Beginning of Chapter Two

(1995)




I share an apartment with Holly. We’ve been roommates going on two years now, ever since Kristy, her old roommate from the dorms, broke up with her boyfriend, got really depressed, cracked one night, and tried to slit her wrists in the cute pink and white Laura Ashley bathroom she and Holly shared. It was a horrible situation really, that shouldn’t be joked about, but for some reason now, looking back, I feel like the whole ordeal sort of just lends itself to comedy, like so many things that happen to college-aged kids who take themselves way too seriously.
Kristy had been sliding downhill for weeks, locking herself in her room and listening to The Smiths and Lou Reed, refusing to come out when Holly pounded on the door to make sure she was okay, refusing to eat even a bowl of Fruit Loops or drink a can of Red Bull. She ended up completely snapping one night after a Primus concert. Holly found her on the bathroom floor at two a.m. holding a razor in her hand and trying to slice up her wrists, blood everywhere, screaming about needing lithium or ecstasy or codeine or something to make her feel better. I guess her meltdown was spawned by standing too close to the speakers at The Bomb Factory all night, eating too many ‘shrooms and listening to Les Claypool manhandle his bass and scream the lyrics to “Tommy the Cat” in her face; She’d been fine before the concert. Holly called 911 and an ambulance arrived a couple of minutes later and took Kristy away wearing Holly’s purple plush bathrobe. Whenever Holly tells this story, she always mentions that she never got that bathrobe back.
Our apartment is a two bedroom, just a few blocks from campus. It’s an older complex, probably built in the early 80’s, but it’s been well maintained. We have an extra room that the apartment complex calls a “den.” It’s across the hallway from the kitchen, and it doesn’t have a door or a closet. The original plan was to put a couple of desks in there, so we’d have a place to study, separate from our bedrooms, but that plan fell apart a couple of weeks ago, when my parents decided to finally cut Brian off. Now, it’s temporarily Brian’s room.
My brother just completed his fifth year of college last spring. This entire time, my parents have been paying his tuition and his rent, under the pretext that he was actually going to graduate at the end of this year, in December. But my brother has changed his major so many times that it just hasn’t happened yet, and he failed to mention this to Mom and Dad until just recently, when Mom called to ask if he’d ordered his graduation invitations. The real truth is—he admitted this to me drunkenly one night as he sucked on a bottle of scotch he’d ripped off from our Dad’s liquor cabinet at home—that he doesn’t want to actually graduate. He loves, not so much school itself, but the lifestyle he has here. He sleeps late most days, goes to a few classes and gets his work done, then spends his evenings getting high or drunk with our friends. He doesn’t have to work because Dad pays for everything, and he has no intention of getting a job unless he absolutely has to. This is something he and I disagree about. I used to feel the same way about working, but then I started feeling guilty, like I should be pulling some of my own weight, and it just seemed silly and selfish of me to be in college with no job. All of my friends had jobs, and I wanted to experience the independence that comes with receiving a pay check. So for a couple of years now, I’ve been waiting tables.
When Brian was finally forced into admitting the truth— that graduation was going to be placed on hold again— he also told our parents he hated being a business major—even though they had finally talked him into it—and he was switching back to philosophy again. Graduation wouldn’t be for another year and a half.
“Majoring in philosophy is ridiculous!” Our father shouted. I wasn’t actually there to hear this shouting, but my brother believed it was so loud that it must have traveled all the way up I35 to Denton and into the library where I was studying that night, so I pretended to humor him. “What kind of job are you going to get with a philosophy degree?” He demanded. “Selling hot dogs!” He answered his own question. “That’s what you are going to be doing!”
“Dad, you love hot dogs,” Brian said.
“This is NOT a time for jokes, Brian! How do you think you’re going to make a decent living? Do you think money is just going to float into your life magically whenever you need it?”
“It kind of always has. Thanks for that, by the way.”
That was Dad’s last straw. That day he went into the bank account he shares jointly with Brian, and withdrew the $1000 he’d just put in there for my brother to live on for the month, and then he closed the account. Next, he picked up the telephone and called me. “Kate,” he said. “If your brother asks you for money, you are NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, to loan him any.”
“Okay, Dad.” I said. I knew instinctively what had happened. It didn’t surprise me at all. Our parents give both of us money every month, but I know it upsets my dad that I still choose to work, but Brian doesn’t. I knew that this, combined with the fact that my brother was extending the shelf-life of his college career yet again, was going to eventually cause some serious shit to go down with our parents.
When Brian showed up at my place after the ill-fated conversation with our dad, he had a duffle bag full of clothes with him. “You’re going to have to let me crash here for a while,” he told me. “Dad’s flipped out.”
“Uh, I’m not ‘going to have to let’ you do anything,” I said.
“Come on, Kate,” he whined, “he took all my money. I can’t pay my rent, and I had to move out of my apartment. It’ll just be for a few weeks, until I can get a job.”
“You should have seen this coming and already had a job.”
“Ugh. Don’t side with them.”
“I’m not, but seriously Brian, what did you expect?”
“They have tons of money! It’s no sweat off their backs!”
“I think you’re missing the point, here.”
“I know. I get it. Just shut up and move out of the way,” he shoved by me. “I’ll sleep in the den. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“You have to ask Holly first. I’m not the only one who lives here, you know.”
“Holly doesn’t care.”
“Uh, did I just hear my name?” Holly stuck her head out of her room; her glasses were perched on her nose, so I knew she’d been studying.
“Brian wants to live with us,” I said.
“What’s in it for me?” Holly asked Brian.
“I have weed.”
“You idiot!” I shouted. “You don’t even have a job. You can’t get weed. Don’t listen to him, Holly, he doesn’t have weed.”
“Look,” Holly told Brian, “I want to believe you. But you can’t just free-load. If we let you stay here you’re going to have to keep this place clean. We only have one bathroom, and you are a disgusting male. You have to clean up after yourself. And you have to get a job. And you have to pay rent.”
“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said.
“He has weed Kate,” Holly insisted. “And he’s your brother. Have a heart.”
“Yeah Kate, have a heart,” Brian said. He was already dumping his bags down in the den and shoving our desks out of the way to clear up a space.
“Oh for….” I muttered. “Fine. FINE! But don’t even think about bringing girls in here. And you can’t tell Mom and Dad. I don’t want to get dragged into your shit.”
“It’s a deal.” He smacked me on the back, grinning cheerfully. Then he sunk onto the sofa in the living room and grabbed the remote control. “You won’t be sorry, Kate, Holly, I promise you that.”
“I’m already sorry.” I stormed past him and headed to my bedroom. Maybe a year ago this arrangement would have been fine with me, but lately, my patience for my brother had been wearing thin. I know this had more to do with me than it did with him. With my own graduation just a year away, I’d been really tightening up the reigns on myself, laying off the parties. Having Brian in the house would turn our place into a slacker’s den. He’d take over everything, as he usually did, criticize my study habits—which were much better than his—and ridicule my efforts to make it to graduation in a timely manner. Things between us were a lot better before I started to mature faster than him.

Someone needs to analyze this dream

Before I begin, it should be duly noted that I am writing this note at 4:35 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

It isn't often that I have dreams that are so messed up, yet at the same time, so realistic and somehow so absurd that I must stop everything, get out of bed, and write them down. But tonight I had one of those dreams. And now I can't sleep.
And I can't figure this one out. But I've already decided, once and for all, that I'm laying off the Highland Park Cafeteria on Friday nights. There is something all-at-once alarming about an establishment that caters to old folks, yet has doors so heavy that only Arnold Shwartzenager can open them by himself. At HPC you see photographs of all the US presidents lining the walls on your way to the buffet line, you can choose between regular or sugar-free desserts, and you hear live accordion music on the weekends. (Though to be fair, last night the accordion player was out sick--or he had a heart attack and finally kicked it--because there was a recorded track playing instead; a piano version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing").

So after my delicious meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans, I came home, fiddled around with the computer for a while, read Wuthering Heights, and then fell asleep early. And I had this dream:

I'm standing in line, waiting for food at the high school where I work. It's the faculty luncheon, the one we always have at the end of each Trimester. In real life, this luncheon is catered by either a barbecue joint, or an Italian one, but in my dream the Assistant principal Brenda Monk catered it (I'll go ahead and use real names here. There are no innocent to protect). So for our luncheon, we are eating Brenda's homemade brisket. There are two flavors: regular barbecue, and chipotle lime. It smells delicious.
"I'm going for the Chipotle lime," I say, picking up a fork.
Mona Weiler, my co-worker, is standing behind me. "So am I," she says.
So I proceed to spend a great deal of time and energy fishing the one remaining piece of chipotle lime brisket out of the crock pot (?????) with a tiny plastic fork, all the while experiencing intense anxiety because I know that Mona wanted some too, and I'm about to take all of it. It never occurs to me that I could just, you know, split it with her. In the infallible logic of my dream, I must take the entire piece. There is no other option. I must take the entire piece and spend the rest of my life in soul-wrenching guilt about this slice of red meat.
But then, before I can actually accomplish this, the telephone rings. Because, you know, there are so many of those just lying around in school cafeterias. "Mrs. Scott!" a faceless form shouts. "The phone is for you." It sounds like the voice of God.
I drop the meat. It falls to the floor and crawls away--yes, crawls away--Naked Lunch-style, on six legs. I pick up the phone. There is a cop on the other end, and suddenly, I'm standing in the assistant principal's office, and Mona is right next to me. (I'm starting to think she's on to me about my original plan with the brisket).
"Hello," I say.
"Mrs. Scott," the cops says. "It has come to our attention that you stole a roller-ball yesterday out of the teacher's lounge, and that you have it hidden, in fact, at this very moment, in your classroom."
"Pardon?"
"A roller-ball, Mrs. Scott. Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."
What I don't know, actually, is what the fuck a roller-ball is. "I'm sorry," I say, "You must be mistaken."
"No, we're sure of this. And if you don't return the item immediately, Rowlett High School is prepared to prosecute you to the full extent of the law."
I cup my hand over the phone, turn to Mona. "What is a roller ball?" I ask her. "Some cop on the phone thinks I stole one."
Mona seems unphased, blase. "It's a large metal spoon," she tells me. "Like the ones we were using to scoop out the brisket."
"That was a plastic fork," I say, confused.
"No," Mona insists. "That was a roller-ball." (At this point, it should be noted that clearly, I am the only logical one in this room, yet I still somehow know that I'm in the wrong anyway. Not unlike reality, most days).
"Listen," I tell the cop. "I didn't steal anything. You can check my room. There's nothing there."
"It's best for you to just come clean now," The Cop says. "The stolen roller-ball is there, and we have you on camera taking it, and there is a witness besides that."
I look at Mona, smiling passively beside me, and I'm acutely aware of a conspiracy. I feel suddenly like Josef K. They are going to arrest me for a crime I didn't commit and there will be a trial, and in the end I'm going be executed by firing squad. I will be taken out in a storm of bullets, writhe around for a few seconds in a puddle of blood and my own existential deli ma, and finally succumb to death on some cold slab of pavement. Over a large metal spoon. (or rolling-ball or plastic fork or whatever). Jesus.
"I have to go," I tell the cop. And I hang up the phone.
I take my plate of brisket (which I never actually managed to successfully acquire earlier, but whatever) and head outside to some picnic tables. I sit down with my plate of food next to Brian Winger, an old college boyfriend of mine who looked like Shannon Hoon and acted like a psychopath. "Hey," I say. "You won't believe what happened to me at work today."
"Is that Chipotle lime brisket?" Brian asks.
"Yes," I tell him. "But seriously. This is crazy. They think I stole a roller-ball. I don't even know what that is, Brian."
"It's a plastic fork," he tells me. "Like the one in your hand."
I look down. I'm holding a large metal spoon.
"It's been a long time," Brian goes on. "Can I kiss you?"
This sounds fantastic actually. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm married now. This guy looks like Shannon-fucking-Hoon. And he's completely nuts on top of it. "I'm in," I tell him.
So in my dream, I'm kissing Shannon Hoon. Brian. Whatever. AT least one of them is dead now, so what do I care? I've forgotten all about the roller-ball. Mona is gone. Rowlett High School is gone. It's 1995 again in my head and I've got Shannon Hoon and the last piece of Brenda Monk's stellar Chipotle Lime brisket. I've already forgotton that a few minutes ago, this brisket grew legs and crawled away. It isn't important anymore.
But suddenly, though, in typical dream-state fashion, I am somewhere else.
Sitting on a toilet now. At the house in Austin where I grew up. My parents are crowding up the bathroom door, and they are angry. Brian is gone.
"We bought this piano," my mother is saying, "and you are going to play it. Immediately."
Through the doorway, I can see the old piano I had as a kid. "I'm trying to go to the restroom," I tell them. "it's going to have to wait."
"No," my dad says. "you are going to get up now, and go in there, and practice your piano. You've put it off long enough."
Maybe he's right. After all, I'm thirty-six years old now. I guess it has been a while. But in my head, I'm sitting on the toilet, trying to do my thing, and I know, I just know, that Brian is in the next room and I haven't forgotten what just happened between us at the picnic tables a minute ago. I've got to figure out a way to get out of this. But I can't concentrate because I really, really have to pee. "Get out now!" I scream at my parents, knowing full well that I'm about to be grounded for six weeks (their regulation length for a punishment, back in the day) and not only that, they're also going to figure out I've just been kissing a boy. And I've stolen a fucking rolling-ball on top of that. I'm screwed.
They do what I ask, and leave the bathroom, complaining how much it costs to get a piano tuned as they walk out. And I don't waste any time. I jump up from the toilet and run into the livingroom, looking for Brian, completely forgetting that I still have pee. He's in there smoking a bowl.
This is so typical, I think.
"Are you still getting high every day?" I ask him. "Shouldn't you have smogged out all your brain cells by now? Let me guess. You're still listening to Cypress Hill, too."
"Do you want a hit?" he ignores me.
"Of course," I say. And I take the femo clay pipe out of his hand.
Man that guy was hot. And he looks exactly the same. The years have been kind to him, apparently. He hasn't lost any hair. He's still wearing the same red t-shirt. I've already completely forgotten that near the end of our short relationship, he scared me to death by driving 100 miles an hour one night along Bonnie Brae St. in Denton, yelling his head off at some guy who'd cut him off. When I freaked out on him later and demanded he let me out of the car, he appologized. "It's only because I didn't get to smoke today," he says. "I'm sorry, Baby. It won't happen again."
Red flags all over the place with this guy.
It doesn't matter to me. In my dream, I'm already trying to figure out how I can get him to kiss me again. Man I have to pee.

When I woke up from all that a little while ago, I couldn't get back to sleep. My clock said 4:20, and I'm not even kidding. I was disappointed, because I never did figure out what happened with that roller-ball. And I had to pee. Bad.
Maybe I'll go in there and try to get back to sleep, but probably not. Maybe I'll pull up my facebook page and listen to the Blind Melon song I posted on there the other day. Maybe I'll look up "roller-ball" in Wikepedia and laugh at myself when I don't find it there. Monday morning I'll apologize to Mona Weiler for taking all the brisket, and to my parents for refusing to practice the piano, and to my husband for making out with Brian Winger in my sleep. Eh.
What I really need to figure out how to get a decent nights sleep.

My two cents on the Oscars

This year, unfortunately, I didn't get to see all the Oscar movies. But to be fair, they're nominating 10 now, which seems utterly ridiculous, and I barely have time to go to the grocery store, let alone the movies. But from what I've seen, here are my pics:

Best Picture.
Black Swan was great, and so much fun to watch, but I feel like True Grit was more Oscar-worthy. It was totally original, and in no way overstated the way Black Swan was. Plus, I'm a sucker for words, and the way the Coen Brothers use them is amazing. (You can see this in Oh Brother Where Art Thou, too). For me, the way language and vocabulary is used in this film blew my mind. I was laughing through the whole thing, and every single character was well developed, and all of the actors did a great job.
The King's Speech was good, but to me, that movie was all about Colin Firth. The picture itself was a bit slow.
Honestly, I think Black Swan will take it, or The Social Network (which was a great breakthrough film) but I hope True Grit does.

Best Actor.
Okay. I didn't see 127 hours, but I heard great things about James Franco's performance. But I have to say, when I saw Colin Firth in The King's Speech, I had a physical reaction. He plays king George VI, who had a stuttering problem, and a terrible time speaking publicly. Every time he opened his mouth he choked out his words or couldn't get them out at all, and after a while of watching this my jaw actually began to ache. It was as though someone was running his nails down a chalkboard. THAT is a great acting job.

Best Actress.
I'm supposed to say Natalie Portman. Actually, I almost did. Many times over. She's fantastic, and I've loved her since Garden State and CLoser, and in Black Swan, she was incredible. Maybe at her best.
But I also saw Blue Valentine, and what Michelle Williams did in that movie just blew my mind. I thought about her performance for days afterwards. And I'm sure I'm biased, because i"ve always loved her, and I'm into character studies, but she was just off-the-charts good in that film. And although I don't think she will win tonight, a part of me really hopes that she wins.

I am blessed.

I'm a cynic. I love sarcasm. It's my weapon of choice when I encounter something out there on the web that I find totally ridiculous. No doubt I've even annoyed you with it. Sometimes it's hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I don't know how my husband puts up with me.
But I'm not being sarcastic here; I promise. I'm actually quite serious when I say that lately I'm bothered, and here's why: I believe in God. Some of you might find this amazing, or unfathonable, but it's true. I do. I don't go to church because most churches I've attended are too evangelical or too close-minded or too "our way is the only way, and the rest of you are going to hell." Sorry if I offend; I'm only being honest. And the thing is, every time I turn around, I see people praising God. They praise him for their healthy families, and for their beautiful children. They thank him for the promotion they got at work, or for the fact that their husband's surgery went well, or because they are still employed. Sometimes I hear people on Facebook thanking God and talking about how blessed they are because they vacuumed the house and their wonderful husband cooked them Spaghetti and meatballs.
And this is all well and good. Believe me, I am not knocking this. But what really gets me is the fact that nobody, NOBODY thanks God when they have a bad day. Or when someone dies. Or if they get into a fender-bender. Nobody praises Jesus that their teenager got caught smoking pot or sneaking out or stealing the car. I can't stand this. It makes me want to scream. Because the fact of the matter is, people, God should be thanked every day. For everything. The Bad stuff...that's just as much of a life experience as the good. And you learn from it You can take something good out of every bad thing that happens.
This is what I want to see. "Mother-f*cker! I lost my job today! Thank you God, I am so blessed. Because I probably needed to get a new job anyway...and change things in my life. Thank you for making this happen, so that I might have some insight, some opportunity to take my life in a new direction."
I really, really want to see this, people. I'm so sick of everyone who is thankful for friends and family, because really...we already know this. We know those things are blessing. I want to hear someone being thankful that their dog was hit by a car. That is the real challenge; to find the Good that comes out of something terrible. And THaT is a real blessing. That shows strenth, courage, and actual insight. That shows me someone who isn't afraid to see that every part of life--the good and the bad-- has meaning. (Also, incidentally, it shows me that they aren't trying to blame the devil for it, which is refreshing).

This being said, I will give my example for the day: Thank you God. I am truly blessed. I have married a man who does not understand the genius of the band The Pixies. I cannot fathom this. I think he may be insane. Certainly, the irony of this has not escaped me. But nevertheless, I am blessed. Becuase this reminds me that I need to have a sense of humor. I need to remember that my opinions are not always superior to everyone elses. (This is difficult, if you know me). I need to be reminded that while he is certifiably insane for his inability to comprehend the genius that is Black Francis and Kim Deal and the rest of The Pixies...he still loves me very much, and never complains that I still listen to this band nonstop, even though The Pixies stopped being really popular, like, 10 years ago. He never complains that I play "Debaser" at ear-shattering volumes when we get in the car, and he keeps my Pixies mix in his car and plays it for me when I get in. This is fantastic. This is why I keep him around. So thank you Jesus, for my husband, who doesn not like The Pixies. HIs not liking The Pixies is a true blessing in disquise.

Hey...been tryin to meet ya

I finished the first draft of my book a few days ago. In the spirit of the movie Adventurland, it is a coming of age story, but instead of being set in the 80's, it's set in the 90's--1995 in particular--which is why I kept asking people to share their music memories of this time period with me.

I've had this story in my head for a while now, never really with any intentions of writing it down. Maybe it was being stuck in the house during the month of July, battling with my horrible acid reflux, that finally lit a fire under my ass. Who knows, but it's done now. Well, not really done, completely. I still have to go back and revise the thing, which could take a long time. After that, I'm not really sure what my plans are. Probably Joe will encourage me to get it published, and if that happens, maybe some of you out there will get to read it.

Now I'm kind of sitting around at a loss over what's next. I haven't written anything in a long time, but back in the day, it was all I ever did. We'll see if my creative streak lasts.

Enjoy this bit of nostalgia from The Pixies.

I don't understand how a heart is a spade but somehow a vital connection is made

For those of you who think I've been sitting here all summer doing nothing, think again! I've had the most productive summer in years, despite the onset of a mysterious and severe case of acid reflux, and ER drama with husband's kidneys.

We managed a trip to France in June. I won't bore you with details, just facts: Normandy, Mont St. Michel, Beaune, Colmar, and Paris.

Once home again, I proceeded to make a lot of collages, which can be seen in the photo album section of Facebook or my etsy page, which I will post the link to soon.

But most importantly, I managed to do some writing. A lot of writing. I'm not going to go into details lest I jinx myself, but suffice it to say, you will be seeing the fruits of my labor in the next 6 months when I finish editing it. Please don't ask me to read anything, or you will jinx me and I won't be able to finish. Seriously.

Lastly, I've been overcome with nostalgia, probably a result of the subject I'm writing on. Looking forward to this passing soon. It's no fun to visit Denton and see the empty lot where The Flying Tomato used to be, or all the new places I no longer recognize. Things were so much better then, way back when.

so much for you, your common complications...

Last night was a total blast from the past. We went to the Wildflower festival in Richardson to see Toad the Wet Sprocket, which was one of my favorite bands once upon a time when I was 18. I never got to see them the first time around, and so I was pretty excited about last night. Listening to the music brought back memories of driving from Denton to Austin during the college years, and also memories of my husband from when I first knew him in college and "Somethings Always Wrong" pretty much summed up our friendship that used to try to be more (to no avail.) Every time I hear old music, it makes me nostalgicly dig up old CD's, and feel glad that I kept everything and didn't sell it back. I reminds me of who I was, which is fun to revisit from time to time (though I'd never want to live there.)

But the real surprise was the band that came on after Toad, Candlebox. Yes. They had that one song, "Far Behind" that was really popular on the radio for about a year back in 1994. I had the CD, and remembered listening the hell out of it, but for some reason, this band seemed to get drowned out by others like Alice in Chains and Stone Temple Pilots. But heres the thing; they totally rocked. Last night, 20 years after their hayday, Candlebox got up on stage at a local music festival and rocked my socks off. The singer had all kinds of charisma and energy, and had the crowd all riled up. I found myself thinking, damn, were they this good back in the day and I somehow managed to miss it? I sat there stunned as they pounded through most of the songs on their first album and others I'd never heard before and even covers of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" and Sabbath's "Crazy Train." That guy can wail. I couldn't believe it.

This morning I dug around on my CD shelf until I found my old and VERY dust copy of Candlebox's first CD. I probably haven't listened to it in 15 years. I think a little bit later I'll give it a spin.

I love it when I get a suprise like this at a rock show.