation or wrongdoing on my part, I think I do what a lot of people do and that's play dumb. I have so perfected the "What? Really?!" response to confrontation that I'll gladly take on any lie detector in the world. But last night I went beyond playing dumb and entered full acting mode. James Lipton is going to want to arrange for me to come by the Actors Studio because I can now tell him and every one of the eager young faces in the audience with authority about "the craft" after last night's performance.

"Wait, wait, wait," I said as I squinted my eyes and shook my head. "What are you talking about?"

My tone and expression might have said, "What on earth does this have to do with me?" but the man in orange wasn't buying it. "I know you know what I'm talking about," he said, "because I saw you turn around and look." Sigh. Caught in my own lies by a man who chugs forties of Ballantine the way a runner might down bottled water after a marathon.

"Oh, right," I said. "Gee, I'm sorry. I thought we had just bumped into each other."

"No. We didn't," the man said. "You caught my fingers."

"Oh, well, gosh. I'm really sorry." I might have tossed in a nervous "golly" and a "gee-willikers" in there for good measure, but I'm not sure.

"Uh-huh. Well-well-well, that don't matter because I want to show you this." At this point he produced his glasses. The right lens had a large crack in the center. The crack might have been old, it might have been fresh, but at this point, it was his word against mine and he was much bigger than me.

"Now this is a problem," he went on. "You see, because I gotta be at work, so what I want to know is: Can you come with me to LensCrafters?"

"Um. No," I said.

"No? But you see, I have to get to work, and I don't have time – You can't come to LensCrafters with me? This is going to cost me."

"No, I really can't. I have to get somewhere... for this thing..."

"Well, how am I supposed to pay for this? There's nothing you can do?"

"Yeah, wow... That's rough..." Even as the words were leaving my mouth, I was reaching into my pant pocket for the twenty dollar bill I had gotten from the checkout girl at the grocery not five minutes before. I'm not sure if it was me or time itself, but the whole process seemed to move in slow motion. I love no other movie more than I love Raiders of the Lost Ark, and this moment reminded me of Indiana Jones jumping past poison darts, leaping over chasms, and outrunning the enormous boulder only to be forced into relinquishing the golden idol to the evil rival collector. This was Fate saying to me, "Again we see there is nothing you can possess which I cannot take away."

"This is what I can do," I said, holding out the twenty dollar bill and swallowing hard.

The man in orange turned half way around sulkily. "Man! That's it – This is going to cost me seventy or eighty dollars!"

"It's all I have!" I insisted.

"Man!"

"I swear! Do you want me to show you my wallet? It's empty!" NOTE TO SELF: Never offer to show your wallet to a stranger who has been following you.

"No, I don't wanna see your wallet! Aw, man!" Suddenly, the man caught himself. "Well, now, okay. Okay. You did help. You did. I have to give you that. You helped."

I sensed that I was being let off the hook, so I started to turn to walk the other way. "I'm really, terribly, gosh-diddily-darn sorry," I said. Why do I turn into Ned Flanders whenever I'm nervous?

"Yeah, yeah," the man in orange said.

"I hope you get everything fixed," I said not too convincingly.

The man too had turned to walk in the opposite direction. "Yuh-huh," he said over his shoulder. I heard him continue to grumble about the twenty dollars as he went.

I knew exactly how he felt.

--------------------------------------------
* Insert the words "will" and "one of these days" on either side of the word "prefer" in the second part of that sentence.
--------------------------------------------

You think I could milk this guest post thing all the way through NaBloPoMo?

You know how disappointing it is when a blogger you've grown to know and love suddenly closes up shop, right? Surely we've all been there with at least one site... And yes, yes, when that happens, we're still left with sixty-some live and active blogs in our feed readers, so perhaps we should not complain, but that is not how that old Girl Scout song goes... "Make new friends, but keep the old," it says! KEEP them! One is silver; one is gold! Who am I to judge which is worth more in our currently shaky economy?

All of this is to say that I am here to help. Here at Stefanie Says, we are all about giving gone-but-not-forgotten bloggers a temporary home: a place to share their tales of ridiculousness or woe without reactivating their own Typepad account.

OK, so by "we," I mean "me," and really I'm not all about this at all. I am sometimes about it, however. And today I am about it again. Many of you piped up and said "Welcome back" to our old pal Darren several months ago. Today we have a post from another good friend you may also recall. Show of hands if you remember a fine writer who went by the name Nabbalicious! And while we're at it, raise your hand if you're a fan of public radio as well! Do you have both hands up now? Oh goodie. Then Nabbalicious has a story for you.

Take it away, Heather...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Radio on the TV

I purposely told very few people that I could potentially be appearing on "Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me" when the show would be in Los Angeles taping a pilot for CBS. Emily from WBEZ Chicago called to ask me if I wanted to be a contestant, in response to my frantic email looking for tickets to the taping.

(For the uninitiated, "Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me" is a weekly news show on NPR that is part current events, part commentary, and all comedy. Don't feel bad if you haven't heard of it, either. One person backstage at the show told us that when he heard it was going to be a TV show he responded, "Do they have NPR in L.A.?!" Oy. I think he should feel a little bad.)

If I still had my blog, I would link here to the story about how I was traumatized each year in September at school when my birthday arrived. The class would gather around and sing songs to me. They would eat cupcakes in my honor, sometimes topped with things alight. We all have our crosses to bear in life. But my point is, I don't like to be the center of attention. I don't like to be ignored, exactly, but I'm always unsettled when all eyes in the room are on me, and I usually tend to panic in situations like that. Unless I'm drunk.

So, Emily's question about whether I wanted to be a contestant on the show was met with this response: "Um... I just wanted to see the taping?"

"C'mon! It'll be fun!" I reluctantly agreed, thinking to myself that I would just play along with her and back out later. This was clearly a mistake both me and the producers of "Wait, Wait" would come to regret. If I don't get on, I get to watch the taping. Everyone wins!

Emily asked a few basic questions. "Where do you live?"

"Long Beach."

"Yeah? How is that?"

Shit! This is an interview! I'm already auditioning! So, naturally, I start saying logical things like, "Oh, it's great. You know, it has a real reputation for gangs. But I just don't see that. Sure, maybe up in the northern part you might. But where I live? Totally cute." I don't suppose there was any need to tell her about the bodies occasionally found in dumpsters near where I live, or last year when I saw a coroner's van parked outside one of the neighborhood apartment buildings.

I frighten most people with my rambling, but Emily seemed to love it. We talked for a few more minutes, and then she told me that we'd be in touch.

While I tried to decide if I should back out, I explained to the few people I told about this why I didn't really want to go on: YouTube. They would ask me a question like, "Who is the president of the United States?" and I'd stare dumbly at Peter Sagal while the panelists dropped increasingly frustrating and obvious hints such as "Rhymes with MUSH!"

And then a video of the entire thing would go on YouTube, and I'd become a national laughingstock.

However, less than a week later, I was waiting in a van to go to the Wilshire Theater for my taping with a few of the other potential contestants. I decided to just go ahead with this contestant business, because I figured my chances of getting on were slim at best. Dozens and dozens must be vying for a spot on the show.

On the van, I'm told there are six trying out, three will be chosen.

We're hustled to the theater backstage and approved for wardrobe, then invited to raid the craft services table, a mélange of randomness. Twinkies, trail mix, Nutella, bread, Red Vines, coffee, tea, cereal, fruit.

I resisted the urge to scream, "I SAID ONLY BROWN M&Ms, DAMMIT!" because I'm sure no one has done that before.

While drinking my tea (how very post-rehab rock star of me, right?), I find out that I'll be on the show. My moratorium on telling anyone about the show is lifted and I commence texting everyone I've ever met, plus possibly a few strangers.

Twenty minutes later, mid-text, I find out that I'm bumped. My suspicion is that I looked too similar to another girl who had been chosen and they wanted a little more diversity among the contestants.

Commence texting everyone I've ever met to tell them that I will not, in fact, be on TV. I'm vaguely disappointed, but mostly relieved. This is why I told almost no one to begin with. I should have known from my degree in quantum celebrity physics that just as quickly as you rise to the top, you can crash to the bottom and wind up with your face in a ditch with your friends on an episode of "E! True Hollywood Story" selling you out.

My consolation prize is actually a good one: I'm going to be on the radio show. "I have a face for radio," I said to a fellow would-be contestant next to me.

"What does that say about me?!" he said. I pointed out that he'd be on TV waving, as Aisha Tyler would be playing for him during the "Not My Job" segment (she was funny, but she didn't win him the Carl Kassel calendar). I didn't even rate that.

While we stayed backstage for a minute, some of the "Wait, Wait" staff came to talk to us. The radio show's director came backstage to chat with us, and we immediately notice how young she looks. It turns out this is her first job out of college, but she's so sweet, I can't hate.

She tells us that the show is a complete mom-and-pop operation. There are just a few people working on it, and they each write one-fourth of every episode. The Chase Auditorium has just 500 seats, they tape about five segments and dump the least funny one each week. They even redo jokes, and play tricks with the laughter to make it all sound natural and off-the-cuff.

She also told us that "This American Life" is recorded in Berkeley – something to do with the TV show. That means when Ira says, "Coming to you from WBEZ Chicago. It's This American Life. And I'm Ira Glass," he's a liar.

The taping was about to begin, so we were ushered off to our VIP seats and Peter Sagal was introduced to the audience. After the clapping and hooting died down, he told us how surreal the entire thing had been and how he was wearing a suit that wasn't even his. He also noted later that his favorite thing about television is that nothing is ever your fault. That sounds like a job I might like.

My friend Steve, aka Digital Janitor, was there to lend some moral support in the event that I got on TV and freaked out, and he got a much better shot than I did of how everything looked:



With that, they started the show with panelists Mo Rocca, Tracey Ullman and Tom Bodett.

Someone at NPR was looking out for my ass, because the first contestant came on and I knew instantly that it would not have worked with me.

First, she seemed to have trouble hearing and comprehending what was going on – she wasn't on stage, but rather on a set designed to look like she was live via satellite instead of backstage in Hollywood. Not hearing or comprehending is pretty much my general state of being, which means I would have been doomed.

Second, she had to pretend that she was in Denver, CO, and did something for a living that she didn't really do. It made bantering with the panelists a little rough.

Third, Tracey Ullman said during a break in shooting that there was something "Sarah Palin-esque" about the contestant. She didn't hear Tracey, so I felt doubly bad for her that she couldn't even defend herself. The stage guy said not to pick on the contestants, and the taping continued.

I was beyond relieved to not be up there. I'd hate to hear what –esque qualities, Palin or otherwise, I bring to the table.

Seeing the show live was surreal. It was all the voices I hear in my car each week, but come to life. The action was hard to follow at times, especially when they would talk over one another. Listening on the radio, I can just focus on their voices, but in person, my head was darting back and forth as I tried to follow along. Later, I found out that just about everyone in the contestant pool was having that problem.

My love for Carl Kassel only grew. He reads his voices with such a straight, serious face, regardless of what he's saying, and it's exponentially funnier in person.

On our way out, we passed a hallway where Peter Sagal and Mo Rocca were winding down. I waved and said, "Hi, Mo! You're my favorite!"

"Ha! Thanks!" he said.

No need for him to know that he's tied with Paula Poundstone, right?

Anyway, if you want to hear me be a boob on the radio, you shouldn't have to wait too long. I'll be the one talking about all the gang activity in Long Beach and drawing blanks on the names of places like that street where the stock market is.

Blog Share 3.0

As I mentioned yesterday, today is Blog Share Day. Can I get a WHOO for -R- and all her efforts? (WHOO!) The woman is pregnant, people. She is growing a small human inside of her, which I can only assume sucks more than a small amount of energy and brain activity, and yet she harnessed the power of the spreadsheet and wrangled 30+ bloggers into formation to make all of this happen yet again. Well done, -R-.

With that out of the way, let's get on to today's anonyposter. Remember, the following was written by another Blog Share participant (who shall remain nameless). In turn, I've got an anonymous post floating out somewhere on the Internet as well. Check out the list at the end of this post to find all the contributors today.

----------------------------------------------------

There you are.

Cheerful laugh lines sculpt your face.

Your presence warms me.

An innocuous touch can send me over the edge.

Butterflies.

Soft kisses on my shoulder blades.

Your facial hair grazes the length of my spine.

You make me feel like The Most Beautiful Woman Ever.

Bursting with gooey goodness.

Lucky.

GLOWING!

If we are not careful, we may explode.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Blindly tap snooze.

Smile across my face, tiny squeak as I shrug sleep away.

Roll over and realize I am alone.

It has been months.

I still cannot bring myself to throw away your ugly birthday gift.

Managed to conceal my horror when I received it.

It wasn't until I thought of you shopping that I loved it.

Left at the back of the closet.

Forgotten glass flower.

Reach for an old shirt... knock the flower over, it breaks in half.

Still cannot bring myself to throw it away.

Two large pieces on a shelf in my closet.

Make coffee.

Work.

Exercise.

Play with loved ones.

Come home.

Check my blog stats.

There you are.

Not every day, though often.

Why?

You ended it.

You do not want me.

Yet you continue to read my blog?

I wish you would leave me alone.

Get out of my head.

Get out of my dreams.

Leave my heart.

Let me move on.

----------------------------------------------------

Thank you, anonymous guest poster. Now, here's where all the other anonymous posts are hiding...

Vent Vox
Turn On The Stars
Trudie - Life After AC
Swimming With Sharks
Shhh! Librarian-In-Training
Sauntering Soul
Sass Attack
Reflections in the Snow Covered Hills
Red Red Whine
Our Simplicity
One New Duck
Oh My Seven
The Occasional Truth
No Lady
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Muse On Vacation
Messing With Texas
Melliferous Pants
Lizland
Live Work Dream
Just Below 63
Jonniker
Java Literally
Heidikins
Full of Snark
Face Down
Ex Everything
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Did I Say That Outloud?
The Daily Tannenbaum
The Coconut Diaries
Citystreams
Catheroominations
Bright Yellow World
Breath Smiles Tears
And You Know What Else
Alyndabear
3 Carnations

Meanwhile...

I'm sure you are all anxiously awaiting a story that proves that even after all this practice, I still have no idea what I'm doing or what might be reasonable to expect where dating is concerned. Meanwhile, however, our friend Darren has something else for you to read.

You remember Darren, don't you? He guest posted for me once before not too long back. Apparently the dude really does miss blogging, because he did it again.

Give him a warm welcome and maybe he'll follow Flurrious's lead and reactivate his own blog already.

Here's Darren...

________________________________

The Friendly Skies

"Well then, my dear, you must have an opinion about Mr. Agastino."

It was sometime after seven this past Monday morning, and I was at a gate in the Montreal airport waiting for a flight back to New York City. Somehow a man and a woman in the waiting area with me, two strangers, had discovered they both had a relationship with a private airline: He had once been a pilot for the company, and she was currently a manager.

The woman laughed at the man's question. "No comment," she chuckled.

If it hadn't been for the green, Hawaiian print shirt he wore with the dark blue suit, this man would have resembled Dr. Phil in every way. The bald head, the beady yet friendly eyes--even the direct, common sense voice with the southern-by-way-of-the-Midwest accent--all Dr. Phil. So uncanny was the resemblance that I could only assume the man had come to accept his appearance and even played it up for effect for friends, family, and coworkers. I imagined a framed photograph of the private pilot and the talk show host resting on a desk in the man's office; the two of them awkwardly posed side-by-side, the man displaying much more enthusiasm than Dr. Phil is feeling for the chance encounter at the seminar or book signing or show taping. I could see the man at a Halloween party arriving essentially as himself, save for a copy of Relationship Rescue tucked under his arm to make the connection for anyone at the punch bowl wondering who he was supposed to be.

"'No comment,'" the man laughed back. "Yeah, I've known Bunny for years, and I think that's the best answer."

I had initially been annoyed by the man for breaking early morning flight etiquette--chiefly, “Sh-h-h, no one's happy being up at this hour"--but I was now intrigued. Who was Bunny Agastino, and what had he done to elicit such careful yet knowing responses from both current and former employees? Was he the private airline's CEO? Had he run off with his secretary and flown away in one of the company's jets, never to be seen again? I could just see the headline in the New York Times "Business" section: "FlightWays' president Martin 'Bunny' Agastino steals plane, hearts."

The man asked the woman for her name. I didn't catch it, but he responded to whatever she said with, "Well, my dear, with a name like that you must be from…?"

I'm fascinated by anyone who can work the words "my dear" into conversation with a stranger and not come off sounding like a total perv. Coming from the Dr. Phil lookalike, it was borderline charming. Mind you, I would never do something like that myself, nor do I want to. But I admire the self-assuredness it must take, the comfort with oneself it would require to do something like that. "Excuse me, my dear, but I'm feeling very good about myself today, so I would like to order a venti House Blend to go with a blueberry scone. On second thought, I just had an expensive haircut. Make that two blueberry scones, my dear!"

Soon, the conversation between the man and the woman petered out, and my attention was drawn to the businessman sitting across from me. He was normal looking enough. I assumed the plaid gray and black suit and crew cut meant that he was a Canadian businessman traveling to New York rather than a New York businessman returning to New York. You just don't see too many flattops on Wall Street.

The businessman was staring off in the distance at a flatscreen TV displaying five news stories and fifteen commercials on an endless loop, and I'm pretty sure he had an erection. Everyone is cursed one time or another with what I call "pants boner," that unfortunate bulge of fabric that gathers around the zipper every time you sit down. But there was something especially unbending about that portion of the businessman's lap that raised my suspicions.

Perhaps it is for him and travelers like him that the vending machines in the men's rooms in the Montreal airport sell condoms. I noticed the condoms during one of the many anticipatory trips to the men's room I had made that morning after arriving at the airport. I suffer from a rare condition that causes my bladder to go in to overdrive the second the flight attendant seals the cabin door. It makes no difference if I abstain from all liquids twenty-four hours before a flight; all I need to do is hear the thump of the closing door, feel the pressure change in my ears, and suddenly my body begins to draw and absorb moisture from any conceivable source within feet of my seat. This wouldn't be a problem if I didn't dislike using the airplane facilities. They're small, cramped, dirty, smelly, and there's usually a long line for them. Plus, I just don't think you should have to urinate and maintain your balance at the same time unless you're drunk.

What struck me about the condoms was the question of who on earth they were for. Certain things in airport bathroom vending machines I can understand--aspirin, for instance. Even Looney Tunes temporary tattoos make sense if you're traveling with small children or if you're trashy.

But who are the condoms for? Who gets lucky in an airport? Or has whatever will lead to intercourse taken place in-flight before the plane even arrives? I'm trying to conceive of a scenario in which two passengers forced to share a row hit it off especially well somewhere over Iowa, and after landing, the man casually dips into the airport restroom for a condom before picking up his luggage at baggage claim and accompanying his one-flight stand to the Airport Best Western. I'm trying, but I can't because any time I fly, I want the people seated around me to touch me less, not more. And even if something like this did happen, wouldn't a normal condom do? They speak a lot of French up in Montreal and I do not, but even I was able to deduce that the machines in the men's room were dispensing condoms "studded for pleasure."

Before I could dwell on any of this for too long, I was soon aboard my flight, silently thankful that I was not sitting next to the talkative private pilot and that I didn't have to go home with the businessman with an erection.

Not So OK Computer

As promised, today we have a guest post. But first, an introduction.

Once upon a time, I started a blog. And soon afterwards I discovered that blogging is not like Field of Dreams. If you build it, they won't necessarily come. I kept telling myself that I wasn't doing it for readers or for comments, that it was just a writing exercise for myself and it didn't matter if anyone else was out there. And then I felt the rush of seeing my very first comment arrive in my Inbox... and the subsequent deflated disappointment of realizing that first comment was actually spam.

Eventually, I learned what we've all learned by now: that if you want anyone to know you're out there, you need to speak up. I stopped lurking and started commenting on a few of the blogs I read regularly, and eventually, wonder of wonders, some of those people started stopping by. They even left me comments! Comments that weren't spam! It was all very exciting.

One of the first bloggers to pay any attention to me--to leave me real comments and put my name in a coveted sidebar spot--was a guy in New York named Darren. I can't link to Darren, because he closed up shop on his "Look at Me" blog last summer, but those of you who read him know that he was routinely brilliant and hilarious. When I removed his dead link from my sidebar several months ago, I considered creating a "Blogs I Miss" category for his name instead.

Darren and I have stayed in touch via email, and recently I told him that if he ever missed having an outlet to tell the Internet what's on his mind, he could guest post for me any time. And what do you know? He took me up on it.

Darren, you have the floor. Stefanie Says readers, let's give him a warm welcome.


_________________________________

Not So OK Computer

There was a cartoon in a recent issue of The New Yorker featuring a man seated in front of a laptop announcing to a woman who appears to be his wife that he's working on a think piece about himself. I start this post off not because I'm attempting to appear more erudite and cosmopolitan than I actually am by mentioning up front that I read The New Yorker. Nor am I bringing it up at the beginning because it's one of the rare New Yorker cartoons with a punch line that can't be summed up as "Being married to you is slowly killing my soul." No, I'm quoting the New Yorker cartoon because I thought it nicely summarizes what it is to be a blogger: assuming that anyone else gives a damn about what you think of yourself.

I used to be a blogger, you see. I blogged. And over the course of a few years, I developed a small, devoted following (hi, Mom!). I made friends and felt that I belonged to a community. And I miss those things. But I also took my posts way too seriously and drove myself nearly crazy on the days when I couldn't think of a topic to write about or whatever I did come up with didn't meet my own exacting, classy standards – such as my masterwork, "Shit Happens," in which I gave an account of the time I crapped my pants in the New York City subway. And so in order to reclaim my sanity, I shut down my blog in July of last year.

I've stayed in touch with some of the people I once listed in my sidebar, and a few have asked me if I ever miss blogging. My answer has always been, "Eh." I mean, I do, and I don't. It's been liberating going all of this time without forcing myself to transform every mundane experience of my life into a witty and captivating essay. But when I see that some of us have graduated to profiles in The New York Times and guest segments on Nightline, it makes me feel... What's the phrase? Pissed off. Happy for these newly famous bloggers, of course, but also so jealous of the attention I desperately once sought for myself that I now know what anger tastes like.

So when Stefanie, one of those former sidebar people I've remained friends with, told me that I could guest post on her blog any time I felt the urge, my "Me too! Me too! Me too!" instincts kicked in. And thus, my first post in nearly a year.

For anyone who isn't familiar with my back story, I returned to New York last fall after an absence of about ten months. And because I returned to New York with little more than clothes and couldn’t readily resupply myself with the things that so many of you probably take for granted (furniture, dishes, shower curtains, etc.), I have been living in a furnished sublet. Living with someone else's things has its advantages, sure. I can, for instance, reheat leftovers in the tinfoil containers they come in without batting an eye at the resulting storm of sparks because, pft, it ain't my microwave. But I also have to live with whatever's in the apartment – or, for the purposes of this post, live with what isn't.

I have no TV. Except for the stray episodes of 30 Rock I've caught on the NBC website, I'm missing out on an entire medium. I could buy a TV, but that would require, for the sake of good reception, also investing in cable. That would add another seventy to one hundred dollars to my already staggering New York City expenses. And as I see it, if I have to choose between seven or ten visits to Chipotle a month or finding out if Bret Michaels went with Daisy or Amber on Rock of Love 2, I'm going to go with steak fajita burritos each and every time.

I also don't have a radio. This seems to shock some people, but how many people own a radio? Maybe you inherit one or an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend leaves one behind after moving out. But I've never heard of anyone in 2008 intentionally leaving his or her home, walking into a Best Buy, and parting with the money it would take to listen to "Jungle Jay and Captain Wacky's Morning Zoo Crew" when you can just as easily listen to the streaming audio on your computer.

That's not to say that the last six months haven't felt like some bizarre, self-imposed media deprivation experiment, but I've gotten by. I listen to podcasts, for instance, while making and eating dinner rather than leaving the local television news on in the background. And I open a lot more books at night than I do Netflix envelopes. It's been different but manageable.

That is until my computer died one night about a month ago. As in dead. As in funky electrical smell coming from the back of the PC. I will spare you the details of just what went wrong and what the Dell technician told me over the phone I needed to replace (such a description would entail multiple uses of the word "motherboard"). Suffice it to say that my life went from "quaint" to "oh-my-God-I-am-so-fucking-bored!" in the blink of an eye.

I could have gotten another computer, true, but you read the part where I can't afford an additional seventy to one hundred dollars a month for basic cable, right? Perhaps, I thought, I could take matters into my own hands by repairing the computer myself. I don't know anything about computers, but I have seen a few that had been opened up and none of them looked that complex. Computers aren't made of alien technology that fell from space and we've managed to jury-rig for our own purposes even though we have no real understanding of how it all works. It's just some parts and wires, and even though I'm not so handy with these big, meaty paws of mine, I figured it was worth taking a shot at trying to fix on my own.

"Okay, Dare-een," said the Dell technician on the other end of the phone. "I am very pleased I can tell you I can provide you with a replacement of motherboard, however, at this time, it is available no longer." I was put on a waiting list, and waited I did.

I was patient at first. I even saw it as a "fun" kind of challenge. Each night I would come home after work and microwave my tinfoil leftovers in near complete silence. I use the word "near" because early on I attempted to maintain an illusion of normalcy by doing my own one-man podcasts, but I could only get as far as, "Well. From WBEZ in Chicago, this is 'This American Life'" before admitting that I was fooling no one and collapsing into a dejected heap on my subletter's faded loveseat. I had books to keep me entertained, and I know that there was once a time when books were virtually the only form of personal entertainment, but people also once drilled holes in their heads to let out the evil spirits.

As much as I enjoyed the notoriety of being the only Amish person in Manhattan, after three weeks, I had had enough. If technology had gotten me into this mess, maybe technology could get me out. I wondered: If I could find the same Dell model on eBay, could I swap out the parts? It was worth a shot. And so, after placing a winning bid and waiting another ten days for the hard drive to be shipped, I had, I hoped, everything I would need.

The downside of my sublet is that it's illegal, meaning the guy whose name is on the lease is technically not allowed to rent it out to anyone else. I'm not supposed to receive mail at the apartment because doing so could tip off the building management that something fishy is going on. So I had to have the hard drive shipped to a friend's apartment, pick it up after work the day it arrived, put it into the back of a cab, and get it home that way. That was the easy part. The hard part was lugging the box through the lobby of my building only to find that the notoriously unreliable elevator was broken that night. Having no other choice, I carried the nearly forty pound machine up seven flights of stairs.

Once I got everything up to my apartment and suppressed the urge to vomit, I tore into the battered cardboard box the hard drive had come in. At first, I wasn't entirely sure what all I was looking at. I thought of every movie I've ever seen in which someone diffusing a bomb has to make a decision between cutting the blue or the red wire. That big, flat, green piece with all the silver lines zigzagging everywhere – how important was it exactly? After a few minutes of staring at the electronic guts, I dug in.

An hour and a half later, I had the good parts from the replacement PC safely inside my old machine and was ready for a test run. The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone, and I saw the Windows logo come to life on my monitor for the first time in what felt like my whole life.

I'd like to be able to end this by writing something along the lines of, "And, you know, the strange thing is that even though I now had what I had spent a month longing for, I discovered I had gotten used to the low-tech lifestyle that had been thrust on me and barely even use my computer anymore." The truth is, I squeal with delight and nearly dry hump the thing every time it boots up. I lost all of last weekend catching up on email, downloading pirated software from LimeWire, hourly changing my Facebook status, and looking at blurry paparazzi photos of Mischa Barton's cellulite on Defamer.

Okay. It felt good sharing a not-particularly interesting episode of my life with random strangers again. Not so good that I'm going to run out and re-launch my TypePad account, but good just the same. Thanks for letting me borrow your blog, Stefanie. Maybe I'll drop by again some time.

Blog Share 2.0

Hey kids. Guess what today is? You might not have realized that it's Blog Share day, because for some reason, I neglected to mention I would be participating. You know what they say about Blog Share, though: The first rule of Blog Share is you do not talk about Blog Share. Oh. Right. That's Fight Club. Never mind.

Anyway, in case you forgot how this works, the post below was not written by me. It's from another blogger who shall remain anonymous so that she can speak her mind freely. In turn, I've got an anonypost floating around somewhere on the Internet today as well. We did this once before; remember? My guest poster confessed her love for Leonard Nimoy, and I told the Internet all about... well, never mind what I told the Internet all about. It was anonymous for a reason, right?

Today's anonymous poster has some pretty intense and serious things to share, so I'll quit my rattling now and give her the floor. Let's give her a warm welcome. Take it away, guest poster.

------------------------------------------------------------

People often fondly discuss how and when they lost their virginity. I listen, laugh or sympathise but, for once, I don't have a witty anecdote of my own to share.

I didn't lose my virginity. Mine was stolen when I was 16 years old, in a brutal and terrifying attack that lasted the best part of 24 hours. The three men who attacked and raped me were never found and whilst I hope they never tortured anyone else in the same way that they did me, I was glad in a way that they were never brought to justice as I don't think I would have coped with reliving what happened in public at a trial.

I didn't really cope anyway. No-one did. I think sometimes it was harder for my parents than it was for me. I wish they had not had to see the state I was in when I was found, or listened as I tried to describe to the police in detail exactly what had happened. It would have been easier for them and in the long run, probably easier for me too, if they had not been there. Because I don't think the attack was the worst of it really, it was later I needed them most.

The attack was terrifying, mostly because I thought they would kill me. A sort of self-preservation instinct set in and I did none of those things you might expect, I didn't scream, struggle or fight back. I just let them do whatever they wanted in the hope that they would let me go. I've read lots of accounts of rape since and I think that this shut-down response is quite common, a way of preserving not only your life but also your sense of self in a situation where you would think you could not.

The real pain came later. After the initial furor was over, there was a sense of relief that I was not pregnant and that physically I was largely all right. My parents could not understand why I did not have the sort of reaction you might expect, I never broke down in tears or clung to anyone. They tried many times to speak to me about it but getting no response retreated back to normal life and familiar routines. My friends didn't know what to say so they avoided me and I couldn't smile and be jolly and pretend nothing had changed so I just shut myself in my room and got on with my schoolwork. There were no counselling sessions, no-one to tell me it was OK to feel the things I did. I felt guilt that I hadn't done more to escape my attackers, I felt revulsion at what they had done to me, I felt grief for the life I had suddenly lost and I was confused, frightened and intensely lonely. I threw myself into my schoolwork, I didn't go out with friends, I just worked and worked and worked. It was a form of therapy really and it did help. I got the highest marks anyone had ever scored in the public examinations I took in my final year at school. I had my picture in the local paper and easily secured a place at a University in the big city. For once I was famous for something positive, I wasn't just the rape victim.

Escaping from my home town was a good move and it was easier for me in the big city where I felt anonymous. I made a friend and together we cooked up the sort of mischief I had enjoyed as a schoolgirl and still do to this day. Emotionally I was fragile but I regained some of my confidence and it is this friend I have to thank for that. She was my saviour. She helped me to accept that whilst what had happened to me could never be changed, it didn't have to determine the course of the rest of my life. She listened to me talk about it, held me in her arms night after night, without any expectation of anything more. She arranged for me to see a counsellor who helped me to develop strategies for dealing with the memories of what had happened. With her unconditional, undemanding love and support my wounds slowly healed and I learnt to live and love again.

I know you will feel revulsion at what happened and feel sorry for the 16 year-old me. But that is not me any more. I no longer need sympathy and understanding. More than 25 years have passed since I was raped. Whilst I know I will always have nightmares, will always bear the physical scars of the assault, it is just one very small fragment of my life, just one part of what makes me what I am today. The only reason I keep this a secret, the reason I am not writing about it on my own blog (although I have considered doing so and may still do so yet) is not because I feel ashamed of or embarrassed about what happened to me, but simply that when I have told people in the past I think it has changed their opinion of me as I am now. And I do not want that to happen to me in blogworld.

------------------------------------------------------------

Want to read more anonymous posts? Here's the list of participating blogs (a list that's over twice as long as last time... detectives, you've got your work cut out for you if you're trying to match post with blogger this time).

The Adventures of Shelagh
Alice's Wonderland
Alyndabear
And You Know What Else
Bright Yellow World
Daily Tannenbaum
Du Wax Loolu
Elise
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Face Down
Fretting the Small Stuff
For the Long Run
Galoot's Hoot Page
Granted Null
Grumpy Frump
Just Below 63
Lawyerish
Life After AC
Liz Land
Malfeasance
Mamma Ren
Muse On Vacation
Muze News
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Not What You Think It Should Be
One New Duck
Rankin Inlet: A Journey Northwards
Red Red Whine
Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills
The Reluctant Blogger
Sass Attack
Sauntering Soul
Sparkling Cipher
Stefanie Says
Three Carnations
Tracy Out Loud
Way Way Up

Ooh! It! Feels good to be free!*

Many of you have probably already heard about this fun little experiment called the Blog Share, which -R- organized as a way for all of us to air our dirty little secrets to the Internet anonymously. That means today's post here at Stefanie Says comes from an unnamed blogger, and I have an anonymous post floating around somewhere on the Internet as well.

My guest blogger has obviously familiarized herself with my blog, as she chose to let her post continue my alphabet theme. I assure you, however, her chosen subject is not my "L" entry in the Encyclopedia of Me. I may be a liberal with a love of lip balm and libraries, but that's about as far as I relate to this one.

And with that, take it away, anonymous poster!

_______________________________


"L" is for "Leonard."

Leonard, you say? What with the huh now?

I refer, of course, to Leonard Nimoy, otherwise known (to me, and those few select friends with whom I have previously shared this particular attraction) as the SEXIEST MAN ALIVE. (And let me just be clear--I do not have a crush on Mr. Spock. Okay, wait... I do, a little. But I have an even bigger crush on Leonard.)

I'm not kidding. I love him. I have a life-sized cutout of him (as Mr. Spock) in my living room. (Well, actually I have the top half of the cutout--he was cut off at the knees by an evil cat and her claws. Sorry, Lenny!) I used to write in his name in all the sexy man magazine polls. I don't know why he never won.

Seriously, watch this, and then tell me the man's not hot! (And dig those hip backup dancers. Groovy, baby!)

He's a true Renaissance man--actor, writer, director, singer, photographer, and poet. I actually purchased a book of his poetry on Ebay (for $1--what a deal!), and I will quote some of it for you now (with Leonard's own inimitable spacing): (Editor's note: Sorry, guest poster; I don't think Blogger likes the forced spacing. My apologies that this likely won't look as it's supposed to.

You mean so much
to me
I wish
I could be
A cushion following you
Wherever you go
To be there
In case you should fall.

I won't do that.

It would deprive you
Of your self-respect
But please,
If there is a bruise,
Let me help to heal it.


See? Deep. He wrote it just for me. Really. The name of the collection is "These Words Are For You." For ME. Swoon. He wants to heal MY bruises. (He might want to rethink that particular phrasing, actually, given how clumsy and accident-prone I am. He might not have time to do anything else but tend my bruises, and the world NEEDS his special talents.)

Okay, true confession time. His poetry is crap. (WHO SAID THAT?) But I stand by my declaration of love, nonetheless. Oh, Leonard... I hope you live long and prosper. (Call me!)

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll attempt a quick and dirty list of other "L" items that give or have given me pleasure.

• Lilies, stargazer (Want to woo me? This is how.)


• Lyle Lovett ('nuff said.)


• Lifetime TV movies (You watch 'em, too!)


• Lemons (Tart!)


• Limes (Tangy!)


• Lean Cuisines (The single gal's best friend.)


• Lipstick, lipgloss, lip balm (Say no to chapped lips!)


• Lapidary (Pretty, pretty stones.)


• Language (Duh.)


• Laughter (The best medicine.)


• Libraries (Books, books, books!)


• Limericks (There once was a man from Nantucket...)


• L'Engle, Madeleine (Rest in peace.)


• Lettuce (Something's got to hold the dressing.)


• Liturgy (Rites and rituals.)


• Lift-off tape (What, you've never made a mistake?)


• London (I see London, I see France...)


• Lucy (I Love.)


• Lipman, Elinor (Sometimes you just want a fun read.)


• Lamps (Say no to harsh overhead lighting.)


• Liberals (Lean to the left!)


• Loaves of bread (Take that, Dr. Atkins.)


• Linda Lovelace (Kidding! Wanted to see if you were still with me.)

Okay, now my brain hurts. So I'm going to get the "L" out of here (groan) before I start adding things like "La Brea Tar Pits," "Liberace" and "Loch Ness Monster."

_______________________________

Want to read more anonymous posts? Here's a list of all the participating blogs--one of which is hosting an anonymous post by yours truly. Think you know which one it is? (If so, don't spill it in the comments here! It's a secret. Got it? OK!)

Alyndabear
And You Know What Else
Bright Yellow World
Confessions of a Novice
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Face Down
Liz Land
Muse On Vacation
Nabbalicious
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Not What You Think It Is
Operation Pink Herring
Red Red Whine
Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills
Sass Attack
Stefanie Says
Thinking Some More

-------------------------------------------
* I doubt even my guest poster caught the reference in the subject line, but surely there are at least a few Rilo Kiley fans out there!
-------------------------------------------