Bedside Story

So much is coming at us all the time, sights and sounds and swirly things. Most of it floats on by. Very little sticks. But every once in a while I'm struck with the power of a great story. And sometimes it comes from the oddest places.

I was surfing around the web doing quizzes on the In Plain Sight page. And I clicked over to the message boards about the show. My interest was piqued by a reference to a site called fanfiction.net, a repository of stories written about, inspired by and including characters and situations from pretty much any movie, book or TV show (or pretty much anything else that you can be a fan of).

I had been talking to my doctor about the stories I used to write when I was a teenager. Usually some silly fantasy about me and a player from the New York Mets. Me all grown up and having become all I wanted to be. Whether it be famous, or successful, or just possessing talents I never could. And finding the perfect love. You know, standard young girl's fantasy stuff. And the intervening years brought none of those things. So they were left behind, but not forgotten.

Occasionally I'd start a new one in my head. A scene here and there. An amusing tidbit to pass the time, a bit of comfort to take to bed. And yes, it's a story of me, being someone better than I am. Having more friends, being desired by the perfect guy. Right now, it's Marshall Mann, the U.S. Marshal, WITSEC Inspector on In Plain Sight. Played by Frederick Weller, Marshall is so smart, so funny, so sensitive, and adorably dorky. And he'd never want me. But in my head, anything can happen. I'm making it up.

So why don't you write these stories down? she asked. But that's fan fic, I told her. It's the silly imaginings of a fangirl. It's dressing up as a Jedi. Putting on shoes that are way too big, or a dress that's way too small. Thing is, fan fic can be better than that. A skilled writer can take established characters and story arcs, and take them somewhere else. And it could be seamless. I read such an IPS fan fic this weekend. I spend much of my Friday and Saturday night, enthralled, sure it was the same Mary and Marshall; and wanting to see what would happen to them, what they would do. It has a place because we fans do want more of Mary and Marshall. We imagine their world, bigger than what's on our screens. We can hear their voices. Some of us better than others. And there are those out there brave enough to share. I'm not up for that yet. My stories aren't so well developed. They are just bits and pieces. But now I've seen what can be done. And felt how it can feel. And I want more of that.

As I'm writing this I'm watching Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland w/ Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter. It's all colorful and cool looking as usual with Burton films. But it just doesn't grab me. As classic a story as it is, I just find it kind of "eh." No wonder in Wonderland for me. Odd that.

Then sometimes it comes from just where you expect. Doctor Who is always full of wonder. Last night's episode continued that. It was about dreams, and more dreams, which one is real. Who needs reality? If I could be in the Tardis with the Doctor I certainly wouldn't.

Then again, sometimes reality pokes its little head back in. I just happened to run into Skip and Jazz on MySpace today. I talk to Jazz pretty often. But Skip has been MIA. And he had always been my go-to guy. He'd have a story for me; not fantastical, just big and clever. And completely him. And it was okay for me to be me. I always belonged. I definitely miss having that place to go to.

But it seems there should be a mix. Real and dream. Fantasy and life. Traveling in the Tardis and getting lost in the swirlyness of the here and now. In sleep and in waking.

But right now it's time for bed. What story will I take with me?

Lost!

It's come and gone now. And has been talked about. And will be talked about. You could probably teach a course on it. Lost is over. And we will never see the likes of it again. Even J.J. Abrams' genius cannot repeat an achievement like this.

Everyone will have their theories about what it means. Which reality is real? Who lived? Who died? Who was left? and what happened to them? What was it all for? And there is plenty to mull over, piece together, details to notice, obsess over, and enjoy. It was, after all, a bloody great ride.

What can I say that hasn't been pointed out by critics, Lost-ies and other avid viewers? I don't know. It's all still sinking in. But I just wanted to mark the moment's passing, unnecessary though it may be. It's already certain that it cannot be forgotten.

Get Older

It's been happening all along; it happens to each one of us if we stick around long enough. And it sneaks up without us noticing. But every now and then, it strikes you, for a moment. And you have to acknowledge it...you're getting older.

You know you're getting old when...the baseball players you watched as a kid are now broadcasters.

You know you're getting old when...the players you watched as an adult, when the others were already broadcasters, are now becoming managers.

The generations that come after you, they are the ones who remind you. First, that there are generations after you. That you are no longer the "youth of today," those with their whole lives ahead of them, the next generation. You've passed on that mantle.

You know you're getting old when...music you grew up with is referred to as "Classic Rock."

Rachel on Glee referred to U2 as classic rock on one of the episodes a few weeks ago. U2! But when I think about it, it's been happening for years. The 80's are a long ago era, with classic bands and kitschy songs. Decades ago.

Yep, two decades, and it's time for your high school reunion. And you gather around with your friends, talking and saying, "Do you remember..." this or that. And sometimes you don't. Your memory is not as good as it used to be. This happened. Hina, one of my best friends, mentioned things I had no memory of. Turns out I remember some things she doesn't as well. It's almost like we weren't in the same high school together.

And you hear your mother laugh and she sounds just like your grandmother. And you wonder how she doesn't see it, that she's turning into her mother, but then again, you're turning into yours.

You know you're getting old when... you start referring to the 20 year olds as just kids. And tut tutting about how little they know.

You know you're getting old when... you are in the front row seeing your favorite band, and everyone is jumping up and down, and suddenly you feel stupid. And tired. And you've stopped jumping. Your feet have given up.

And maybe some other parts of you are giving up.

But it's okay, as long as you never stop learning. And you never stop falling in love. With new things and people and feelings. As long as you can still be uplifted by words and sounds and images. By ideas... And you know you can... and you appreciate it.

Hysteria

I'm helped out here by my dear friend Skip who has already done a superior job of describing it. I'll add some more thoughts at the end. But for now, here is what happened Saturday night.

(So, let me come to the stage set.

On entering the arena the stage was quickly located by the 3 tall skyscrapers looming above us. They were grey and black and near-silhouettes. During the breath-holding anticipation of the main act, the usual blokeys were lifted in their slings to the rafters. I stood, the atmosphere thickening, my breathing bottoming out, searching for the big screens that would save my neck.

At around 9pm, the lights faded. The cheers burgeoned and the breathing stopped.

One by one, and sometimes two by two, lights came on at the windows of the skyscrapers. Finally all were lit. There was a female commentary as the lights became white silhouettes of people climbing stairs, and then descending, all in lines. I wasn’t really listening to what was being said, only to hear her say “kill number 7” repeatedly. It jogged some sort of memory (Orwell’s 1984?) as one silhouette was shot and fell, knocking all those below him to the floor.

Then the folds of linen covering the towers slowly lowered to reveal reds. And I craned to see the stage as Uprising burst forth. And then, seconds later, with a half-laugh, I saw them. The towers had split horizontally, and there, on platforms in the gaps, were Matt, Dom, and Chris. The upper parts of the towers were now camera screens projecting each man’s image in black and red. And I no longer cared about the tall bloke just ahead of me.

Chris wore black.

Dom wore black.

Matt wore shiny sunglasses and electric blue trousers.

Matt threw his glasses into the crowd.

Uprising slipped neatly and familiarly into Resistance, and then the platforms lowered. I was mildly unsettled as I stretched to see, but not surprised. After all, there’s sliding and strutting and posturing to be done. Can’t do that on a plinth 20 feet in the air.

I don’t know the exact setlist, other than it was glorious. There was no Citizen Erased, but there was New Born, and, to my delight, after a short-but-somehow-long meeting of the band around the drums, MKUltra. Dom said, post-discussion, “Okay, now we can play the song. We’ve not done it before, and it’s a bit tricky, so….anyway….”

To me, faultless.

They played Hysteria, Mappo Problemo, Plug In Baby, Supermassive Blackhole, Starlight….oh, and so many more. Sadly none from Showbiz, happily, all but 3 from The Resistance.

During the show they went up and down on the platforms, Matt at the grand piano for Feeling Good (and yes, he hit that note again), they stood at the end of gantries over the crowd, and swapped sides once. The lighting was amazing, and dominating the reds and greens and yellows and whites and flashes of silver was the electric blue.

They finished with Unnatural Selection which was about as an immaculate performance as could ever be heard.

Frustratingly too soon, for me, they left the stage, only to return, again 20 feet up, playing Exogenesis Part 1. They came down to earth for Stockholm Syndrome and a loud and jolly Knights of Cydonia.

Even more frustratingly too soon, they had gone and the lights were up.)

I'd been spoiled by seeing Muse from the front row of smallish venues. And this time, through stubbornness and with a bit of luck, I ended up in the front row again. With my brother George by my side. My 3-time Muse companion now. This time, intimacy was replaced by a delirious garden of larger than life dreams. The stage set the same as Skip described, the set list just slightly changed. Matt wore a silver suit instead of the electric blue trousers. When he came to play in front of us, we could see his trousers had holes at the knees where Matt slid on the stage. Chris had a suit on too. A light blue shinyish ensemble. It might have been satin. He looked really good. Dom was in black, smiling as always. He and Chris had a rollicking jam session on the rotating drum platform. And I tried to absorb every minute. Towards the end, the big balloons filled with confetti floated down from the ceiling, and were batted around by the crowd popping to release the red and white strips which drifted down on us like a joy filled rain. They played their hearts out, and like Skip said, were gone too soon. But they left us an experience like no other to take with us back to our everyday.

Only the Wind

It tends to get windy out at the Test Site. But sometimes the wind is so strong that you feel like you might even be lifted off the ground. Or that the building you're in might suddenly be blown off its foundation. Yesterday was one of those days. You could hear the wind rushing around outside and into the building through the cracks in the door and window seals. You feel the draft. And every time someone opens the door to go out a gust roars in and you wonder about their safety. When they do manage to return, they tell the harrowing tale of venturing to the cafeteria. A little while later I had to go across the street to Occ Med. It seemed to have calmed down a bit by then. Still as I took each step I could feel the wind taking hold of my foot and defiantly blowing it aside. I pushed through it easily but the sensation of this force of nature that whips up seemingly out of nowhere, was thrilling as well as curious.

Update 4/28/10

Another week of blinding winds. Waiting at the bus stop has been fun!

-- Post From My iPod Touch

Army of Me

I had never used swear words before I was in the army. You'd think if I were to pick up the habit anywhere it would be there. Profanity was in the air. Soldiers breathed it in and out rather than spoke it. But somehow I held out. I felt like I had to maintain my well-educated vocabulary, my intellectual bearing. There was no reason to stoop down to the level of my fellow soldiers.

Besides, they were mostly guys. Guys can have potty mouths. Swear like a sailor is a common expression. But all the service branches are pretty handy at it. I became known for my dislike of the unsavory language. Often, the guys in my squad would be telling dirty jokes in the language that is a usual requirement. I'd silently come up behind them; one of them would see me and they'd clam up. "You should wear a bell," they used to say. Perhaps they didn't want to offend me, or perhaps they didn't want to hear me complain about their unsavory speech.

But speech was not the danger. I have since learned that a well placed swear can be necessary in life. And there's no sense in putting up a stronghold where one is not vulnerable. Protection should have been concentrated elsewhere.

My introduction to relationships with men caught me a bit unawares. And while I was curious, wondered what it would be like; I was too naive to know what I really wanted. How could I? I was 19. Ingenuous. Unrequited high school crushes did not prepare me.

Suddenly, there I was, with all these guys. Not like the ones I played baseball with in the street growing up. They were looking at me differently. Following me around. There were good things. I met some nice guys, had good relationships, however brief. But then there were those...the ones I never asked for. The ones I couldn't seem to avoid. More and more it was me against them. And for a long time it didn't occur to me that it should be any different.

The words I'd gotten used to. The comments about my gender, my body in particular, implications about my private behavior... offers to participate in those behaviors, they bothered me yes. But I could handle it. But sometimes the pressure was more than verbal. It got physical. And I felt like I was in a corner. And I broke down, wasn't strong enough. The emotional pain was just as great. I turned it inward, blamed myself and somehow came out on the other side. Not quite the same.

Years have gone by since then. A whole other lifetime it seems. But it will always stay with me. What I experienced, and what I learned. And I am strong. Stronger than I thought. Tougher than I look.

(image by Emma Davies copyright 2010 online @ Saatchi_gallery.co.uk )

Drive My Car

AMVIV 7 has come and gone, and as usually there were some memorable moments. There were a lot of differences this year. A new location, Aliante Station. And I didn't go on any of the runs. I've been on most of them already. And I worked at the event so much it kept me at the Sin City club's tables. And then there was the Dent Guy working on my car. Although everytime I said it people kept thinking I said dead guy. But, no. The Dent King in fact was working on MINIfir's boot over two days. So she had to stay put anyway.

I went to In-n-Out Motor-In with Larry Thursday night, and Friday night after the mixer I was really too tired to go anywhere. Saturday though MINIfir and I manned a poker ru
n stop, Desert MINI. When I was done I met up with Jeff and Annette at their poker run stop, the 7-11. They'd let Mark's brother Chris drive little Monty and he let them take a ride in his GP. This swapping of cars turned out to be fortuitous. We went back to Aliante to turn in our tally sheets and then Annette asked me if I wanted to come see a classic Mini Chris was thinking of buying. Plus, she said, he's got a water buffalo. This is how it happened: Chris had had such a great time in Monty. And a guy at 7-11 spotted them and said his son had a little red mini just like theirs in his garage. Would he be interested in selling it? Probably. He doesn't live far from here. So we all hopped in cars. Jeff and Chris T.'s Dad in the GP, Chris F. and his wife in Monty and Annette drove me and Chris T. in her VW (a non-mini, but mine was still being worked on). We all followed the leader to this house just a few miles from Aliante. It was in an older North Las Vegas neighborhood. There were just a couple of houses on the street. We pulled up at one and the owner greeted us along with his friendly Corgi, Lucy. He let us through the fence to come look at the car.

Sitting in his garage was a dust covered mini that turned out to be an amazing find. It was a 1964 Austin Mini Cooper S. The guys looked her over and began to assess the work she would need. But Chris was ready to buy. He took out his wad of cash and said, Let's make this deal. While they took care of it, we were invited to have a tour of the yard.

This is not a usual AMVIV weekend occurance, but there he was. Fred, the water buffalo.

He was relaxing in his pen, next to a few horses, a sheep, some goats, a pig, chickens and lots of dogs. Certainly something you don't see everyday. By the time we'd seen the entire zoo, the little mini had been rolled out onto the driveway. It was not running. It would need to be towed. And Chris had already called for a tow truck. It arrived and the driver began loading up the little mini. We all stood and watched and the owner who was selling it understandably seemed sad to see her go. Jeff said that he wished he and Annette had found such a fine mini so close to home. They'd gone up to Washington state to get Monty. Chris had scored a great classic for only $6000 cash. He had it taken to Aliante, washed and detailed. A true beauty.

All that was left to do was wait for the dent guy to finish with MINIfir's boot (it came out pretty nice) and then go off to the White Roof Radio party. The show was fun, then we went to the Mexican place in the hotel for dinner. It was the latest night out I had. And we were still in bed by midnight.

The next morning, I worked the breakfast and then we wrapped it all up. Another AMVIV had come to an end. It was hectic and exhausting but still well worth it. The attendees seemed to like the new hotel and to enjoy the activities. And we didn't stay out til all hours, but we still had a good time hosting it. And now we've got to start thinking about next year.