There Will Be Strawberry Jelly

There was an Oscar party yesterday at Seth's friend's house. I think between he, I, her, and her roommate, we had seen about half the films that were up for consideration overall, but we'd each seen Juno at least once.

In the station on the way there, a saxophonist played "And I Love Her" for spare change. If he hadn't been on the opposite side of the tracks, I would have given him spare dollars. Among other things, this prompted Seth and I to spend most of the ride there singing "Bohemian Rhapsody."

This is the same friend that we spent both Christmas and the Superbowl holidays with, and so we inadvertently established a tradition of toting copious amounts of food on the train and stuffing ourselves silly upon arrival. We'd agreed that our dishes had to correspond to a nominated film. Her roommate got mini pecan pies and jelly to stand for the meat pies and blood in Sweeney Todd. Seth got french bread and baby brie for Michael Clayton, and pickles and peanut butter for Juno. I brought milkshake supplies for There Will Be Blood.

I watched a Barbara Walters interview with Harrison Ford in a segment before the ceremony. His first agent had told him that he'd never go anywhere in the business. She asked him if it bothered him that he never won an Oscar. He said no. I think I'd rather have his career than an Oscar, anyway. She asked what he would most like to be remembered for in his lifetime, and he said, "As a good collaborator."

The red carpet pre-show only made me feel contrary. The other three spent that half hour criticizing the hell out of the outfits and actors, and I spent it contradicting them out of spite, regardless of whether or not I agreed. Which usually I didn't.

I was already ripe with a food baby before Jon Stewart got warmed up, and my best friend didn't win his category, but mostly I didn't have any major beef with the decisions. I especially enjoyed the Tribute to Binoculars Montage, when the voice-over announcer stumbled over an actress's name, and when one of the winners for Best Original Song got to come back on and make her acceptance speech when she was cut off by the musicians.

Perambulance

I was walking with Seth in the park this past unseasonably-sunny-yet-seasonably-chilly Thursday, when our ramble was interrupted first by the crescendoing squalls of an approaching baby and second by a man hurriedly pushing this angsty child in a stroller past us.

My initial annoyance was superseded by my impressed realization at how sly that trick was. I imagined him having a twenty-minute distance to cover in ten or less before the old lady came home and bitched at him for leaving his dirty socks on the floor again, or for potentially making them late for the six-month-old's play date. Instead of sighing in resignation, it would strike him to gently nudge the child awake or take away its Dora the Explorer until you could hear its wails in the East Village. All he'd need is a blue and red flashing light. Sidewalk traffic would clear to his advantage, and he would make it back to the apartment with minutes to spare. Crying baby! Very urgent! Stand back!

Or he could have been a pushy asshole. Whatever. Since I plan to keep this tactic in mind for future use, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

A 15-Minute Brush With Fame

I served coffee to Phillip Seymour Hoffman this past Tuesday. I didn't freak out or gush or get his autograph, because that would not have been professional. And by professional, I don't mean barista-wise, I mean acting-wise. Maybe that's a little pretentious of me. But he did look really tired. He got a triple espresso (in case you wanted to know), so he must have been.

(But yes, I blushed like a Catholic hooker, and yes, my hands shook the whole time. And he smiled and thanked me and left a tip. What a gentleman. I want to buy all of his movies.)

I was really geeked out, and continue to be, but it also reminded me that I got to meet Danny Glover in Kirksville almost three years ago. And when I was younger, I met the guy who played the older brother on The Wonder Years when he was signing autographs at the Target store.

Somehow, this reminiscence merged Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon with Andy Warhol's "Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, etc., etc." principle, which seemed ot me a stupid one anyway, because what did he mean by "fame"? Did he mean local fame, or national, or international fame, or somewhere in the middle? How many people would have to hear of them to constitute "fame"? Does posthumous fame count? Did he even bother to take into account that technology could get so wide-reaching and specialized that socitety might eventually fragment into as many individualized demographics as there are people themselves, each person choosing only what he or she wanted to see and hear and consume in their own private Idahos?

Therefore, I conceived a much more plausible, easy-to measure postulate. Each person in the world will have at least fifteen minutes of meeting someone famous. It counts if you are chatting in the grocery line with Bill Gates for five minutes, take a minute to get Scott Baio's autograph, and spend ten glorius minute sharing a cab with Danny Elfman on the luckiest night of your life. Maybe not the best one of his. My point is, it can conglomerate if needed. If you happen to be famous yourself, great. Not only will your work be taken care of, but then you can spread the joy of meeting someone famous to others.

Fifteen minutes at a time.

Good Job, Good Pay

They're promoting me at work to "keyholder." I began training two days ago, and there's very little difference in the actual tasks assigned to me. It means that I get there at 5:30 AM instead of 6 for the three or four mornings out of the week that I open the store. I unlock the door, set out the muffins after checking in the deliveries, occasionally do a supply order, make a dollar more an hour that I used to, and my name is listed on the company circulars of "staff," right under the assistant manager's.

I couldn't help but feel a little filthy about moving up the ladder of corporate inconsequentiality; this is probably due to residual postadolescent distrust of authority and fear of somehow losing my underdog street cred to those I now "outranked." This is probably also why I ended up listening to four different Pink Floyd albums before noon. Five if you count The Wall as two, which I don't really.

One of my friends' creative writing professors told her that he used to work at Taco Bell for several summers as a teen, but when they started talking to him about moving into upper management, he knew it was time to find another job. I used to mock my boss at TB (the second boss I had, that is), because he was a cocky little shit about being the manager of a measly link in the fast food chain. Part of me scorns the apparent injustice of having authority over someone just because of a few extra responsibilities, or a month extra seniority, or a few more kisses on the ass. I can't shake my bitterness over how arbitrary some advantages in life are, and how some people can be comparable in intelligence and work ethic, but one is given the leg up because they were born into money or had better connections--and gets an overinflated ego about something of miniscule consequence.

Part of me likes the extra responsibility even more because it caters to my inner control nut who will savor the hell out of the half hour of solitude that I'll have to make sure everything is convenient, stocked, and perfect, and the full confidence that this will be done because I will have done it myself. I'm worried that these tendencies will reveal that I'm more suited for upper management than I ever thought, or wanted to be, possible.

"Too much Mrs. Dash! Add Nutmeg!"

Enter Roommate #4,583,917.

Rachel sat me down and told me that she and Matt decided to also adopt Nutmeg, another cat from the same household. Apparently their owner was having a baby and didn't want to neglect the cats after she popped it out. Which was thoughtful, I suppose, but also probably hard on the cats, especially since Dazz had barely emerged from underneath Rachel's bed since she arrived. Maybe they wanted a more social cat, maybe they wanted to do the woman a favor, maybe they thought getting Dazz a sister would bring her closer to civilization, but she asked me if when Seth and I moved, if we were interested in taking Dazz "if she didn't work out."

I don't know what "not working out" means, but I told her I would if Seth agreed and our landlord would let us--or at least, if there were a place we could hide it.

I went to Rachel's room today and managed to tempt Dazz from Under the Bed, but when I tried to pick her up and carry her to my room for some love, the claws came out her paws and into my chest, and once more she disappeared.

I've not yet seen Nutmeg. I think they made her up.

Cat Power = Modest Mouse

Today I gained yet another roommate in order to rid ourselves of a few others. Rachel came home with a lady cat named Dazz, who, according to Ben, dashed into her room and underneath her bed the second she got home. She pulled Dazz out in order to show her where the litterbox was, and I got to meet her briefly before she retreated to underneath the couch. It will not be long before she and I will be the best of friends.

So it goes

When I was a junior in high school, I met a guy named Evan. I knew him through Speech and Debate and theatre activities, which by their time-consuming nature allowed us to become close enough to begin dating. He was my first serious-ish boyfriend, so naturally I'd spend a lot of time at his house, especially since he lived so near the school and we'd hang out there after the aforementioned extracurriculars. We were both smart kids and enjoyed reading (especially Kurt Vonnegut) and writing (mostly existential essays for class that attempted to imitate prestigous literature that I was too young and too academically overcommitted to understand).

I didn't meet his mother right away. She was always gone, or sleeping or something, when I happened to be over initially. He always seemed a little anxious whenever she came up in conversation. His dad was cordial and awkwardly polite, allowing Evan a surprising amount of freedom and space. They had five dogs and a number of cats that I was never allowed to reveal. At one point I was able to name them all. His dad couldn't stand them, and Evan tolerated them good-naturedly.

I'm not sure how I first met her, but from all the time I spent over there, it was inevitable. She was slight and kind, with eyes like Evan's: green and feline-sleek. Their noses were similar as well, and both their smiles were thin-lipped and came up higher on one side than the other. Hers was a quick surprise when it appeared. His was more ready and often; he shared a cautious, haunted expression with his dad.

She used to be a teacher, and liked to talk to us, even though she also was quick to give us our space when she felt that it was time for us to be alone. She'd taught both special-needs kids and gifted kids before she retired, and she told me stories of when Evan was small and she recognized his potential from his problem-solving skills, such as when he wanted to play at the sink with the water faucet ("I didn't get it, either," she'd giggled) and what he chose to stand on and how he got it to the sink without her help. She wanted to see how he did it on his own.

He was applying to colleges when we dated, and she would read his essays and critique them. Again, I'm not sure how she got on to reading the stories and essays I'd write for my AP Language class; maybe I asked for her opinion, I don't know. She always liked reading what I wrote, encouraged me earnestly, and once asked me to write a story for her. "OK, what about?" I asked.

She needed a day to think. I came by after school another day and she told me, "I want you to write me a story about God, the universe, and cats." So I did. I spent weeks on it, used profanity in a manuscript for the first time, and it may have stretched over twenty pages. When I finished, I came over not to see Evan but to see her (he was actually out of town at the time). She loved it, and after she read it we ended up talking for over four hours. We came close to ordering pizza for dinner except my mom called me home.

There was a reason for his reluctance to talk about her, perhaps even for the haunted look. Early in our relationship, we walked into his house, only to find it in shambles. There were few family photos because she destroyed them in a fire one day. All the pets were hers. Twice she had to go to treatment facilities for manic depression.

She also sent me funny emails during the school day, made sure we had plenty of snacks, gave us movie recommendations, and took roll after roll of pictures when Evan and I went to Prom. I'd just learned how to make gum-wrapper chains, so out of the blue one day she gave me a basket full of three diffrerent kinds of Wrigley's. Evan told me she'd been excited about that all day. Once I called, asking for him, and when he wasn't there we started talking about books, and she read to me a chapter from Me Talk Pretty One Day. When I found it just as comical, she ended up getting it for me for my birthday along with two cards. Hers were the best cards. I still have them all. She was always kind to me, and I never saw her in her bad moments.

Evan went away to school, and soon she ended up divorcing his dad and moving to California. I never really talked to her or heard from her after that, but when I'd meet up with Evan and ask about her, he told me that she would ask about me and that she still had a few of my old high school photos.

I heard from him today for the first time in about a year. He told me that she'd died in August. Right about the time I was bitching about moving and routinely drenching my liver in Captain Morgan. I remembered her from time to time, wondering how she was. If I knew how to get in touch with her, I doubt it would have been any bit awkward.

She still had a few old pictures of me among her things.