O.k., things are going too far now. It seems like I'm constantly being disturbed by the use of music in car commercials. Well, lots of commercials (They've been using a Galaxie 500 tune in some ad, I can't remember if it's for a car or for insurance or what). Now I have a new beef. I turned on the TV the other night and was greeted by the new VW Cabrio ad. It's night, the sky is star-filled, the convertable is inhabited by a bunch of young folks driving down a dark stretch of road. In the background is Nick Drake's "Pink Moon." When they get to this small house in what appears to be the middle of nowhere, a handful of people seem to be running around, doing whatever in slow motion. The camera does close-ups on some of the faces of the kids in the car, a solemn-looking driver with shaggy hair and a thoughtful yet dreamy black gal in the back. Next thing you know, they're out of there and you're shown an image of the sky and moon. Now, I've only seen this commercial 3 times and I'm slow to get things, but I guess the gist is that they don't need all those people and trappings of a "good time." All they need is the night sky, a VW Cabrio and a somber, heart-felt song to be whole. I don't know why this should make me feel sick. I mean, would some 70's peacey/lovey/maudlin songwriter who died from an anti-depressant overdose really want his music in a car commercial? This time they went too far. If you go to the VW website, there's a whole bit devoted to this commercial and a link to amazon.com where you can buy the music ("Customers who bought titles by Nick Drake also bought titles by these artists: Belle and Sebastian, Elliott Smith"). They are obviously very proud of it. I remember the first time I was weirded out by the odd placing of music (actually, that award goes to hearing a Muzak version of Duran Duran's "Reflex" in a Hallmark). It seems dumb now, but I didn't like that "Get a Life" used R.E.M.'s "Stand." I've never been a big R.E.M. fan, and Chris Elliott is freakin' hilarious so who knows why that busted my chops at the time. It just goes to show how little it takes to set me off.
About 4 hours later: So, I was just thumbing through the Nov. 29 "Adweek" (do you get the feeling that I don't have a whole lot to do at work?)and of course that Cabrio ad was written up and I didn't learn anything I didn't already know, but I just wanted to make one correction because I hate being wrong--the girl is in the front seat next to the driver, not in back. O.k., I should do some real work.
I thought about writing all this sooner, but I've been sidetracked. I just got back into n.y. about 12 hours ago and I'm not fully together yet, but this needs to be done. So...England. Well, I did all sorts of things and went here and there and I never write things down anymore (I mean physically in a notebook like in the old days--the mid 90's) so I'm recapping by my foggy memory. To sum things up, I will say that England is a nation of fried food, excessive drinking, rampant drug use, heavy smoking, and loose morals. In other words, my kind of place. Yeah, that's some serious generalizing and more of a reflection on the company I choose to keep than anything. A good portion of why I chose to take this trip was simply because I haven't had a proper vacation in a year and a half. Also, I wanted to visit my sister and I haven't been over there since '95 when she got married. But I'll admit that the main reason I'd been planning this getaway since the summer was because of a boy. That was my original intent. It's horrible how much of my decisions revolve around guys. So, as you may know, I've been corresponding with this person, Richard, via the internet since last nov. and he visited me in June and we got along well and I had some notions in my head and I'm pretty sure he did as well even though nothing explicit has ever been said, but over the past few months things have changed a bit and my interest has waned and I think he knew this and it's not as if I'm single and I know that he's been dating someone so the focus of my visit was nebulous. I went in with the idea of two friends hanging out, having a good time, etc. Nothing more. I was a little nervous. Sat. the 20th me and my sister, Melissa, took the train to Brighton where Richard lives. It was freezing and rainy and we called him from the station. He was with his flatmate Charlotte at a nearby pub and they gave us instructions to meet them. It was a mess, they gave us poor directions, we had to call back 3 times, Melissa was ready to kill me and it took us over an hour and a half to track them down. I started speculating if this wasn't some cruel joke and we were intentionally being given the runaround. But then, I'm a worrier. When we finally showed up all was well and Charlotte confided that Richard was the nervous one, thinking I was standing them up. He seemed excited, and it seemed that they'd put thought into planning an evening for us. The plan was dropping off luggage, going out somewhere nice to eat, getting a drink, and heading to some "crap indie club." At their apt. things seemed alright. Richard was showing everyone the print out of our first ever email exchange from nov. 18, 1998 in this gushy sort of way. He'd also picked up some Sanrio stickers for me and also was sporting a My Melody pin, which I somehow doubt he'd normally wear. The rest of the evening was nuts. We ended up with the third flatmate, Alex, at a tapas bar, went to a pub and hooked up with some random couple from New Zealand who seemed to have an awful lot of drugs (there was already a healthy portion of ecstasy involved prior to meeting this duo. Later, I was dosed [I've always wanted to use that word] by one of these Kiwis. Seriously. Apparently, I was the only who didn't seem to realize he was putting MDMA in everyone's drinks) and we all headed to the club. Now, within minutes of entering the club Richard disappeared. This should not have come as a surprise to me since this something he did during his n.y. visit. The thing is that this is my biggest issue in the entire freakin' world. I don't completely understand it, but being ignored is the most intolerable thing to me. I will absolutely lose it, cause scenes, fall to pieces, snap, if I'm expecting a certain amount of attention from someone and I don't receive it. Abandonment issues? Who knows?! It can be scary for all involved. Luckily, for him I was so completely out of my head that night that I couldn't be bothered with caring. He'd hooked up with some black-bobbed, sour-faced girl with a flaky nose and they spent the entire evening snogging on a couch, much to the chagrin of her friends and his. I didn't do or say anything, as it didn't seem my business and I was under the impression that this was typical Richard behavior. My logic was that he didn't owe me anything and it's not as if anything could happen between us since I'm not in the business of cheating on boyfriends. He could do whatever he pleased. But as Melissa so rationally pointed out, it was plain rude. Well, duh. If the tables were turned and Richard was visiting me and even if I knew he had a girlfriend and things weren't going to go that direction anymore, I still wouldn't take off with some random guy and completely ignore him during our only night out. Melissa thought this behavior was intentional, whether subconsciously or not. I think he's got some problems and should watch his substance intake, but that he's thoughtless not malicious. It was all troublesome (though not at the time--I didn't feel slighted til the next evening when I'd gotten my bearings) and we left without him and when we finally got back to the flat he was already there with some Scottish couple he'd met at the club. Everyone passed out and Melissa and I slept in Richard's bed (that he'd obviously gone through trouble to make nice--clean sheets and fresh pillow cases--it was as if he'd had all these good intentions that just went out the window. Like, it was obvious that he talks about me all the time--his flatmates knew all these things about me, and the impression I got was that they thought something was supposed to be going on with the two of us). The next morning we woke at 11am and went through his things like the good snoops we are. He had all the things I've sent him stashed in a drawer, letters, empty candy boxes, stories I'd xeroxed from "The New Yorker." We'd joked about writing a song and nothing ever came of it, yet I found a notebook with 3 pages of lyrics about lovers on the run. It amused me that he'd actually followed through. I just don't know what to make of him. No one else got up til 4 and he sort of apologized for being a bad host and I felt crappy, but was functional, Everyone else was a mess and first thing off smoked a bunch of hash. That freaks me out and explains so much half-assed behavior. One of the main reasons I moved from Portland was to escape such slackerishness. It depresses me. We went out for dinner, it was nice enough, and Richard claimed to not remember any details from the previous evening. I hate it when people do that. Afterwards, we parted ways and Melissa and I then caught our train back to Swindon and that was that. I don't know what to make of things. I'll be curious to see if he emails me monday (tomorrow). I always wonder how and why things end. Do they dissipate slowly or stop abruptly? Everything ends at some point. I only have one petty thing to say: I never liked the way he put apostrophes in the wrong places, such as thing's and photo's. Ooh, that's so wrong. I left feeling sort of gross and confused and in the weirdest way, happy that I have what I do. If there was a theme to this entire trip it was 'gaining perspective.' Despite how much I moan and complain about my life, it's not bad. I like my stupid things, and my crappy neighborhood (complete with cripples and undesireables), and the horrible subway system, and everyone's nasty attitudes, and my low-level job, and my friends, and not to sound smug or self-righteous, but it hit me that I'm pretty darn well-adjusted and considerate of others and have plenty of things to do and all sorts of apportunities and I don't plan on wasting my life and I'm excited for the future and there's always something nice to look forward to and the thought of getting fucked up and wasting every day and hating my existence and doing nothing about it is so intolerable. Well, it is Thanksgiving week, isn't it? Allow me to wax thankful for a change. So, I also went to Bath for a day, met up with friends from n.y. in London on Thanksgiving, and spent the rest of my time chain store shopping in Swindon (the town where my sister lives. It's an unremarkable village that's about an hour from London. For people from the N.W., I'd say it's the Beaverton, Oregon of England, but a little scummier. It scares me to see people who as adults still live in the same city they were born in. People who spend all week trying to track down pills for the weekend. People who either don't work at all or complain about the miserable job they do have. Melissa is moving to Bristol next month and I can only say this is probably a good idea). You know, I don't how the English get off calling Americans fat--I rarely see anything larger than a 12 here and in England 18's (which are American 16's) and x large's (oh God, I'm really afraid that that was misuse of an apostrophe and now I'm a hypocrite) seemed standard at most stores. Maybe we're fatter, but in denial. On the my-unhealthy-obsession-with-make-up front, I was pleased to pick up Diorific Plastic Shine in Alluring Black for cheaper than I've ever seen it here. This is some serious lip gloss, and I've been eyeing it for a while, but it's hard to justify $22 for lip gloss, even it makes your mouth look like wet PVC (that's a good thing). I also ate goodies like steak and kidney pie, faggots (How could I resist with a name like that? Really, they're just meatball things that are sometimes made with brains), roast beef and mustard flavored crisps (so good), lots of chips, and get this...Hawaiian Pizza! It was worth the trip alone just for a taste of that rare delicacy. I've waited over two years for a trashy treat like that. Leave it to the British to come through with the goods. I saw "Bowfinger," "South Park," "Iron Giant," and "The Sixth Sense" on the plane and "All About My Mother" during 'Art Wednesday' at a Swindon multi-plex. "All About My Mother" was my hands down favorite, plus I was able to check out the KFC in the parking lot. My mission was to see if the English really didn't know what real biscuits were. Earlier in the week, I prodded my sister into making an all-American meal: bisciuts and gravy. She swears she's never had them. I couldn't let her get away with that, though it was no easy feat to recreate their full glory in a vegan version. We did our best and they were pretty tasty despite the lack of meaty grease. Oh, but her husband had no idea what bisuits were (you know, they call cookies bisciuts) and I was trying to explain and it was all just unbelievable to me. So, I checked out the Colonel's value meals and, goddamn it, no biscuits. It wasn't even like there was a bread substitute. Chicken, chips, choice of sides, soda. Hmmm, we don't get fries automatically so maybe that's their starch. Who cares, I know. But this is the sort of thing that'll kill me if I think about it too much. Fri. I did a Swindon night out at some scary local club and I should've known better than to get so carried away the night before I had to catch a plane. I didn't think I was going to make it in one piece to the airport yesterday, but somehow I managed. At the moment I feel like I'm brain damaged. I hope this isn't a permanent state.
The stupidest things will bother me. Things that don't even matter. I've been trying to map out a vague itinerary for my impending trip. One part of this has been coordinating a meet-up with my english email friend, Richard. I'd remembered him mentioning something a while back about some Italian girl he'd met and so I asked him about her and it seems that they've been dating and for some reason this made me sad. Why should I be sad?! That's the kind of thing that would bum me out if I was feeling alone, but I've been more chipper than ever in the past few months. He lives in a foreign country--what do I care what he does?! I just get all caught up in silly romantic notions, things having to do with fate and coincidence. I don't want to have to admit that those little things like my arriving in England on Nov. 18, 1999 and our first ever email correspondence occurring on Nov. 18, 1998 means absolutely nothing. Dates and numbers are nothing but dates and numbers and everything's random and I don't like it one bit. A perfect example of this would be my mother's relationship with her husband, Robert, whom I like to affectionately refer to as "The Step Dude." In 1990 my mom went nuts and that summer I graduated from high school and she took me and my sister and all the furniture and one of our Ford's (the dad will only buy American) and snuck off into an apt. she'd rented and didn't tell my father what she was doing and didn't let us contact him (not that we wanted to--we weren't terribly fond of him, despite his never doing anything too horrible--he's just oblivious and sometimes that's crime enough). But anyway, somewhere during this era this alcoholic, unemployed roofer came in our unlocked back door and refused to leave and I didn't personally witness this, but my sister and her high school friends at the time did and I heard it was scary. My mom took a fancy to this roofer and next thing you knew they were spending every evening at this dive around the corner, The Sandy Hut. Then he moved in and there were parties every night with him and his rocker friends and my mom. Did I mention he was only 27 (the mom was 40) and into Harley's and heavy metal? His friends were 20-something heshers and I was 18 so it was creepy and I couldn't do my homework (I was now in college) because they were raging downstairs with cases of Hamms, Black Sabbath blaring, making the occasional lewd comment to me if I showed my face. Anyway, he crashed my car drunk driving, he drove me and my sister both out of the house with his abusive personality, we stopped talking to our mom, and they ran off to Reno and got married. Now the point of this is that despite the obviously ill-suited nature of their relationship (they're still married, believe it or not. Actually, that's not too hard to believe. As I've said before, stupid, ugly, boring types are always married. Now I'm not calling my mom stupid, ugly, and boring, but you know the kind of person. The average joe on the street doesn't know how to be alone. They will do anything, suffer through all sorts of unpleasantness to have someone next to them in the bed at night. Sometimes I wonder if I'm inhuman for not allowing myself to feel this way. I always thought clingy and insecure were undesireable traits. Growing up, my mom pounded two things into me and my sister's heads, "never act stupid for a guy" and "never get married." I seem to be the only one who's heeded this advice.), they thought they were meant to be together. And I have to admit that the reasons why are eerie. My family lived in Burlingame, CA til I was about four years old. It turns out that Robert (the step dude, if you've forgotten) was also raised in Burlingame, CA. One evening Robert was speaking to his sister who still lives in the area and I don't know how, but she realized that she knew my mom and used to babysit me and still to this day has the bed that my mother and father gave her when they moved up to Oregon in 1977. I found photos of my fourth birthday party and Robert's brother is in them. Is this not creepy? What's even creepier is to think that my mom was this wife in her early 20's and just down the street would be her future husband, some kid still in 6th grade. So, they think it's like fate or destiny or something that they ended up together years later in another state and like I said, I really want to believe in that stuff, but the truth of the matter is that they're absolutely beastly together. Total soulmates from hell. The two months I had to live with them in '95 was straight out of an episode of "Cops." Bad boys for sure. Why do people end up with the people they do? I wish I knew. I'd like to think that there is a rhyme or a reason or, God forbid, a purpose to the paths crossed by strangers, but I'm afraid there's not.
A friend mentioned this Littleton, CO website to me because he'd just noticed how hot Eric Harris was and how beastly Dylan Klebold was. The first thing I noticed was that the girl who did this trenchcoat mafia tribute was named Krista. I poked around and got scared by this section with Eric Harris's loves/hates. I got scared because I am Eric Harris. It's nuts. He had all these issues with the way people walk: slow people, people who stand around and block your way, people who don't watch where they're going and bump into you. Granted, I get ticked with bad pedestrians on the streets of N.Y. and he's probably talking about kids in his high school halls. But it's all the same at the core. The other topic that really got me was his loathing of people who mispronounce words. Examples: eXpresso, ofTen, acrosT. He also had problems with people who use words over and over again like "actually." That one really scares me because I also hate that, but I'm guilty of it too. I'm aware that when I type I use "actually," "you know," "I mean," and "like" way too much. I just can't help it. It's even worse if you heard me speaking. I just (oh, and "just"--that one gets used a lot too) heard from friends that this bartender calls me, "Krista Two Times" after that guy off "Goodfellas" who'd repeat everything twice. That irks me. That irks me. You know? You know? You know how you go through phases where you seem to use a phrase a lot? Recently, I've caught myself using, "to be honest" and "honestly" in like every other sentence, but only in my speaking, not in anything I write. I'm trying very hard to break myself of this habit. To be honest, I didn't do anything all that exciting this weekend. I saw a couple movies, "Boys Don't Cry," (with that horse-faced, cross-dressing, Karate Kid, Hilary Swank) "Rosetta," (Belgian downer of a movie [though good] about an unemployed girl in a trailer park) and "Happiness" taped off cable (the movie's 134 minutes so I missed the ending and it's not playing again til nov. 21 and it's making me insane). I also got a creepy headache with blurred vision and am now convinced that I'm verging on either a stroke or brain aneurysm. That's probably just the tip of my bad health iceburg.
I just found out that "42 Up" is coming out next week. I love those movies. It scares me a bit though, since it doesn't seem all that long ago that I saw "35 Up." That would've had to have been in 1992. Eek. What is that quote that goes along with those movies? Something along the lines of "give me a child at seven and I'll show you the man." No, that sounds all wrong, but you get the gist. I've only ever heard of these movies since "28 Up." To my knowledge those are the only feature films. I wonder if they earlier ones are available in some format. I don't know why I'm so fascinated with childhood since I'm not terribly fond of children, especially babies. I'm not even in the "kids are great when they belong to other people" camp. Just tonight I was at the laundromat and I went back to to get the clothes to put in the dryer and I was like 5 minutes early so I had to wait and there were these two kids who appeared to be about four and they were going nuts running around and shrieking and I almost lost my mind. I had to get out of there. Right this minute I have wet laundry strewn all over the apt. If I'm lucky it'll dry by tomorrow night and it'll be all hard and crispy. Hmmm, if I had to say one thing positive about the kids (I'm in one of my let's try to see the good in things phases) it would be that I was impressed how they were from two different families that didn't seem to know each other (the mom of the girl was having no interaction with the father of the boy) and yet they so easily bonded and seemed to be having a lot of fun despite being total strangers. I would've liked to see a little more parental involvement (telling the kids to shut up and settle down) but hey, I'm a strict disciplinarian. The really scary thing is that with this whole MLS thing that I'm doing you have to specialize in a certain area and I've been thinking about "School Media Center." Can you even imagine? My highschool librarians were pretty mellow (I even took Library Science and worked in the library--fancy that), but the librarians in grade and middle school were total nightmares. Nasty, mean women (and they're always women). I don't know why someone who doesn't like children would want to work in an overwhelmingly child populated environment. I heard that Roald Dahl hated kids. People find it hard to believe that someone who could write "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" would have an aversion to living, breathing little rapscallions. I can believe it. Ever since I was wee, myself, I was told that I'd change my mind when I got older. Well...I'm waiting. Realistically, I've probably got like 13 good childbearing years left and a lot can change in 13 years. I mean only five years ago I visited New York and said it was one of the foulest, most hateful cities ever and that I never was going to go back...and yet, here I am. A mere year and a half ago I said I was done with working in libraries because I was sick of social misfits/brain damaged retards who could never function in real workplaces being my co workers, and yet, here I am. However, I still firmly believe that 90% of people who work in libraries do fit that bill. I've been so warned by so many people (who have their MLS's) to think twice about library school, simply because of the other students I'll be forced to share a classroom with. Oh, I was supposed to be on my positive kick. Er, I should be happy that these freaks are trying to better themselves. Maybe with a better education they'll be able to get better jobs and then they'll be able to move out of their parents' attics and basements. That's positive, right?
I just realized that I'm leaving for England in ten days. I got a little impulsive last month and bought a ticket through priceline.com on a whim. I only half meant to. I was feeling annoyed and like I needed to get out of here and was sort of goofing around, trying to prove something or get a reaction...who knows. You know, with Priceline you name your price and if they accept it they immediately charge it to your credit card and I didn't think it my bid was going to work. But it did. And I am glad to be taking a trip, but I had no idea how low my bank account was til I checked the other day and it was almost $400 less than I thought. I am completely retarded with checking and always have been. It makes no sense. I write down every single check I write, every ATM withdrawl, and add my paltry deposits, and yet my balance is always hundreds of dollars off. This bothers me. I used to open new checking accounts like every 8 months in order to start fresh and within like 3 months the new one would be screwed up again. It's very frustrating. So, I'm a little worried. I'm already a huge miser, cheapskate, it's not as if I'm extravagant and squandering money all over the place. There's no fat to be trimmed. Who wants to worry about money on a vacation? I suppose if I have to use my credit card a bit more than I'd intended, it won't kill me. It's always something. If I'm not miserable over personal relationships, then I'm fretting over being poverty-stricken. Sometimes I wonder which is better--being wealthy and alone or poor and loved. I really don't know if that money can't buy you love adage is true--you know that people with rotten personalities who make $100,00+ are getting dates. Bad dates, perhaps...but they're getting them.
I am definitely becoming more and more obsessive. There’s no doubt about it. Since July I have been trying out all these different anti-depressants: Zoloft, Paxil, and most recently, Elavil. The first two gave me headaches. The last one is all old-school and made me catatonic and sleepy. I never thought medication was a good idea in the first place, but I’ll always give things a chance. So, I stopped with the bad zombie-ish one, Elavil, last week, and I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but I’ve been riled-up, spastic, and borderline manic ever since. My mind is racing and I feel like my heart is going to burst (in a good way). I can’t stop obsessing. I always assumed that it was o.k. and possibly natural to fixate on crushes and the like. But I don’t know that this is o.k. behavior for someone you’re actually dating. I fear that it’s very teenage. Adults don’t get all giddy and nutty and think about people 24-7 (or do they?). I would seriously torment and poke fun of friends and/or strangers exhibiting this silly behavior. Tell them to knock it off, grow up, and stop making me sick with their mooning and daydreaming. Weekend coincidences: Fri. night I went over to James Robb’s to watch “Buffalo 66” on video and when he turned on the TV it was at channel 90 and “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” was on. I didn’t actually know that it was that movie since I’ve never seen it and don’t even know a thing about it other than the title and that the previous ROB that I was crazy about had recently seen it with his girlfriend and it bothered me and that I mentioned it along with “Buffalo 66” in my last entry here on this page. Those two movies are trying to haunt me, I think. Sat. night J. Robb was taping “Saving Private Ryan” (So, the guy’s got nothing better to do than tape movies…I suppose there are worse crimes) which held little interest for me (except for the casting of Jeremy Davies [Spanking the Monkey], who looked remarkably like Henry Thomas) but my ears perked up when I heard the full name of Matt Damon’s character. It was James Francis Ryan. Take a guess at what James Robb’s middle name is. So, no ROB connection, but I couldn’t ignore the James Francis R bit. See? Obsessive. I need to focus my mind on more constructive pursuits a.s.a.p.
I recently started reading Lynda Barry’s, “Cruddy.” (Does anyone know the proper way to denote book titles on the web? I can’t find a straight answer. Traditionally people have used the underline deal, but that makes things look like links. I just don’t know.) The first thing that struck me is the main character’s name, Roberta Rohbeson. That’s an ROB and one near miss. I really need to get to the bottom of this ROB proliferation in my life. Last night I was speaking with one of the ROB’s that I’ve known, James ROBb, and “Buffalo 66” had just started on TV so I let him go. I really didn’t want to like that movie. I can’t remember if I’ve written here ever about that film. I don’t think so. I had written some things on it, but that was before I had my computer in NY and before I had ever thought to pawn this crap off on an unsuspecting public. I saw it in July ’98 with a 19 yr. old, my oldest (obviously not age-wise) zine-related pen-pal ever who was visiting from the west coast. He seemed bored. I was happy. Maybe even moved a little, though I’d hate to admit it. I went in with expectations of pretentiousness and general arty annoyance. It was more sad and sweet than ironic and self-conscious. Around this time, I had a fleeting fixation on a different ROB. During one of our few conversations ever, he mentioned seeing “Buffalo 66” and then something about “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” at a mall in New Jersey with his girlfriend. For some reason I always pictured him seeing “Buffalo 66” at the mall instead of the other movie and it really upset me. It’s hard to explain. I was so envious. I had only been here like two months and had nothing. Nothing in any aspect or area of my life. I still don’t have much, but it’s a hundred times better than it was in ’98. The mere thought of his having someone to share things with choked me up. And not just some dumb person to do things around town with, but someone with a car (I was so not adjusting well to the public transportation system), and someone who would see the fun in malls, and someone who would go to New Jersey just for the sake of going to New Jersey. A suburban dream date. He was living the high life and I wasn’t and it wasn’t fair. (Never mind the fact that he was a pretty unhappy guy. I mean anyone who would mess around with me behind their girlfriend’s back would have to have something wrong with him.) Then, April 3, 1999 I had what I refer to as my “Buffalo 66 Experience.” Really, I’ve only referred to it as that to my friend Todd and it wasn’t 100% accurate, but I’d already called it that before I realized I was off a bit and now it has stuck. I had this night that really messed me up, where out of the blue, James ROBb said I could stay at his apt. after this long night of parties and I didn’t know what to think since he’d always acted so hot/cold but I went over and I slept on the futon and he was on the bed and at some point, somehow, which will never make sense in my head, I woke and sat up and he was awake and he said the futon was weak in the middle and that I should sleep on the bed and now that’s really funny to me and such a transparent tactic, but I was groggy and tipsy and it seemed perfectly sensible. Nothing sordid ensued. I would be a different person today if it had. He put his arm around me and then when I fidgeted he jumped like a foot and rolled over like he hadn’t done anything and it was like I was dealing with a 12 yr. old, which wasn’t (and isn’t) a bad thing in my mind. We touched arms, necks, cheeks, and backs, yet there was absolutely no kissing and no straying below the waistband or even beyond each other’s sides and I was so weirded out that I could barely breathe and my heart was pounding so hard it made me sick. This night was never brought up again. I’m still not completely sure what it was all about. Well, duh, I do know. It was about someone who couldn’t admit they liked somebody and got a burst of boldness and then got scared when it started becoming a reality and the other person who’d always been up front getting scared by the other person’s uncharacteristic behavior and consequently nothing happening. So, I’ve referred to this event as my Buffalo 66 Experience, which is wrong since they did kiss and all, but who cares—I’m no Cristina Ricci anyway (and wouldn’t want to be. Some magazine was asking celebrities recently about what’s their guilty pleasure food-wise and the little brat said something along the lines of “I eat whatever I want” as if that’s so novel and brash therefore cute and breaking-all-the-rules. Oh, but the point of this rambling missive was that during my brief phone conversation with one of the ROB’s last night, he was pointing out how his car is the same one (a Toyota Corolla, I think) driven by Layla (C. Ricci) in “Buffalo 66.” Does it seem like I’m getting more and more obsessive about details? I’m afraid that I am. It’s like I can’t stop making comparisons and connections even if I wanted to. Me and this ROB also both used to drive 1983 Chevy Chevettes. Cars, names, movies…oh, it’s just all too much to think about right now.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. I think I might have just done something bad without even meaning to. Well, not devestatingly bad, but probably a little innappropriate and obsessive. I was a little worried that I'd become soft as of late. My life has become strange and I've been shying away from stalkerish pursuits. The transition from a sneak-around-behind-people's-backs, lovesick obsessor to a member of a "serious relationship" has not been 100% smooth. This stalkee liking you back concept is foreign and one that's not easily reconciled in my mind. It's only reasonable that I would slip back into my old ways every now and then. I was bored here at work and decided to do a dogpile search on "krista garcia" and "scaredy-cat stalker" (yeah, that seems sort of vain or something, but I do it from time to time to see if my webpage is coming up and it's usually not, which I can't understand since I've submitted my URLs just like I'm supposed to, but whatever) and pages came up here and there, some I was aware of and some new ones. Um, one of these pages was the Atomic Books website. Now, I've glimsped at it before and I know that they don't even carry s.c.s. anymore, as I haven't even done an issue since like early '98, but websites are never up to date. In the back of my head I remembered that James Robb's last girlfriend worked at Atomic Books and that as far as I knew, still did and I'm not normally the kind of person who gives a whole lot of thought to peoples' exs, especially exs from like four years ago, but curiosity got the better of me. I know this isn't the biggest deal in the world, but you really shouldn't be nosing around and trying to find out things about the person you're dating's (boyfriend?, I don't know what he is) old ex girlfriend. What I really wanted to see was a photo since the only descriptive thing I think I've ever heard is that she was "tiny," which doesn't tell me a heck of a lot. So, I started thinking...people who work in small/independent/alternative/whatever-gross-little-adjective-you-want-to-use book and record stores in in small-mid sized cities, like to think that their tastes and opinions matter to the general public. They fancy themselves as being part of some sort of local "scene" and would be likely to either A. have photos of themselves on their website, if one were to exist. B. have some sort of staff picks or recommendation list. I was right on both counts. It's really wrong, but I started getting sweaty-palmed and giddy poking around their website. I can't help myself! Snooping on people, even dead strangers, is fun...and yes, a touch exhilirating. This doesn't make me look good. I'll admit that. I can only imagine what Mr. Robb would think of this if he knew. But the thing is, that he doesn't know and maybe never will. It's odd, but he doesn't read my site. I was under the impression that he'd at least seen things up until like June, but when I made some comment recently about his photo being up on May 31, he had no idea and seemed sort of appalled. Lord only knows that I would be glued to my computer if I knew someone was writing about me (good or bad). I guess some people in the world feel weird invading other's privacy. Obviously, I'm not one of those people. Hmm... so I found a photo. Granted, it's from '97 or so, but it's evidence (evidence of what?! I don't know. I don't know why I have the compulsion to know bits and pieces about people who play no prominent role in my life. I'm a messed up blend of curiosity [which killed the cat, of course] and insecurity), nonetheless. I will not go so far as to put the photo here. That is wrong (and I don't particulary want to look at it every time I work on this page). However, it seems perfectly o.k. in my mind to link to some good ol' staff picks from April 1998. Where's the harm in that? I'm presenting it free of any personal interpretation, commentary or judgment. It's raw information. Take it as you will. Why do I feel like I'm going to burn in hell (or die one lonely old woman)?
Ooh, that mousy little girl on "Roswell" is getting into all sorts of trouble because of her journal. Do you get the sense that I watch too much TV? I really don't. I mean, I never just sit there and watch it. It's just on while I'm doing other things, I swear. I've been talking about doing school ever since I started my current job in June since it's free, but it wasn't til today that I actually started filling out applications, racking my brain for letter of recommendation (Oops-just put one M in there. I do have to give this PC credit for catching all my spelling errors without having to run a spell check, which I would never bother to do with my Mac. I never realized what a poor speller I was) writers, etc. I've just been pretty ho hum about doing this Masters of Library Science thing because it seems like everyone has been giving me a hard time about it. Like it's the most retarded, biggest mistake, loser cop-out I could possibly make in life. Well, sort of. I always blow everything out of proportion and think I'm being heavily criticized. Ah, but the point is that I got really excited today. What's wrong with liking school? Just because most people I know are career oriented therefore money fixated, doesn't mean that furthering one's education is a crime. At least I think. My only fear is having zero free time. I already feel like I can't do half the things I'd like to and that I'm constantly bogged down, but I'd probably feel that way whether I was working 10 hours a week or 60.
I was going to possibly talk about Halloween, but it wasn't all that remarkable. (It wasn't bad either, but I have nothing much to say on the matter.) I thought about relaying how disturbing it is to find out you're borderline obese (I was playing around on this website where you can type in your height and weight and it tells you if you're fat and if your Body Mass Index is between 25 -29.9 you're overweight and if it's 30+ you're obese and I'm straddling the line at 29.1). It's quite a shock, but I wasn't all that surprised since I remember looking at my medical chart like 4 or 5 years ago and it read, "moderately obese" and I'm pretty much the same size now as I was then, but Jesus Christ, obese?! That's nuts. Then I realized what today was. A very important date in history. My one year anniversary of meeting Henry Thomas. How time flies. It reminded me that I've never written the third installment, "The Aftermath" to my whole Henry Thomas saga. I never knew what to say. There wasn't a tidy ending. It was all fairly anti-climactic and I got sidetracked by real boys. Hmm...I feel the need to wrap it all up in a nutshell. Just for closure and piece of mind.
Making a Long Story Semi-Short: a.k.a. "Project Me" Hates Paragraphs
I ran into child-star extraordinnaire, Henry Thomas at a Belle and Sebastian show Nov. 1, 1998. It was all very unexpected and if I hadn't been so sick that night I surely would've shit myself. We swapped numbers and got together the following Sat., Nov. 7, and he was a fratboy and had bad friends and I was borderline badly behaved, but it was all in good fun and no one twisted his arm to stay out alone with me til 4 am. My camera didn't work so I freaked since all I wanted was proof and Christmas cards saying "Seasons Greetings From the Thomas Family" with our smiling faces gracing the front. I called Henry the following Tuesday right after watching "King of the Hill" appropriately enough. We chatted, he'd just got out of the shower and had Kenny (his underage stand-in) on his cell phone. I got to eavesdrop. They were meeting some friends at Sohpies. Sophies, my bar, the bar I recommended we meet up at. The bar he couldn't even find which forced him to leave a message on my machine asking for directions. And here he was acting like it was his usual hang out or something. Oh boy. Henry said he'd be in town for five more weeks (which contradicted what he'd told me previously, but whatever) and agreed to let me take more photos. What else could he do? We joked. I felt nervous. I decided to cool it and let things lie. There was no hurry. My friend Jessica would be moving here Dec. 2 and I figured I'd wait to arrange meet-up #2 til she could be my moral and emotional back-up. In the meantime, something peculiar happened. Friday the 13th I was unexpectedly bitten by the ol' obsession bug. Yeah, I'm talking about that infamous dork, James Robb, whom I developed a most unhealthy fixation on that wouldn't let up no matter how much I tried distracting myself. Thank heaven for little sissies, or else Henry would've been in a heap of trouble. The day of reckoning rolled around and I mustered up the strength to call Henry. I got his voicemail. I hate leaving messages, but did so anyway and asked him if he wanted to get together with some friends that evening. He did not return this call and as expected, I was steamed. The next day I phoned again. This time a girl with some odd accent (like a Canadian/Asian blend, I swear) answered the phone and said he wasn't there. I was miffed, but not deterred and left another message. This was also not returned. Normally, I'd be beside myself at this point, but you know what? I wasn't all that riled up. I had other lovesick, stalkerish pursuits on my mind by this time. I thought about sending him something demented for Christmas, as I do have the address to his L.A. apartment. I could've easily harassed him via the phone lines (I still have the bill with all the calls I made to cell phone with the San Antonio number, prefix 201. Bastard), but that didn't seem very rewarding either. I know something's wrong with me when plotting revenge holds no more interest than a "Party of Five" spinoff (Yes, I'm currently watching "Time of Your Life." It's uncanny. I used to always say that I envisioned Henry Thomas' [I never know if I'm supposed to do the s' or the s's] dream girl to be a Jennifer Love Hewitt, and now look at her staking her claim in that kooky East Village. If they'd only shoot a scene incorporating Sophies, I could die a happy woman). So, yes, that's pretty much the end of my saga. I spent from 1995-1998 going to town, ga ga over that grown-up Elliott. I had my day or two in the sun. I went a little mentally ill in 1999, but that had to do with other bad eggs who wouldn't return my affections. Hank is officially off the hook. You've heard it right here. When and if that sure-to-be-a-masterpiece, "Fever" (with er, superb, co-star, Terri Hatcher) is ever released, it's certain that I'll be watching it, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I was on his mind during a scene (or split second) or two.