Diary of a Low Budget Superhero

I may have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. Facebook, man. Facebook, maaaan! OH but allow me to explain. It's been a couple of years on the Facebook thing, and my brain is now fully rewired, creatively speaking.

Before Facebook, I would go about my day and, without effort, my brain would be taking a seed of a thought and cultivating it all day for the next diary entry. In fact, I've heard so many times, "You're composing in your head, aren't you. Am I in it?" or "I can't wait to see how THIS gets spun in your diary."

But NOW, I'm all over the place! I still have seeds, but Facebook allows me to post, unformed, the same moment. There's no cultivating. Just the seed. And it's not only me. I could be here at home watching a movie with Joe when he'll get up, go to his Mac and tap out "We're watching Mulholland Drive." I can't even poke fun at him for whatever drove him to inform our network of friends, because I could just as easily have done it. Before, I may have finished the movie and then slammed out a diary entry about David Lynch. Now I am more likely to just tap out on Facebook, "David Lynch is fucking with us." And that's the end of that. No narrative, no embellishment, no examples. Just the seed.

A side effect of this micro-diary phenomenon is that my thinking, my daily internal dialogue-with-myself, has also shrunk down to the size of a Tweet. Alternatively, to the size of a "Group" I could start. Not that I would. But I could. I've written some down and in doing so, find that I, my friends, have become a total space case. I will add more later, because I don't see this mental gymnastic stopping any time soon.

I'm 40 but I still go to my room to find that I've left my jeans on the floor scrunched down to two little holes, just like when I first learned to undress myself.

When I stumble in front of strangers I always make a big show of inspecting the ground for the Nothing that tripped me up.

I have spent actual brain power wondering how the Dursleys got off that island, seeing as how Harry and Hagrid returned to shore in the only boat. Also, if Hogwarts starts at age 11, where do wizard kids go to school until then?

I would love to see a soccer team run out onto the field wearing uniform shirts that look like those old tuxedo T-shirts, complete with boutonniere.

The Europeans gave us the chamois, a fabric made of soft, non-porous lambskin split and tanned in a special way. First we couldn't spell it so we turned it into the "shammy." Eventually we lost all self-respect and made the Sham-Wow guy a household name.

I really am going to start spelling my name with a silent 5. I'll be Mic5helle from now on.

I still get a surge of excitement whenever I see a sign for a yard sale, even though I have too much shit already and need to stop bringing more shit home.

Just when I think my boss has finally gone all the way around the bend, he finds a new bend and goes around that one, too.

Two movies started about an hour ago, at midnight. I was supposed to be working on an essay, but as I glumly sat, freshly showered and staring down a blinking cursor that was all but mocking inspiration, I couldn't stand the deafening silence. Treading empty pages makes for a lonely night, dudes. So I reached over and mashed some buttons on the remote. And here I am, an hour later.

No surprise Lost Boys is on right now. Corey Haim died four days ago. Wow, what to say about Corey Haim dying at thirty-eight. No really, what to say? I don't have a poignant eulogy or even anything remotely erudite. As a tweenybopper I didn't pin up his picture, I didn't run out to see all his movies, "Mrs. Corey Haim" never appeared scribbled on my schoolbooks. He seemed so innocuous with those clear wide eyes, round little mouth and puffy hair. He never seemed to have any grain to him. Sneakers. Jeans. If not for being paired with Corey Feldman, who I always thought fiery and compelling and just a little insane, I doubt I'd have taken much notice of Corey Haim at all. In the eighties I was more into Brit rockers in eyeliner, boys in heels and paisley, leatherbound freaks with long hair and earrings. Corey Haim was more like the fresh-faced boys in my homeroom. There were Corey Haims everywhere riding their ten-speeds and running around the soccer field. In Lost Boys, what teen aged girl was looking at Corey Haim when wild-eyed Kiefer Sutherland in that long black coat was facing off with Jason Patric who was doing that smoldering stare thing and murmuring, "Look at my square jawline and sexy leather jacket." Corey Haim, well, he was just this guy, you know?

But still, something like a veil of nostalgia falls whenever anyone around my own age dies, an extra layer of sorrow when the cause is avoidable and self-inflicted, something stupid like drugs. And where was I that I didn't even know Corey Haim was among Hollywood's notorious drug users? I didn't know that! Robert Downy Jr., Andy Dick, Charlie Sheen, Danny Bonaduce -- these are the wild boys who come to mind whenever talk turns to LA's snorting & boozing elite. But Corey Haim? He seemed so pure. It's like hearing that Kirk Cameron or Ralph Macchio succumbed. I bet at least a couple of people, when told about his death, said, "Are you sure it's not Corey Feldman?" Feldman was always so vocal about his problems, his party life was as cringe-inducingly obvious as his Michael Jackson fandom. But now I'm hearing that reality show the Coreys did was wracked with drug issues, and that means people knew he needed help, and that makes it just such a waste of a young life. That's mostly what I feel, that it's a terrible waste of a young life.

Remember when we lost River Phoenix? I was 23. So was he, and boy did I adore River Phoenix. He was like a shimmering young Adonis, seemed so self-assured and destined for greatness to the degree that it didn't seem possible that he should be walking around on the planet with the rest of us mere mortals. Twenty-three years, that's all he got. Oh, River.

No surprise The Cutting Edge is on right now. It's an ice skating movie, and after the winter Olympics one out of every two people is a durn fool for ice skating. Is it you? No? FINE, it's me! God I love this movie!

When it came out the tag line was "The ultimate love/skate relationship." I am able to agree that it's stupid, but must also insist that it's TEN KINDS OF AWESOME. DB Sweeney plays a hotshot up-and-coming college hockey player who gets his head slammed between the ice and some large Germans, so then he has a blind spot in his eye, which effectively kills his pro hockey career. Moira Kelley, who I LOVE, plays an impossibly snotty champion figure skater whose talent is as giant as her ego. If I were as corny as the script writers I'd pen some line about her personality and ice, but let's leave that alone for the sake of, um, not sucking. Let's just say she's such a bitch that she has run through all the available skating partners, so her coach recruits DB Sweeney. He hates figure skating, they hate each other, but they manage to skate their way to the 1992 Olympics. I tell you, it's awesome. There are sequels, though. Ignore.

So that's what I'm doing instead of writing, flipping between the vampires and the figure skaters. Pretty simple avoidance measures. Skating and vampires. Somehow it works, in a weird way.

"Maggots, Michael. You're eating maggots. How do they taste?"

"Spindler say before he skate with her, he wear garlic from neck and sleep with cross. Who is left?"

"You're a vampire Michael! You wait 'till mom finds out, buddy!"

"Pairs means TWO. You have no partner. You are skating nowhere!"

"Death by stereo!"

"There's only two things I do really well, sweetheart, and skating's the other one!"

"How much do you think we should charge them for this?"

"Toe pick!"

Avoidance, avoidance. What is it that I'm trying so hard not to think about?

I see you over there in the menu bar, Weight Watcher's tab, don't get all lonely because I haven't touched you since summer. I got stuff for you too, I just haven't felt like writing. And you know those Facebook statuses? They've been taking the place of Low Budget Superhero. Almost a decade of writing, and it's coming undone because I can now post my thoughts in 220 character micro-blogs throughout the day and night, getting immediate and satisfying comments from every other obsessive Live Feed button-pusher. You know who you are! I have no legitimate claims to outrage, having been the cheerleader whose rallying whoops enticed at least five people to join. If you're tweeting because of me, I'm sorry.

I do need to write up the essay about that October trip. I just need like a, I don't know, a decompression? Like a couple of weeks off with no TV and no Facebook. So that I can write about Facebook and how it's blurring the normally linear timeline of our weird little lives. Come on, your old boyfriend commenting along with your best friend from fifth grade and your new boyfriend's mom is just...well, you'd never find all those people in the same room. Worlds colliding, rainbows connecting.

You'll notice there's no longer any commenting available HERE. This I changed so that I could control a spammer problem I was having, but I think I'll keep it comment'less for awhile. The people I would want to hear from, you know how to reach me if it's so important. And there's always the Facebook comment, because you know I'll be posting this to my profile...what a brave new world we live in, hm?

So much going on, so much. Let's see, well, the earthquake in Haiti is the worst thing I've seen in my lifetime. Here at home, the nation's economy is in the toilet. Last night was the State of the Union address, and while I'm still an Obama Mama, I just feel like it was too much salesy talk, finger pointing, platitudes and "in a perfect world" promises. OH, and too much applause by the Dems for what really amounted to a pep rally! Anyone else annoyed by that? When did that start, the constant applause during the SOTU? I don't recall that from when I was a kid. I don't know what any of the answers are, I just know things need to change. That's what drove the commonwealth, which was rocked by the Scott Brown win last week. Because nobody knows what to think past "what the f....?"

Joe's still not working. While I must say I like that he's picked up this new hobby of cooking, I would also like to, oh, maybe buy a house? Or at least a condo? My credit is only in the high six hundreds and my savings is like two or three paychecks' away from not-existing. Realistically, we need both incomes and his superior credit if we're ever going to move out of this tiny apartment. It's hard to believe October was a whole entire calendar year since he was laid off. I'd just made an appointment with a Realtor to look at some condo's, and by the time the appointment day came around, he was out of work. Thanks, Universe, yer hilarious. That was a good one.

Joe has become quite the cook, though. Last Thanksgiving, I mean 2008, he watched me taking down a raw butternut squash and turning it into a delightful soup and, when he turned out to love the soup, acted like I'd just leaped a tall building in a single bound. By THIS Thanksgiving, he had experimented with a number of different variations on butternut squash soup (with apple, with leeks) and made a big pot to take over to his sister's house. Leeks? A mere few months ago he had to call me from the grocery store with list in hand.

"Which ones are leeks?"

"They're with the swiss chard and kale." That didn't help at all. I suspect he thought "swiss chard" and "kale" were some kind of fish.

"They look like scallions, but bigger and fatter...scallions look like leeks' mini-me."

Now he's expertly washing leeks ("That's not easy, baby!" "I know, I found a video online!"), crisping them and using them to top his culinary creations. It just proves that old adage about the clouds and the silver lining. "Oh, 2009? Yes, Joe didn't have a job for one single day of it, but on the plus side, he learned to make a perfect pie crust...from SCRATCH." We may have limped along on one income, but holy moly...fresh pie!

Actually, it's overstating to say we're "limping along." We're fine. We can live perfectly fine on one income. For one thing, they just keep extending the unemployment bennies, though we won't discuss how much of that goes straight into paying for health care. For another, we don't have any of life's luxur...I mean money pits. No house, so no lawn to care for or snow to remove, there's no repair bills for big appliances because we own no big appliances. No property taxes, heat is part of our rent. No car, so no insurance or gas or repairs. No pets, so no food or vet bills. No kids. When I think about it all, you know what? I don't know how people are doing it. Even just adding a car right now would change our whole financial picture. And I have decent income!

How are people doing it?!

Are they living on credit? We only got credit cards because, last year, our mortgage adviser dude said we both lack revolving debt, which hurts our credit for home loans. Meaning: you guys actually SAVE UP for what you want to buy? Oh, that won't do, you need to fling credit cards all around so we can see that you...have...credit?

I am sorry, I still just do NOT get the whole credit dance. It's retarded, and yes I know that's un-PC language, and since I'm already offending your delicate nature, it's motherfucking retarded. If you're frugal, non-extravagant, careful to live within your means with habits such as saving up for the big ticket purchases and only buying them when you have the money, it's the same thing as being a deadbeat loser. Really? REALLY? Credit score what? It is my belief that CREDIT SCORE should only be the jumping-off place, not the be-all and end-all factor that spells out a person's entire financial story. There's so much more to define a person's financial responsibility than just that score. I care about being careful with money, that's all. Score THIS, hosers. Makes me want to live somewhere where I can give you a chicken and a goat in trade for a hut.

People are angry. I'm angry. There's going to be a lot more flag-waving in 2010. What's your flag going to say on it?

One of my co-workers...FORMER co-workers...made his own stimulus package. Sticky Fingers decided to sneak out with about twenty grand worth of electronic parts. Can you even imagine? It's a pretty good story too, but I'll save that for another day.

Al ist klar, der kommisar.

I'm working on a write-up of the reunion weekend. Until then, notice that my hair is still crazy after all these years.

OK, it might be because I'm feeling rather vulnerable and quite anxious about this Weight Watchers thing (this was day one! what if I can't do it! what if it's too hard!) but I'm about to get all philosophical on your ass. Asses. Collective arses.

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Jen and munk were Facebooking some frustrations tonight. The topic? Outsourcing North American call centers to the other side of the planet. Mostly to India. Now, my Spidey Sense told me that some people were, if not offended, then surprised that Jen and munk would be so blunt about this, but I totally get what they're saying. I hate it too.

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Hey peoples. Howdy. I'm ever so glad I made good on my promise to lay off the Facebook. I'm doing SO much writing and feel super-duper good about my creativity!

NOT.

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I just spent some more time looking at the Cakewrecks site. PK posted it on Facebook a few months ago and I can't help checking in periodically to see what hell flour, eggs and butter hath wrought.

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