My Diet Coke has a nifty new label on it - if you're judging by the fact that previous cans I've gotten out of the singular and particular vending machine located at the Brevard Music Festival Camp(us) have had Christmas themes. (As you may have noted, it's June 22nd).
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lobster Thighs, thanks to Mahler Licks
Beach = Sun + Sand + Salty Sea Brine... everything that I want out of a two day vacation (time is limited in the Meier Household, if that wasn't quite clear), plus a parting gift.
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I was once the lucky recipient of a Hand-Me-Down Thong.
*IT* was leopard-print. And had fuzzy fringe. *AND*. Not just leopard-print, not just fuzzy... both.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
What does it mean to be a "professional?"
... that's a good question, Hutton Honors College. There's a distinct possibility that a lot of people out there wake up one morning, realize that they've been at the same job or working so hard at a singular hobby / activity / ritual / sacrifice / fetish, that, goshdarnit, they've *got* to be a professional. Or, even - why not call yourself one? Just for fun?
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hello, Mr. Bond... and welcome to my Dark Lab of Blogging.
Mwa hahahahaha.
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
hopefully there'll be a typewriter up there on Mount Everest... next to the snow bank where I'm going to put all my gold medals.
Last night, I was sprawled over my bed at home - legs hanging over one side, majority of my torso and up over the other side - holding a Foxtrot comic book above my head and emitting small, quiet chuckles to myself... for an hour or two. (I don't care how old I get, I still think Jason could take over the world... if his Mom would just let him.) However, once I sat back up and let the blood flow back to the rest of my body, saying "no" to the little black spots that wanted me to pass out, "just for a bit", it occurred to me that I used to spend time in my old bedroom working madly on the following:
A book - which would somehow bring out that deeper side of me that *I* didn't even know existed.
Well... that, or the greatest piece of Fan Fiction the world has ever seen! (That's right, I went there.)
A Cunning Plan... but for what, I still haven't devised.
A premature "Bucket List", if you will, including the scaling of Mount Everest (after I retire) and the completion of one of the world's greatest Ultra Marathons in South Africa, home of a "hill" named "Polly" that's guaranteed to bring even the most hardened street pounder to a walk.
A means to somehow compete in the Olympics in the following events: Track and Field (I'd learn quickly), Soccer, and Field Hockey, and heck, if they needed an extra man anywhere, they could just give me a shout. (Except for swimming... I'm about as buoyant as a very large rock, and slower than a typical participant in Senior Swim Day.) Gold Medals would be won and accepted humbly, saying only that I've admired the world's athletes at these games since I could remember, and how bloody BRILLIANT it was that I could simply compete against them.
To pull together a ragtag group of misfits and outsiders and pull off the greatest heist the world has ever seen... using only our collective, natural talents.... and duct tape.
To acknowledge that I used to spell "duct tape" - "duck tape" ... oh, good, look, I can cross one of these off!
And... finally:
To find, rescue (or at least, help out *grumble grumble*) my true love, and live happily ever after.
At age 7... or 8... or 17... the majority of these still seemed highly possible. Forgetting, of course, though, the cunning plan - "cunning" and "Dani Meier" probably don't belong in the same sentence. At 20... it's interesting to see what I'd still like to have under my belt by the time I... (insert death euphemism *here*), whenever that happens. 50, 60, 10 years? It'd be nice to go smiling. (This entry is rapidly becoming more morbid by the minute - what I'm trying to say is that my priorities have changed.)
thank you, after thoughts.
For instance, I'd still love to write that book. And I have a pretty decent idea of what I'd be banging out on my computer, or in my notebook, if I ever sat down to it. And I'd also like one day run ... or crawl... up Polly. True Love? We'll see. A friend once told me that only a man can make the same mistake twice... well... if that's true, women must be able to do that multiple times... if a mistake is a mistake, begging your pardon. When I was 7, I had no idea that I'd choose an instrument bigger than I am and use it to pursue a career... I still thought I had dormant superpowers and it was only a matter of a few years (and puberty) before I could join the X-Men. 13 years ago, I thought I was adopted, for pete's sake, just because I couldn't find any baby pictures of me around the house. (They were hidden... or, at least, "stored", which means the same thing in this house.)
The point is... at two decades of life, maybe I shouldn't be reading comics upside down on top of my old bed at home, instead of working diligently to accomplish what I used to think would fulfill my entire being, my entire purpose. However... I've worked hard at what I'm pretty damn sure is the right road for me right now... and I think I deserve to lean back and let the blood rush to my head a bit more.
Just for fun.
A book - which would somehow bring out that deeper side of me that *I* didn't even know existed.
Well... that, or the greatest piece of Fan Fiction the world has ever seen! (That's right, I went there.)
A Cunning Plan... but for what, I still haven't devised.
A premature "Bucket List", if you will, including the scaling of Mount Everest (after I retire) and the completion of one of the world's greatest Ultra Marathons in South Africa, home of a "hill" named "Polly" that's guaranteed to bring even the most hardened street pounder to a walk.
A means to somehow compete in the Olympics in the following events: Track and Field (I'd learn quickly), Soccer, and Field Hockey, and heck, if they needed an extra man anywhere, they could just give me a shout. (Except for swimming... I'm about as buoyant as a very large rock, and slower than a typical participant in Senior Swim Day.) Gold Medals would be won and accepted humbly, saying only that I've admired the world's athletes at these games since I could remember, and how bloody BRILLIANT it was that I could simply compete against them.
To pull together a ragtag group of misfits and outsiders and pull off the greatest heist the world has ever seen... using only our collective, natural talents.... and duct tape.
To acknowledge that I used to spell "duct tape" - "duck tape" ... oh, good, look, I can cross one of these off!
And... finally:
To find, rescue (or at least, help out *grumble grumble*) my true love, and live happily ever after.
At age 7... or 8... or 17... the majority of these still seemed highly possible. Forgetting, of course, though, the cunning plan - "cunning" and "Dani Meier" probably don't belong in the same sentence. At 20... it's interesting to see what I'd still like to have under my belt by the time I... (insert death euphemism *here*), whenever that happens. 50, 60, 10 years? It'd be nice to go smiling. (This entry is rapidly becoming more morbid by the minute - what I'm trying to say is that my priorities have changed.)
thank you, after thoughts.
For instance, I'd still love to write that book. And I have a pretty decent idea of what I'd be banging out on my computer, or in my notebook, if I ever sat down to it. And I'd also like one day run ... or crawl... up Polly. True Love? We'll see. A friend once told me that only a man can make the same mistake twice... well... if that's true, women must be able to do that multiple times... if a mistake is a mistake, begging your pardon. When I was 7, I had no idea that I'd choose an instrument bigger than I am and use it to pursue a career... I still thought I had dormant superpowers and it was only a matter of a few years (and puberty) before I could join the X-Men. 13 years ago, I thought I was adopted, for pete's sake, just because I couldn't find any baby pictures of me around the house. (They were hidden... or, at least, "stored", which means the same thing in this house.)
The point is... at two decades of life, maybe I shouldn't be reading comics upside down on top of my old bed at home, instead of working diligently to accomplish what I used to think would fulfill my entire being, my entire purpose. However... I've worked hard at what I'm pretty damn sure is the right road for me right now... and I think I deserve to lean back and let the blood rush to my head a bit more.
Just for fun.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mozart muddles, Beethoven befuddles, and family... what?
On a particular trip on a particular Sunday, involving an entire particular family on one particular bus on its way to a particular place... (I'm done now, I'm swear)... I had a... *certain* conversation with a certain person. Prior to my decision to go to Indiana University as a music major, he'd had... doubts, we'll call them - about that route, that career. In all fairness, I think he had me pegged as going into the whole athletic shebang, and I didn't get really serious about the music performance idea until my senior year of high school.
... end of fairness.
I won't lie, the *last* time we discussed my career, I was less than fond of my him. Irritated, which I am rarely with family. That's all we'll say about that.
This conversation, however - complete 180. Unfortunately, not in the sense that it made me warm to him anymore, but in the manner that he was addressing me. Out of nowhere, (at least, to me) he became an afficianado of classical music. Had been listening for years and years, was a huge fan, everyday to and fro in the daily grind and wind would have it blasting out his car and home stereos. Mostly classical period - you know, the lighter stuff, the Bach and Mozart and Handel - he's a big fan of Handel.
... huh.
I don't want to pull the "shenanigans" card - it's family, after all, and who am I to say "baloney with extra ketchup" to my clan? Blood is supposedly thicker than water, stronger than old grudges or old wounds, and I'm sure that he loves me as one of his many relations for who I am and what I do. This feels like a Surgeon General's warning, or some sort of disclaimer, I know. Bear with me, I have a point.
And... here it is: Whether you are the local expert or the village idiot on a certain *anything*, please - for the love of GOD - do not pretend to be anything other than you are. In other words, there are enough pretentious people out there, possibly insecure and anxious to prove their worth and their knowledge. It's a bad spot to be in, worrying that someone will think less of you for perhaps not knowing everything about everything and anything. Help yourself out and portray yourself honestly, and I sincerely doubt that people will cast you down and ostracize you for not knowing, say, metronome markings to Beethoven scores.
... at least, I won't. Hell, I don't even know those.
(I probably should... but that's not up for discussion.)
Maybe I'm completely wrong on this, and our latest conversation, this person and I, was a valid, from the heart interest in the life that I've chosen. In that case, I apologize and I need to stop being so cynical on this front. However... please don't come to me with guidance and advice about what I should listen to, play, look for in my *life*... when you weren't so um... fond... of that choice a few short semesters ago. It reminds me far too much of an image of a confident, arrogant young rookie coming up to a seasoned veteran, saying with a smile and a wink:
"Try it this way - I've been doing this for years."
... end of fairness.
I won't lie, the *last* time we discussed my career, I was less than fond of my him. Irritated, which I am rarely with family. That's all we'll say about that.
This conversation, however - complete 180. Unfortunately, not in the sense that it made me warm to him anymore, but in the manner that he was addressing me. Out of nowhere, (at least, to me) he became an afficianado of classical music. Had been listening for years and years, was a huge fan, everyday to and fro in the daily grind and wind would have it blasting out his car and home stereos. Mostly classical period - you know, the lighter stuff, the Bach and Mozart and Handel - he's a big fan of Handel.
... huh.
I don't want to pull the "shenanigans" card - it's family, after all, and who am I to say "baloney with extra ketchup" to my clan? Blood is supposedly thicker than water, stronger than old grudges or old wounds, and I'm sure that he loves me as one of his many relations for who I am and what I do. This feels like a Surgeon General's warning, or some sort of disclaimer, I know. Bear with me, I have a point.
And... here it is: Whether you are the local expert or the village idiot on a certain *anything*, please - for the love of GOD - do not pretend to be anything other than you are. In other words, there are enough pretentious people out there, possibly insecure and anxious to prove their worth and their knowledge. It's a bad spot to be in, worrying that someone will think less of you for perhaps not knowing everything about everything and anything. Help yourself out and portray yourself honestly, and I sincerely doubt that people will cast you down and ostracize you for not knowing, say, metronome markings to Beethoven scores.
... at least, I won't. Hell, I don't even know those.
(I probably should... but that's not up for discussion.)
Maybe I'm completely wrong on this, and our latest conversation, this person and I, was a valid, from the heart interest in the life that I've chosen. In that case, I apologize and I need to stop being so cynical on this front. However... please don't come to me with guidance and advice about what I should listen to, play, look for in my *life*... when you weren't so um... fond... of that choice a few short semesters ago. It reminds me far too much of an image of a confident, arrogant young rookie coming up to a seasoned veteran, saying with a smile and a wink:
"Try it this way - I've been doing this for years."
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