it's for real this time

My blogging absence will not be imaginary like it was the last time I announced it. I'm off to Minnesota tomorrow (although in my head I'm already there), and by the time I get back on Sunday the library will be closed. I move on Monday, and although I'm planning on getting teh internets at my new place, that likely won't be for a while. So I bid you what I hope will be a brief adieu, but most likely will turn out to be the sort of lengthy pain-in-the-ass that I have come to expect from things in Texas. Chris knows what I'm talking about.

Take care of yourselves! :)

anxiety attack part 1

1. Plan to stay with trombone student in Minneapolis has fallen through. Currently do not have a place to stay in the Cities and all of the hotels are booked/expensive beyond belief. Well, I can believe how expensive they are, but my bank account feels the numbers must be an illusion of some sort.

2. Hindemith Sonate is KICKING MY ASS.

3. I don't have the chops for this. My face hurts because I apparently did something stupid today in trying to demonstrate bad vs good high range technique. Also I can't seem to get through anything, anything at all, not even bloody Tuba Mirum, without feeling like someone's been at my mouth with a hammer.

4. Really, really, really must enforce positive thinking but am stuck in cycle of "if I don't get into grad school this year I will be forever and ever and ever drifting in a life of meaningless abandon" plus "I hate Texas and I want the fuck out" plus "OMIGOD MY FACE HURTS!!!"

5. I understand that these are bad attitudes and I am doing my best to suppress them. Thank you for pointing out that I am doing a poor job in this regard.

when i sleep my dreams consume me...

If you had talked to me this morning at 8 am, you would have seen my "Lorn is not amused" face in regards to my having gotten up, driven through traffic, and taught one (1) lesson before being informed that schools are undergoing some wonderful, no doubt NCLB-inspired goodness entitled TAKS testing. Meaning- there was no way of knowing when they would be done and whether or not that completion would coincide with the periods in which they generally have their trombone/baritone/tuba lessons.

Grumpy Lorn goes home, grumpy Lorn goes back to bed. With her contacts in. Weird dreams ensue.

I am fond of saying that my vision is not dependent in any way on my left eye, meaning I have developed depth perception and so forth with just the right (please don't shout "inconceivable!" at me, as you are not me and you have no way of knowing). However, a major theme in my dreaming is flawed vision. Dreams in which I can't open my eyes. Dreams in which I am forced to only use one eye as if I did depend on them both. Dreams in which color is absent. Dreams in which I am blind.

These kinds of dreams usually occur for one of two reasons: either I should not be sleeping anymore but, in consummate lazy-ass style have yet again fallen into slumber; or if I leave my contacts in for a nap.

In my dream this morning I was running. I had been driving, but I could no longer see the road because my left eye was for some reason missing and my right eye was only reporting a grey blur to which the rain and fog did nothing but worsen. It was late at night. In my apartment, waiting, was a lover vaguely resembling Rocky Horror in more than just physical form- he was innocent and lusty and I was his queen. The memories of our liasions flickered through my dream, flashbacks of intense happiness. But if I couldn't get there- he would leave me forever, disillusioned. The police stopped me; because of the fog tenants of the apartment were not allowed to park in the actual lot. So I began running, through apartment hallways and stairwells and found myself several times in a courtyard with a stone fountain, lit by sunlight despite the lateness of the hour and the weather. I was burdened by my bass trombone, which I could not abandon. Children taunted me, their parents shook their heads in sadness as I fled past.

Suddenly I stumbled into a red room. Red carpet, red furniture, red paint- the works. There was a letter there for me and it read:
Lorn-
You won't believe it! I've learned to play trumpet. Started taking lessons and am doing great. I'd like to see you, but we are both so busy these days; plus, I've decided to move to Austin. I wonder about you.
Are you looking for a political lover?
Do you dream of arms for air dancing? Will you realize it is real by smell, taste?
You ask for so much but expect so little. Good for you.
I want you too.
But you're always running.
Signed, [the name of a girl I have briefly met in Dallas and hope to see again]

It was just as that reads, only I'm sure it ended differently. I can't recall anything more except the oddly interspersed italics.

Upon reading the letter I began to fantasize an ornate love scene, foggy and dense, ecstatic, which was interrupted by my alarm telling me that no more of the day was meant to be wasted.

I turned it off and slept until one. But I couldn't bring back the boy or the girl, there were no more dreams, and all that was left was hands, closed eyes, and desperation.

rest in peace, hunter.

ooh....freak out!

Minnesota audition in t-minus 5 days.

Thank you, Jason, for listening to me play last night and imparting much Jan wisdom unto me. It definitely helps to know that I sound like a candidate for graduate school and not a hack private teacher like I thought I did.

The best part is having someone listen and comment makes it easier to have someone else listen and comment, which makes it easier to go into the audition and rock. And I'm going to rock! Woooooot!! Minnesota here I come!

The title of my blog reminds of Freakazoid. Remember that show? That's a show I'd definitely like to have on DVD.

Others:
Daria
Animaniacs
Tiny Toon Adventures
The Tick

They just don't make cartoons like that anymore.

the moment you've all been waiting for

My Ani D pictures are up for your perusal. Some other random ones as well.

It's 80 degrees today. I'm going fucking swimming. Hell yeah.

the horns of a dilemma

Hmm, asked to play a gig, randomly, tonight. Promised Allison and Tim we'd go out and get drunk. Gig is in Deep Ellum, which is where we were going anyway. Go out still and then play gig afterward? Make $50 to pay for drinks and gas? Possibility of future paying gigs? Fighting urge to just stay home forever because of being abominably tired of driving 3,000 miles to get anywhere in this damn town? Want to go to bed and sleep until phlegmy crappiness has completely evacuated my body and my head is clear again? Not to mention three days permanent headache I can't shake?

Precisely 7 days until Minnesota audition. Can't wait, actually. I have a shitload of work to do for it but I think it'll go well. I hope it'll go well. Plus I get to be out of Texas for a weekend, and in a place that is both sane and friendly.

Poteet High played Profanation well, but without feeling. I understand...it's a hard piece to pull off technically without having to add musicality on top of it. But RB still did it better. Go us.

the good, the bad, and the miscellaneous

I am officially in Marisa's wedding! She called yesterday to entertain me with both her and Dennis's wedding party horror stories and ended by asked me to stand up for her, which I am glad to do. Actually, she asked me, tenatively, a while back (I like to call it "pinch-bridesmaid" detail), but it's kind of nice to be permanent. :)

A piece of my necklace (seen here, with Marisa, in honor of the above) has broken off and disappeared. The bottom bit, on the outside of the spiral. This kind of disturbs me as the symbol (koru) stands for "new beginnings" or "re-birth"- so I'm not sure what kind of sign it is when part of your rebirth is missing. Looking too deep? Yeah, okay.

Poteet High is playing Profanation from Bernstein's Symphony No 2 ("Jeremiah") tomorrow, and I am quite looking forward to it. On account of how cool it is, and not necessarily (but I will admit a certain malevolence in hoping) because I like watching young horn players struggle up in the stratosphere of high notes. Hehehe.

take that, vocal chords! and that!

I'm curious as to why it is, exactly, that I regularly lose my voice at the tail end of colds. Is it a genetic thing? Even if I get a different kind of cold every time, does it get into my immune system, look down at its symptons checklist, and go, "Oh, laryngitis for this one. Right-o!"?

Anyway, it makes my Wednesdays so much more fun! Since they were about as fun before as a barrel full of Ebola-infected monkeys (mm, Ebola snot- sorry, it's just that I've read The Hot Zone one or two too many times), now it's just double trouble.

It's nearly impossible to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" when Kirstie Alley's lodged in your throat. For some reason, I still attempted it. All I got is a bunch of 12-year olds giggling at me. On separate occasions.

I'm not just singing "SOTR" for your amusement, you know. I really want you to know what an octave sounds like. Really I do. So you don't suck quite so hard next time you try to play one. My ears would be that much less closer to exploding.

about friggin' time!

Pamie's Valentines Poems are finally up.

(this one's by Dan)
I go to the gym a lot and I'm really skinny now
I'm still too old for you, aren't I?
Because I've started lying about my age
And people find it charming
When I tell them that I'm twenty-five when I'm LA
And twenty-nine when I'm in New York
Because of the time difference
Ha?
Get it?
Probably not. I was always a lot smarter than you.
Please call me back
Seriously

(and this one's by Sara)
When you told me
you were bipolar
I didn't know that meant
it would be okay for you
to see two girls at the same time.
I should have paid more attention in that Intro Psych class.

do you remember?

I really need to take my car to the shop to get the coolant changed, but it's too damn beautiful outside to do anything but frolic. It makes me incredibly homesick for San Diego, where you can frolic and it's pretty and the air quality is good and there's an ocean. If I were there, I'd be halfway to my waterfall in Los Penasquitos by now.

To Valentine's Day, I say...eh, whatever. I've never really cared much for it anyway. But this morning I was thinking of four years ago, and smiling.

Four years ago, Emily, Bethany, Davis, Christine, Heidi and I gathered in Heidi's dorm room and hatched a plot- like Secret Pals, only for Valentine's dates. We drew each other's names out at random and were assigned to get that person a date. I had Emily.

I remember it was supposed to be funny, but I stressed out about it a little. I wanted to get Emily a good date, since that's kind of what she was looking for at the time anyway. I asked Ian, but he was busy. I asked Chris, and he looked at me like a deer in headlights- which could only mean someone else had already asked him to be a date. I procrastinated. So I asked Ryan, and he agreed (I think at that point he was still somewhat willing to be of use to me).

Davis and I had everyone all figured out long before the actual date, so I knew that she had me and I knew that Chris was my date. We couldn't all go together as one big group, so on our night it was me and Chris, Emily and Ryan, Heidi and Toby. Hehe! Toby! Tutto Pasta. The crazy CD they were playing, with the cheesy french music. Chris having to cut Ryan a check for his meal since they only took credit and cash.

The other crowd was...Davis and Grant, Bethany and Alex, and Christine and...I can't remember.

And just to prove how wonderfully incestuous we all were, not too long later Emily and Grant were dating, as were Davis and Alex, Ryan had split, again, Chris and Davis played at...something, that was, I'm told, incredibly frustrating, and Toby still had us all confused as to whether he was gay or just... incredibly weird and uber horny (Toby kissed me once on the way home from a party. I wasn't expecting it in the slightest, and then he went on to kiss everyone else we were with too).

A year later and I was taken in completely by the smell of stargazer lilies. I still am.

my talking turtle

When I was little, my mom used to read me my favorite story from a book of American folklore. I still have the book, somewhere in my parents house, and I look through it at the pictures and remember what it was like to be little, and fascinated by my first stories.

At any rate, my favorite story was about a man who talked too much. He told secrets, he gossiped, and in general just ruined everyone's lives with his ceaseless chatter. One day, on the road, he met a turtle. And the turtle told him (here my mom's voice would go higher and slightly nasal, with a twinge of southern accent, something that never failed to delight me) "Appleby, you talk too durn much!" In the end, Appleby learns not to be quiet- but to temper his speech and choose his words wisely.

A random thought occurred to me in bed this morning (they often do that). When I was younger, and shyer, people used to ask me why I said so little. The problem was, for me, not that I didn't have anything to say, or that I was afraid of saying, really, but figuring out when to say. How to get a word in edgewise, in other words. How many times when someone says "you are so quiet!" do they not realize that they themselves are talking too much?

I am guilty of this myself, these days.

In my days of social inaptitude a large group of people in conversation with each other was enough to silence me completely. If indeed I ever had anything to add, I'd always have to wait until there was a pause in the discussion large enough to maneuver a well-sized vehicle through. What generally happened thus was one of two things: either I'd completely lost track of the shifts in dialogue and thus taken the topic back one or two steps, or I'd interjected just at that point when everyone is digesting what's already been said, thus interrupting the process. Naturally awkwardness followed, and it became a vicious cycle. I contributed less and less.

By contrast, with my friends I could be tyrannical in my domination of a conversation. As if having to be quiet for some many others came out in floods at these times. I hated myself for that, too.

So I began to study those whose speech and opinions I admired. I listened carefully to the things people like Grant would say, people whose words everyone valued all the more for their rarity. I took notes on the way Abby could hold forth and command attention. I learned the art of introspective discussion from Davis and the mastery of flirt from Emily (although in that respect I fear I was, and still am, a poor student).

Lately I've been wondering if I'm actually learning anything from anyone, or if I'm just too absorbed in the sound of my own voice and the cadence of my stories to realize that I'm just...talking too durn much. Am I filling silence with unnecessary words? Silence is a terrible thing to waste. So I've begun to feeling like water from a tap, and the people listening are sponges. I feel drained. I'm giving but I'm not taking. Or people are taking but not giving. Or I just don't shut up long enough to replenish.

What I miss about my relationship with Jerry is the fact that we could have a genuine conversation. We'd feed off each other's thoughts and ideas, webbed together intricately, and come away smarter and clearer-headed for it. Now, my conversations feel like blocks. You say something, I say something, you say something, I say something. Are we listening to each other?

All this ties into my semi-self imposed blogging absence, although you can see how that's worked out to be...more of the same. The difference is my time is limited and therefore I can't just blog about anything I want. I try, normally, to be picky about what goes up here, but now I can be even more so. I've taken to writing everything down beforehand, and editing, which is a terribly new and frightening process for me. I don't edit. I just do.

So I'm resolving to be quieter, to listen more carefully, to keep secrets, to give honestly but not decadently, to choose my words, to temper my speech, to edit my stories, to make my silences more effective. I want to learn more, and so again I must be a student.

obligatory bummed out overdramatic foolish girl post

[You're reading this, I know, which is why I want to make the disclaimer that you are by no means expected to be stressed out or otherwise feel responsible for replying to or addressing this post in any form. I can't leave this unwritten; I have to be able to use this space to make things right in my head. Likely you will find it rather extreme and overly metaphorical. Just gotta get these things off my chest. Also, it's nice every now and then to make my friends worry about me, so they'll email or call and say, "what's up?" and I can say, "oh, silly me, I'm fine. But how are you??"]

I'd say I was back at square one, but I think I would prefer that. At square one you know where you are and the options you have ahead of you.

Instead I find that my particular square is located somewhere out in a vast desert of squares going in all directions, no end to be seen. I could go anywhere. What I'm actually going to do is sit down, hug my knees and bury my head in my arms until I feel like looking up again. And when I do? Maybe that desert will have turned into an ocean and my square is just floating out in the middle of it, going wherever it's supposed to go. The only direction I could possibly choose is down.

It's close quarters in my throat today. Sharing the meager space are a frog and a lump, and they are wedged so tightly together that it seems neither can do their particular job properly.

The frog is supposed to have me feeling wickedly, earnestly ill- because today's the only day I have to be sick and since it's going to happen it needs to happen NOW. All of my days henceforth are booked solid and I've got no time for feeling miserable. Unfortunately, I'm still hovering in that middle stage, in the limbo of "this is going to be a really wretched cold when it matures that prevents me from doing just about everything I need to do but for now it's just toying with me blithely, a fickle bitch of a sickness."

The lump wants me to cry. Hell, I want me to cry. Everything's all fucking pent up inside and I can't get rid of it by hoping. But my eyes stay dry, and I can't force it or trigger it. For that I suffer all the worse.

("People often mistake women's tears for defeat, for weakness. Hers were not tears of surrender, but tears for the injustice of the world." --Sandra Cisneros)

If both residents of my throat were working up to snuff, I'd still be in bed. I'd look at the beautiful day Dallas threw in my face and sniffle, "Bah. What's sunshine when you're unhappy? Just a smack in the face, that's all."

But I can't cry and I can't stay in bed, so I walked to the library. I talked to the stream. I tried to find the magic I was feeling up to yesterday and came up short. This place is killing me, and just for a little while I was distracted enough to think it wasn't.

I have something backward in my head. When I am upset with my situation, when life's kicking me hard in the ass and I hate what's been and what's being, I can't get out of it. I agonize and agonize and moan for some imagined concept of better days, but in terms of bettering myself, I'm nearly useless. When something comes along to make me feel peaceful again, to settle my soul, I go forward. I make goals. I advance them. I plan and plot and lay roads.

Angst slays me. I can't work with it, I can't work around it, and it takes me ages to properly get past it. Suddenly Texas is Texas again, and I still hate it and the cruel joke life's played on me the past year and a half (perhaps I played it on myself, who knows) is twice as harsh a lesson in "get your shit together."

But you don't get do-overs, and you can never go back to square one. Just keep fixing the stuff you fucked up and try hard not to screw things over any more. Come on over to the hole I've dug myself someday; it's getting cozy in here and I'd love some company.

("A person of independence, who does not need nor want us, inspires our admiration, and admiration is a love potion. A person who needs us too much, who is weak with neediness, inspires pity. And pity, the other side of admiration, is the antidote to love." --Sandra, again)

[Find yourself someone with a smile that makes your nerves tingle and a laugh that makes you feel goofy and awesome. Find yourself someone whose touch makes your legs wobbly and your heart ache. Find yourself someone whose absence makes you furious with sadness. Maybe you'll find what you're looking for, but all I've learned is that it's nothing next to finding someone who makes you content.

And you give me that, too.]

good story ryan

Spring Break! Wooo!

Hehehehe.

what i'll be doing when i'm not blogging

Allow me to take one last opportunity to procrastinate by way of my preferred method, this silly little blogging thing, by letting you know how the remainder of my February will be spent. Just so you didn't think I was avoiding you for no reason. Have I ever mentioned that February is my least favorite month (it's always given me some sort of insanely obnoxious trouble), and I can consider the rest of the a smashing success if I can just get through these 28 days of torture (Don't get me started on Leap Years)? To bastardize a Douglas Adams line- "this must be February. I could never get the hang of Februarys."

1. FAFSA Funtime! I'm here at the library again to get my financial aid shit somewhat sorted out. I really have no idea what I'm supposed to do or what's expected of me, so here's hoping I can figure it out before the building closes and they kick me out.

2. Taxes. I'm looking at a nice refund from my lifeguarding gigs, and it makes me dream sweetly of new computers.

3. Practicing. Starting with selecting "3-4 standard orchestral excerpts," I will be doing this pretty much nonstop until March 6th. I was also loaned a baritone by one of my schools, but I can't as of yet muck around in that department as it's a small bore, and all my mouthpieces are large. Debating whether or not I should just suck it up and rent a euphonium from Brook-Mays for a month or two, seeing as the smell of a middle school baritone is about as pleasant as the Bush twins on an alcohol binge.
I'm still waiting to get my tenor back from the shop, though, after the whole kamikaze spit valve incident, so I've been playing a shitload of bass trombone for the past four days. Jason, how do you do this everyday? I'm in a permanent state of dizzy. Wooo. But I sound much better than I usually do on bass, and the whole annoying middle register issue I usually have is nearly solved.

4. Learning how to teach students jazz improvisation. This requires that I myself learn jazz improvisation- that is, better than I do now. My current method of improv follows this train of thought: a) stay in key signature, b) sample 3-4 nice sounding notes, and c) rinse and repeat. I need to get my act in gear on this as one of my students has finally revealed to me a love of music that is rooted in jazz, not wind ensemble/marching band stuff, and I'm so excited that he's finally come around and been upbeat about something that I feel I owe him some above average teaching in this regard.

5. Compiling a comprehensive stylistic jazz CD for above student.

6. Various and sundry car repairs/check-ups.

7. Haircut. Sweet Jesus do I need to do that immediately.

8. Finding a place to stay in the Cities February 25-27, preferably free.

9. Packing. Other assorted technicalities associated with moving- change of address, renting a truck, figuring out how in the world I'm going to put a sofa, a bed, and a box spring onto a truck without assistance (hint, hint) and then take it off again without assistance and lug it up a flight of stairs without assistance (hint, hint!). Also what to do with Chris's bed, which no one will buy and no one will take as a donation.

10. Navigating the intense realm of emotional anxiety I have been living recently in regards to how I let people set me up and then disappoint me bitterly. Notice I said "I let people" in passive voice, thereby resolving said persons of blame; because I can't afford to alienate anyone but I'm starting to think that maybe I should stop getting so all-fired worked up about things that I know will fall through in the end.

I'm already tired, and I haven't even made it through the train wreck that is Valentine's Day.

oh the joys of public internet access

Somewhat self-imposed absence: I need a bit of a break. Working at the library makes me a) uncreative, b) annoyed and c) stressed out. Something about all the people around with unsubtle typing habits and loud breathing just makes it near impossible for me to put any content up here that I feel is worthy. Not that everything I do has to be worthy, or indeed has ever been, but you know what I mean.

I'll still be checking my email accounts, so drop me a line, and of course I'll be checking up on blogs, etc. I think this might actually turn out to be healthy for me. Call it a sabbatical if you will.

I shan't be gone long. Mostly likely I'll drop in a post here and there. I have no idea when I'll be able to get my Ani pictures up as the library won't let me open the CD I made. So you'll just have to be patient.

At any rate I'll be saving money from now until I have enough to get myself that MacMini. :)

gender bias is my favorite kind of funny

It's true! This guy said it, so you orta believe it! Women aren't as funny as men!.

Why?

Because there are less of them in the business, apparently.

Hrm.

It's almost too easy to pick this apart, so I'll leave it to you to tell me your favorite bits. I'm just amused that he spends so much time trying to cover his ass ("women aren't as funny, except for all these people, and these others that I work for, and that one show I liked.") that he never actually gets around to proving any sort of point. Is there a point?

I think I've decided that I don't care. And Warren Bell, you're not funny in the slightest. I didn't laugh aloud once, or even charity chuckle one thing in your entire opinion piece.

And yes, I do know all the dialouge to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Go read yourself some Pamela Ribon, asshole.

[With regards and thanks to Rox for the link.]

you call it

I need a haircut.

The question is- do I get the same haircut I always get, which is actually harder to come by in Texas than I thought (oh boy, do I ever pine away for Missy), or do I continue with what I have been sort of half-assedly doing for the past two months, which is growing it out?

As usual I am completely useless with these kinds of decisions. My pros and cons lists for both options are too evenly weighted. So I humbly ask for your advice, dear reader.

For photographic evidence, please visit the photoblog.

celebration is in order

Today I went over 10,000 hits on my blog. That's since last year around this time-ish, I believe.

Hurray for me!

um, sad.

Million Dollar Baby is a good movie, but damn if it don't put the weight of the world straight down on your shoulders. I was all set for one of those triumphant overcoming odds style movies, you know the drill.

And then I remember that just about every movie Hillary Swank is in ends with her getting the shit kicked out of her.

Reasons to see it, if you can get past the sadness and the moral obligation bits (and also the horrifying sounds of things in the human body snapping that shouldn't be snapping):
-Excellent banter between Eastwood and Freeman
-Hillary Swank is awesome, and plucky, and smart-assed
-"Father, do you have time for the Immaculate Conception?"
-A catholic priest cussing
-The crazy kid from Texas

And I highly recommend, as recovery therapy, spending the rest of the evening making out with someone of whom you are quite fond. It helps tremendously.

folk music makes me hungry

1. Swandive
2. Half-Assed
3. Manhole
4. Studying Stones
5. 78% Water
6. Firedoor (squee!)
7. Lagtime
8. School Night (double squee!)
9. Knuckle Down
10. In the Margins
11. My IQ (as a poem)
12. Gravel
13. Untouchable Face
14. Paradigm
15. Millenium Theatre
16. Buildings and Bridges
17. Shameless
Encore: Both Hands

Pictures to follow.

pop, zing!

I was going to use my extra cash this month to buy myself some new pants. See, I try to look nice for my kids- I suppose it doesn't matter if I wear jeans or not, but I dress up nonetheless. Nothing too fancy- my rule is, see what the band directors are wearing, and feed off of that. Anyway, my nice pants collection is a sad state of affairs- I'm down to two, one of which is starting a penny-sized hole in the crotchal region and both of which are about two sizes too big for me. I suppose that's better than too small. But sometimes I feel like I'm wearing clown pants, and other times a tent. It's not the most pleasant way to go about your day, dressed in tentwear. Not the latest fashion. Kind of...passe, shall we say?

Well, I was going to buy some new pants. Until my water key went bang zoom and flew right off the end of my trombone and nearly took out my kid's eye. Weeee!

Instrument repair time, fantastic.

I'll probably still get some new pants, though. Sautering on a spit valve really isn't all that costly. New pants and a freshly sautered spit valve? Be still my heart!

Oh, and AHHHHHH-NEEEE!!!! It is my hope I will be able to get some pictures up tomorrow. :)

strangled weeping noise

I just realized it's the state of the union tonight. Thankfully I am going to $1 beer night again with Tim and Allison. If it's on at the bar, I will be forced to get drunker than intended and belligerently heckle.

30 bucks and flattery will get you everywhere

Who wants to go see Margaret Cho with me?

hump day

I get this feeling regularly on Wednesdays: I'm a crappy teacher, and my students are getting absolutely nothing from my instruction. In fact, they seem to despise me.

But I never feel this way on Tuesday, or Thursday. In fact I'm always quite pleased with myself on these days. My kids are awesome and they play well.

So it occured to me that perhaps it's my Wednesday kids that are the problem. Let's take stock, shall we?

Cool Walter is no problem. His name's Walter, for crying out loud! That's defintely cool in an uncool name kind of way. But at the high school I have The Cynical One, who never practices and swings between extreme overconfidence and total rhythmic laziness. No, I will not sing that rhythm for you. Figure it out. Then there's the Space Cadet, whose eyes bug out at me everytime I ask him to try something, and once took his horn out of the case and said "Is this my trombone? It looks...different." My beginners at my other middle school are great- except sometimes I think the Gelfling believes I have no idea what I'm doing. He shoots me odd looks sometimes. My three remaining students I've only just started teaching- love the tuba player. He practices his ass off and it shows. Giggles is a euph player who insists that I give up on him sooner rather than later, in order to save myself the mental agony. And Shaggy wants me to push him hard but then pisses and moans when I do.

And after that I get stuck in after-school parking lot traffic for at least 15 minutes.

Yeah, it's definitely Wednesday's fault.

tidbits

I am officially without internet access until some undetermined time in the future- the roommate decided to just cut off our cable and internet starting with February rather than waiting until, you know, we'd actually left the damn place. So, if you're expecting to see me on AIM, sorry. I miss you too.

And no more Pamie, Green Fairy, or Heather Corinna for me until that unknown date, either, as all of their sites are banned at the library.

Because I spent most of Sunday and Monday talking to and driving myself mad (and anticipating something that didn't happen- stock), I had the craziest and most wonderful cinematic Johnny Depp dream last night. Used to be I'd have all these dreams starring Mel Gibson, which in retrospect makes me want to tear out whatever part of my subconscious was responsible for that casting error and stomp it into tiny bits, so if my new noctural leading man of choice is Johnny I have no complaints. Well just one. A suggestion really. Can we get some nude scenes?

Anway, I'm writing down what I can remember of the dream and fleshing it out into a story- it was that cool.

A rush of new students today puts me over 30. 32, to be exact.

I am going to kill everyone in this library for being bloody annoying. First that lady with the perky voice won't get off the damn phone, and then the guy with tremendous amounts of snot in his nose, and now someone's let his watch alarm just beep beep beep him into the next millenium. I hate people. But I need them. Arrrgh.

Ooh, that was awesome- the perky voiced lady just told another cell phone user to keep it down.

Ani's in two days. Woooot!

My roommate came home last night, while I was bitching about stuff with Megan, made a big racket with the dog and then five minutes later stood in the living room and shouted, "Lorn! I'm home!" Uh, yeah. No shit. And this is pretty funny: "Lorn! You know that that Ani Difranco chick you like is in Dallas this week!?" "Uh, yeah, Mike, I've had tickets for two and a half months." "Oh! Cuz I almost got you a ticket!" "Oh really? You don' t need to do that." "Yeah, well someone's selling a ticket on Craigslist for $30!" "Yeah, Mike, that's me. I'm selling that ticket." "Oh! Well I just wanted to make sure you knew."

This is especially amusing to me, as I told him last week, when Katie was still coming, that I not only had a guest but that we were going to see Ani. See, roommate's the kind of guy who doesn't process any information that doesn't have to do with himself. So I gave up ages ago trying to share any personal information with him, as his eyes would glaze over and he'd nod blankly. However, I know a shitload more about him than I even care to consider. So whatever information I give him filters through very slowly and comes out at odd and inappropriate times and makes him look like the biggest damn fool in the world. Which he is. So I guess everyone's happy.

I'm about to run out of internet time. Le fucking sigh.