Dear Snow,
I am sick of you. Sure, you look pretty drifting in mid-air with your big, fluffy flakes. You look so tantalizing when you lay on the ground, all soft and begging to be jumped on. But you are not fun to drive in. I don't like driving slow, yet feeling like I am speeding. I'm used to driving 70, minimum! I've gotten my car to 110 on that stretch to Nashville, and still wanted to go faster! But in you, on a straight stretch with no other cars, I feel like I'm racing if I hit 35mph. I have to take wide left turns, barely pressing the gas; I have to gently tap the breaks a mile before the red light.
And it's not just the driving, it's the walking, too. Sure, it's fun to watch you daintily land on my shoulders. Maybe it looks cute to see you resting on my hair in a most un-dandruffy fashion. Maybe I even tried to catch a few flakes on my tongue. But you burn when you get in my eyes. And my feet - god damn, you kill my feet. You get all slushy on the streets of DC, brown from everyone treading on you. You soak right through my inappropriate-for-snow shoes and keep my feet frozen for damn near twelve hours. By the time we left dinner, I couldn't even feel my toes. I kept thinking of Chubbs' fake hand from Happy Gilmore - my feet felt like they could be knocked off with a golf club and I'd never notice. I honestly thought, when I struggled to peel my socks off, that my feet would be blue. I'd start screaming and fall back on the floor and have to be taken to the hospital, but it'd be too late - they'd be amputated, because we couldn't top 30mph on the drive over.
All that said, I'm glad, overall, that I ventured out in you. I hate scraping my car after leaving it out for only 20 minutes, but at least you were dry. It was actually kind of fun to just stick my scraper in you and fling you off the windshield. And though it was strange to feel like I had no control over my steering wheel even though I wasn't skidding, I feel a little more powerful knowing I can drive in you. A little more confident. And, honestly, it was entertaining to sit at the window bar of a coffee shop and watch people walk by, grimacing while you slapped their faces. It was fun (in an annoying way, I'm sure) to complain side-by-side with Kelly every step of the way, "I want to die! I wish I were dead! I hate my life!" Compare that to our attitudes as we trekked to the Metro...
K: We shouldn't have gotten out in this.
A: Hey, it's an adventure!
K: A fucking stupid adventure.
But seriously, I hate you. Please melt. Please don't snow again. I'm giving you my best puppy-dog face. Please?
Love, Allison
PS. I am still head over heels for my comedy class. It feels good to do something I love. I am re-thinking my entire future.
PPS. I had a dream the other night that I was a seat-filler at an awards show. Aerosmith won an award, and somehow I hadn't known that I was sitting on the same row as them. Except only Joe Perry got up to accept the award. He had long gray hair and shuffled, leaning heavily on his cane. I stood up and yelled "THAT'S NOT JOE PERRY! THAT'S SOME OLD BASTARD TRYING TO STEAL THEIR FAME!" Joe Perry turned around, glaring, and began trundling toward me, cane raised. I knew he was going to physically beat me, and I knew I could beat him in terms of speed, but I couldn't/wouldn't flee. I woke up right before his cane cracked my skull open. I think I was hoping I'd live through the abuse so that I could take him to court and get his autograph via legal documents.
PPPS. I am super proud of Liz for having awesome pinhole photographs hosted in an art show! All three of her entries were accepted in the contest!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
We were shadowed by black rain clouds on the hill,
but the sun illuminated on the city below us.
Top it all off with a fiery sunset:
I really want to take off and photograph everything I see.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Middle School Action
Ever since I moved here, I've felt like I'm back in middle school.
Middle school, for a lot of people, is as bad as high school. (With less freedom.) For me, middle school was my time to shine. I found out who I was and what I wanted to be in middle school. I had a great group of friends. I had drive. I didn't technically know how I was going to accomplish my dreams, but I had them, and I was determined to make them reality. That's more than I can say for myself in high school. Hell, that's more than I could say about myself a couple years ago.
In seventh grade, I became completely obsessed with Saturday Night Live. My brother had introduced me to it when I was too young to stay up past Weekend Update, but by the time I was 12, I was a night owl. I watched fervently; I recorded my favorite skits onto an audio tape (geez, it sounds so ghetto written out) and listened to them continuously in my room. My mom vouched for me when I bought Adam Sandler's CDs with the Parental Advisory stickers on the cover. I learned the words to all his songs; I imitated the voices in all his skits. I watched all of his movies; I talked like him in the hallways of school. I acted like a goofball and made an ass of myself in public in hopes of making my friends laugh.
The summer before 8th grade, I started writing skits. I still have the green binder with "SKITS" written across it in white-out. My handwriting looks childish; my handwriting looks the exact same. The skits, to be honest, are pretty horrible. But there are some good ideas there. I wrote silly songs. I wrote many, many commercial spoofs. I wrote some horribly dirty and/or dark skits. I re-read them this summer and thought I was THIRTEEN? Jesus. It explains a lot, to be honest. And, not to toot my own horn, but when I let my friends Kim and Karen read the notebook in 8th grade Physical Science, they asked for my autograph. They cracked up. They inflated my ego.
I had big dreams at thirteen. I was going to drop out of high school at 16 and hitchhike to New York City. I would fight my way into NBC Studios and hand my binder over to Lorne Michaels, who would crack up and immediately offer me a position on Saturday Night Live. I'd start as a writer, of course, but because I had been practicing my voices, I'd soon become a featured player. After I blew everyone else out of the water, I'd be offered a cast position.
Big dreams, right? Big crazy dreams. Especially after I told my mom I wanted to be a comedian when I grew up - she just laughed at me. I remember it so vividly. I should have been happy she laughed, right? Laughter is laughter is laughter. But my feelings were hurt. I knew, logically, I would not drop out of school, I would not hitchhike anywhere, I would not fight my way to the top. I'm shy. I've never been onstage. I enjoy making my friends laugh, yes, but I don't like being the center of attention.
Then came high school, where I felt out of place and uncertain about what I wanted to do in life. Everyone asks what you're going to be "when you grow up" - and I never had an answer. I liked laughing, I liked reading, and I liked music. I never wanted to go to college, but I decided to go to a trade school and learn music production. Then ProTools went mainstream, and musicians recorded their own albums. I got into photography, but art school was expensive and not practical. I went to the local university for Journalism, because it was a form of writing. A very not fun form. I dropped out second semester. I went to a local community college for Graphic Design, because it was a more practical version of an art degree. I got a "real" job. Then I re-realized I didn't want to grow up. I went back to school for Creative Writing. Then I didn't want to be stuck in Memphis, so I applied for a Master's. I don't know what I actually thought of the degree - it's not worth that much in the long run. But it got me out of the South, it brought me to a new place. I was totally out of my element, just as I was that first day in middle school. Full circle.
I buried myself in music, I found a great group of friends, and I turned back to comedy. This time, my dreams don't seem so crazy. Sure, Saturday Night Live isn't what it used to be, but everything has cycles. And now I'm older, and I feel like things are within my reach. I feel like I have a stronger support group - though I guess it's easier to encourage a 24-year-old who wants to do comedy as opposed to a thirteen-year-old... I have people to work with, I have a great background at the WIT class. I've already learned so much, and it's just the second week. I love being able to, this semester, talk about my humor class and actually mean COMEDY, Adam Sandler/Chris Farley-style as opposed to Mark Twain. I'm excited again about writing and revising, and I want to complete projects and move forward with them. We have a troupe name, a video camera, and all the determination in the world. It feels pretty damn good, this middle school action.
Middle school, for a lot of people, is as bad as high school. (With less freedom.) For me, middle school was my time to shine. I found out who I was and what I wanted to be in middle school. I had a great group of friends. I had drive. I didn't technically know how I was going to accomplish my dreams, but I had them, and I was determined to make them reality. That's more than I can say for myself in high school. Hell, that's more than I could say about myself a couple years ago.
In seventh grade, I became completely obsessed with Saturday Night Live. My brother had introduced me to it when I was too young to stay up past Weekend Update, but by the time I was 12, I was a night owl. I watched fervently; I recorded my favorite skits onto an audio tape (geez, it sounds so ghetto written out) and listened to them continuously in my room. My mom vouched for me when I bought Adam Sandler's CDs with the Parental Advisory stickers on the cover. I learned the words to all his songs; I imitated the voices in all his skits. I watched all of his movies; I talked like him in the hallways of school. I acted like a goofball and made an ass of myself in public in hopes of making my friends laugh.
The summer before 8th grade, I started writing skits. I still have the green binder with "SKITS" written across it in white-out. My handwriting looks childish; my handwriting looks the exact same. The skits, to be honest, are pretty horrible. But there are some good ideas there. I wrote silly songs. I wrote many, many commercial spoofs. I wrote some horribly dirty and/or dark skits. I re-read them this summer and thought I was THIRTEEN? Jesus. It explains a lot, to be honest. And, not to toot my own horn, but when I let my friends Kim and Karen read the notebook in 8th grade Physical Science, they asked for my autograph. They cracked up. They inflated my ego.
I had big dreams at thirteen. I was going to drop out of high school at 16 and hitchhike to New York City. I would fight my way into NBC Studios and hand my binder over to Lorne Michaels, who would crack up and immediately offer me a position on Saturday Night Live. I'd start as a writer, of course, but because I had been practicing my voices, I'd soon become a featured player. After I blew everyone else out of the water, I'd be offered a cast position.
Big dreams, right? Big crazy dreams. Especially after I told my mom I wanted to be a comedian when I grew up - she just laughed at me. I remember it so vividly. I should have been happy she laughed, right? Laughter is laughter is laughter. But my feelings were hurt. I knew, logically, I would not drop out of school, I would not hitchhike anywhere, I would not fight my way to the top. I'm shy. I've never been onstage. I enjoy making my friends laugh, yes, but I don't like being the center of attention.
Then came high school, where I felt out of place and uncertain about what I wanted to do in life. Everyone asks what you're going to be "when you grow up" - and I never had an answer. I liked laughing, I liked reading, and I liked music. I never wanted to go to college, but I decided to go to a trade school and learn music production. Then ProTools went mainstream, and musicians recorded their own albums. I got into photography, but art school was expensive and not practical. I went to the local university for Journalism, because it was a form of writing. A very not fun form. I dropped out second semester. I went to a local community college for Graphic Design, because it was a more practical version of an art degree. I got a "real" job. Then I re-realized I didn't want to grow up. I went back to school for Creative Writing. Then I didn't want to be stuck in Memphis, so I applied for a Master's. I don't know what I actually thought of the degree - it's not worth that much in the long run. But it got me out of the South, it brought me to a new place. I was totally out of my element, just as I was that first day in middle school. Full circle.
I buried myself in music, I found a great group of friends, and I turned back to comedy. This time, my dreams don't seem so crazy. Sure, Saturday Night Live isn't what it used to be, but everything has cycles. And now I'm older, and I feel like things are within my reach. I feel like I have a stronger support group - though I guess it's easier to encourage a 24-year-old who wants to do comedy as opposed to a thirteen-year-old... I have people to work with, I have a great background at the WIT class. I've already learned so much, and it's just the second week. I love being able to, this semester, talk about my humor class and actually mean COMEDY, Adam Sandler/Chris Farley-style as opposed to Mark Twain. I'm excited again about writing and revising, and I want to complete projects and move forward with them. We have a troupe name, a video camera, and all the determination in the world. It feels pretty damn good, this middle school action.
Friday, January 8, 2010
"You guys got funny faces."
Kelly and I went to an improv class last night. We took the Metro into DC at a time when most people were leaving. We stopped to get coffee because we were both out of it; I chugged mine and then hers and felt almost human as we approached the regal building at the corner of 13th and V. Some guys were holding the door open, but Kelly said "Keep walking, we'll pretend we're going somewhere else and just come back." I kept walking. She grabbed my sleeve and said "Let's go in."
We waited in the lobby of the children's school for the arts until we were finally led, single-file, downstairs to an empty room where we waited some more. Kelly and I went on an adventure to find the bathroom, which was delightfully bright.
We lined up in the hall and the teacher actually asked, "Does anyone have to go to the bathroom?" before we were led back down a hallway, up two flights of stairs, and into a different classroom. It was decorated with what looked like mug-shots done on a black and white copier, unidentifiable paper-mâché sculptures, and white boards covered in simple math problems. Also included on the walls were:
Who frowns when touching private parts?! And why is dancing bad, but high 5s are ok? High 5s can potentially be very dangerous... Crazy ass school.
HOW COME NO ONE READ OR WRITE POETRY ANYMORE
In class, we went around the circle and shared a little about ourselves, then went back around and associated a motion with our names. One girl, for example, loved to dance. "Stephanie!" she'd say, while performing a twisty little dance step. "Stephanie!" we'd repeat, and mimic her step. I thought and I thought and I thought, and by the time it was my turn, I was still clueless. "Allison!" I yelled, shooting my hand-guns (literally) up into the ceiling as if I were Yosemite Sam. "Allison!" everyone else yelled, and fired holes into the sponge-y acoustic tiles. Memphian 4 Lyfe.
We did a lot of exercises that helped me learn, and overall, though I was extremely outside of my comfort zone, I loved it. I love that I actually went through with it. I love that I talked to people I'd never ever meet in any other circumstance. I love that I stood in front of them and made a total ass of myself. I love the feeling that hit me several times throughout the class, the revelation of "I can DO this!"
I can pinpoint the things I did wrong, what I'd change if I had another chance - I think that's pretty good for my first attempt. We ran into a fellow student at the Metro station, who said "You guys were fantastic!" Kelly and I talked nonstop on the ride home, and plans are being made.
We waited in the lobby of the children's school for the arts until we were finally led, single-file, downstairs to an empty room where we waited some more. Kelly and I went on an adventure to find the bathroom, which was delightfully bright.
We lined up in the hall and the teacher actually asked, "Does anyone have to go to the bathroom?" before we were led back down a hallway, up two flights of stairs, and into a different classroom. It was decorated with what looked like mug-shots done on a black and white copier, unidentifiable paper-mâché sculptures, and white boards covered in simple math problems. Also included on the walls were:
Who frowns when touching private parts?! And why is dancing bad, but high 5s are ok? High 5s can potentially be very dangerous... Crazy ass school.
HOW COME NO ONE READ OR WRITE POETRY ANYMORE
In class, we went around the circle and shared a little about ourselves, then went back around and associated a motion with our names. One girl, for example, loved to dance. "Stephanie!" she'd say, while performing a twisty little dance step. "Stephanie!" we'd repeat, and mimic her step. I thought and I thought and I thought, and by the time it was my turn, I was still clueless. "Allison!" I yelled, shooting my hand-guns (literally) up into the ceiling as if I were Yosemite Sam. "Allison!" everyone else yelled, and fired holes into the sponge-y acoustic tiles. Memphian 4 Lyfe.
We did a lot of exercises that helped me learn, and overall, though I was extremely outside of my comfort zone, I loved it. I love that I actually went through with it. I love that I talked to people I'd never ever meet in any other circumstance. I love that I stood in front of them and made a total ass of myself. I love the feeling that hit me several times throughout the class, the revelation of "I can DO this!"
I can pinpoint the things I did wrong, what I'd change if I had another chance - I think that's pretty good for my first attempt. We ran into a fellow student at the Metro station, who said "You guys were fantastic!" Kelly and I talked nonstop on the ride home, and plans are being made.
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