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Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.

	2004.11.25  10.11 Day One of the actual convention. Friday, November 12th I woke up before Lucy or Jouni (I thought) and kind of tried to tiptoe to the bathroom for a shower and change and some quick phone calls and everything, and as I was tiptoeing out again Jouni said, "Good morning," without moving. I asked him if I'd woken him up, and he said he'd been up for three hours or something already. Jet lag is weird. So I bounced over to my bed and jumped up and down a bit and told Lucy it was morning! It was morning! And she denied it vehemently and hid under the blankets. I asked her if she wanted some coffee, she said yes (because she's a bright girl who knows what's what), and that's when I discovered, much to my bafflement, that the hotel gives you these prepackaged coffee pod things instead of filters for real coffee. I surmounted this hurdle by planning to buy filters later (never happened) and just to suck up the probable repulsive brown water in the meantime. I gave Lucy a cup first, and finished getting ready, and then we took our coffees down to the bar for a good morning cigarette while Jouni got ready in some degree of privacy (I tried to be very careful about this all weekend because I didn't want his wife to fly over here and beat me up). It wasn't too long before we had both discovered that the "coffee" wasn't anything remotely like coffee. I drank it anyway. The cigarette wasn't making it taste any better. We smoked more in a valiant effort to make the coffee taste better. It didn't work any better the second or third time. Jouni and I went over to Hell's kitchen for breakfast. Everyone was there. We were late, of course, so we had to sit at the end of the table, but that's where I finally met Jeff and Matt/David and saw all the lovely WE'ers again, and Jouni and I ordered porridge, and both agreed that it was wonderful porridge. I discovered that I wasn't merely hanging out with these people (you people) because we'd run into them (you) at the right time, but that I actively wanted to be hanging around all of them (you) all the time. The whole dynamic just clicked! and made me really very happy. And a little sad that this was just a weekend, and that I couldn't very likely take them (you) home with me after. I went back up to the room, because I noted that I'd have to start setting up for the opening registration, which I'd decided would be around 2:30. I didn't bother to brush my hair (but that's usual), but got things I'd need from my room, made sure Jouni knew where he was supposed to go and wished him good luck and told him "everything will be ok," and then headed down. In the lobby, people asked if I would need help getting the things, and I said, sure, I could use two or three people, so I think four or five came. I was all the time astounded at how helpful everyone was and wanted to be. So we brought all the things down and set them on the table and I started to put things here and shift things there, and suddenly this flood of people pooled into the foyer. I was frightened and confused ($1) by this development. I had thought for sure that Sandman fans, being highly intelligent and rational people, would still be asleep. But no. So friends formed this human dam in front of the table to keep people back, and Circus offered to be my bouncer (and was a fucking brilliant bouncer, too. I thought I was nauseous, but I was really feeling safe). Cassie, god bless her, she's the freaking best, popped up and made things logical. And we started. It went very well. No major hold ups or problems, everyone was very pleasant and excited, and most thanked me for helping them pre-con, which was a little weird, knowing that these people knew who I was. A lot of them asked how I pronounce my name, which always gives me flashbacks, and everything was very cool. We sold several at-the-doors, which made concom who happened by happy, and at one point I looked up to see Cait Kiernan waiting patiently in line. I told her she didn't have to wait there, but could go up to the penthouse to get her badge, and Bill escorted her there (you had to use a certain elevator and code pad thing). Spooky was with her, of course, so we chatted briefly about random stuff and the eBay auctions they do while I made her badge, and I liked her very much. The tide subsided, and then volunteers came to me, and there was nothing really for them to do, so we just sat there. I don't remember who the first woman was, but she was pleasant and sweet. I can picture her face, but fuck if I can remember her name. Then Ray and Jen came, and I felt as if they were there the rest of the convention. Honestly, Ray was the best volunteer I can imagine. Everywhere I went or was supposed to be, he was there waiting to help. It was astonishing. People started bringing me things -- coffee, mostly. I don't remember who did, always, but every time I looked up, someone was there with something for me. I was constantly surprised and delighted by everyone's thoughtfulness. I was especially gratified to note that everyone was obviously supra-intelligent, because I kept getting coffee. And I'm always ok, if I have coffee. Cassie and Bill came back at random points and let me go have cigarettes, which I did, and then Cassie stayed with me to hang out while Bill went to set up everything everything everything. I got a call from Tara and Mary. Tara and Mary Digression On my way to Minneapolis, Megs had called to tell me that there was a "huge" package from the CBLDF waiting for me at work, and that she'd have brought it home, but she had too much to carry. I knew Kay (the office manager, iirc) had told me a month or so back that she'd wanted to send me temporary badges and a members list and the stats on how many CBLDF memberships FG had generated, so I was thinking it was just a heavy box, about the size of a ream of paper. I told Megan just to leave it at work, and that it was too bad, but that I was past the midway point and was not about to turn around now to come get it. Early Friday morning, while hiding in the bathroom trying to be quiet, I phoned Tara and asked if she and Mary could drop by my cafe and pick up the package and bring it, as they were leaving Chicago later in the morning. Tara said yes, that she'd ask Mary (who was driving) but yes, and I forgot about it. Back to the Phone Call I'd missed Tara's first two or three calls in the furor and subsequent wake of initial registration. As soon as it seemed I'd have an opening for a while, I rang her cell. Tara: Maure? You know this package you had us get? It's huge. Me: Megan said it was heavy. Tara: No, I mean huge. Like, six feet by two feet. Me: Whaaaa...? Tara: Yeah. Me: What *is* it? Tara: We didn't open it! It's taking up the whole back seat! (I relate this info to whomever was standing around me) Tara: OK, maybe I was exaggerating, it's more like four feet by two feet. Me: What the hell did they send me? Tara: I don't have any idea. We're about an hour or so away. I'll call you when we get in. Which she did, and as they were unloading their luggage, I hauled the big ass UHaul box with me into the foyer. Bill was there, and he was like, "What is it?" and so we opened it. I wish I could say that I was relieved when we opened the box and saw that it contained two breathtaking framed art pieces that had gone missing from the CBLDF. I wish I could pretend to satisfaction and delight that FG had actually received these works for the auction (they never actually came up, though -- in fact, I'm not sure what happened to them. If Bill has them in his house, I am driving there tomorrow. *stern (hopeful) look at Bill*). What I actually felt was more like instant regret and longing. One of the works, a Zulli (?) piece of Delirium, belongs in my living room. I don't say it should be mine, I say it is mine. It's mine. Mine. And I had unwittingly brought it to be delivered to the whim of the auctioneer and of any random bidder who saw in it what I did. I looked at Bill with an undisguised hopeful question. I think he understood completely, but being better than I am, instead of helping me put the art into the back of my car, he took the pieces up to his room for safe-keeping and later delivery to Charles Brownstein. *sigh* After settling things into their room, Mary and Tara came by to get their badges and books and things, and we had a brief coronation ceremony when Tara presented me with a glorious glorious tiara. It sparkled and shined, and I loved it and my ache over the Del art diminished a bit. She made me promise to wear it all weekend, which I mostly did, except when its poking combs started to give me headaches. People kept asking me if they could try it on, and I obliged, being the benevolent monarch that I am. *cough* It started to get close to the time for Neil's long reading session, and despite the doors being closed, and people inside setting everything up, approximately twenty people snuck in while I was daydreaming about stealing the art from Bill's room. Cassie, who notices everything, noticed, and went to check on what they were doing. She came back and told me that people were sneaking in, and what should we do? and I felt the weight of my newly acquired crown boring holes into my scalp, and I decided to use my powers for awesome. I marched into the room, told everyone with a majestic flourish of my thumb toward the door that they had to leave right now, and -- here's the cool part -- no one questioned it! They all stood up and left cheerfully grumbling! I was drunk with power. I charged them with guarding the door against future interlopers, and they accepted the charge, and did a damn fine job of telling everyone else to wait in line. The concom inside were having some trouble with cords, and Neil arrived (late, he would have been, but for the trouble) and went inside, and so I popped in to get a proper hug from him while I had the chance. I'd only gotten hugs-on-the-fly on Wednesday, which I cited to him as "yesterday." I got what Davey calls "a big black leather bear hug," and then he reminded me that I was chronologically challenged, and then I noticed that Martha Soukup was standing there. I have long wanted to meet Martha, being a fan of her writing and her stage plays and of her conversation in general (I spent a few years on the Well, and discovered that more than half the time, I was just hanging out there waiting for Martha and Mike Ford to talk). I introduced myself very quickly with some embarrassment, shook her hand, and I ran back to man my post. Someone covered for me during the reading (who? who did? I don't remember!), and I made it through all but the last two paragraphs of Sunbird before I had to flee before I burst into a raucous fit of coughing. I coughed in the foyer, and then turned to go back inside, but heard applause. I was annoyed at not knowing the end. I watched the MirrorMask presentation, and was faintly disturbed that Neil and Dave had thought "Close to You" was a creepy song and deserved to be made even more creepy. I like that freaking song. It's sweet. MirrorMask is going to be a fucking great film. It disoriented me, in that it really is a Dave McKean painting that moves. Spooky and gorgeous. And I think, after that, we closed the reg table and took everything upstairs. Here's where things get blurry for me. I think I spent some good amount of time in the concom suite figuring out where to put things and what I ought to do with the bank I had and what my schedule ought to be like on Saturday, and just generally working things out and listening to what was going on elsewhere. Anyway, I realized that I probably missed all the WE'ers who were trudging through the night to find some unnamed hotel somewhere where they were having a party. I had industrial sized bottles of alcohol in my room I meant for them to have, and I remembered that earlier, Circus and Lucy (was it?) and I had stashed mixers in the penthouse kitchen fridge, and that they probably couldn't get up there now. I popped into the lobby, saw no one, and popped back up to bring something somewhere (every time I ran into someone, I had to take something somewhere), and called Circus on a whim. She was on her way back, and offered to help carry all the alcohol and mixers and such and lead me to the suite party far far away. And so she did. The Party. I entered the room, and it was already crowded. I was directed first to a desk on which teeshirts lay spread out, and I signed them as I was told to do. I made myself a screwdriver and then wandered aimlessly. I didn't see Walker, asked where he was, was told he was doing auctiony things, so I called him to figure out when he was coming. He said shortly. I played with Llama and Xine and Amy, hid in the corner (but not the super-hidey corner, because a sneakier person had stolen that area), and watched everyone. I had cigarette breaks with Amy, and Xine and I tangoed outside and then twirled and twirled around dancing. Walker called and said he was bringing Maureen and Charles and Charlie, and I said "Whaaaaa...?" I asked Charles what the deal was with the paintings being sent to me (hoping that he would say something to the effect of, "Oh, didn't we tell you? They're for you! Keep them! We knew you would love the Del," but that didn't happen at all). He apologized very formally for the mistake and begged my pardon for the inconvenience (I had no inconvenience, but for the inconvenience of realizing I want something very badly and not being able to have it which if you ask me is one of the worst inconveniences one can suffer). I told him I was just glad they got here (which was a boldfaced lie), I got Maureen hugs, and I watched Charlie be .. well ... Charlie. He signed Llama's arm, and then eventually they went away, and it was just all of us. I really loved us. I even talked to the audioblog. Amy and I talked about how weird it was, this physical gathering, how similiar to board activity it was. I realized I was acting just as I did on the board, watching as much as possible, giggling and enjoying the hell out of myself, but only interjecting brief things here and there, while mostly keeping to quiet private conversations (like IMs!). Everyone was just as they are, only moreso. Let's see. People started going home. Xine and I decided that we were capable, intelligent women who didn't need a freaking cab (actually, I think Xine wanted a cab back, but I told her she was a capable, intelligent woman who didn't need a cab), and we started back. *Someone* got all protective and hovered between Xine and Han and Circus (right?) and me, who were leading the way home (I think), and Mikka and Amy and Walker, who were bringing up the rear. I feel that someone else was there. Who? Who else was there? It's very blurry. Was Circus even there? Was I imagining her? I feel like Circus is always there. Anyway! Somehow I ended up back in my room, being very careful not to wake the sleeping artist. I don't even know whether or not I succeeded.

	2004.11.25  10.08 Fiddler's Green, cont. Thursday, November 11th Lucy and I started chatting and smoking the minute she got into the car, and did. not. stop. until after we'd reached Minneapolis. It was really lovely -- we found a lot of parallels between her life and mine (although I thought hers was a lot more interesting, personally), and decided we were the same archetype, and we were having such a great time that I missed a call from Neil. I listened to his message, which just said that he was on the road and wanted to check in. I called him back, which he missed, and left him a message in which I made sounds and screams as if I were being murdered. I hung up, and a half hour or so later, he called to apologize profusely for my untimely death by the psychotic murderer he had me drive up. We stopped for coffee at the Belvedere Oasis, where we wandered around a bit to let Bill and Cassie catch up to us, and then we all started out together in a sort of truncated caravan. And we drove. And talked. And I kept driving. And driving. Lucy was unimpressed with my chain-smoking, as it wasn't, actually. I tried to explain that I don't actually chain-smoke if I have something else to do (i.e. talk to a lively and engaging passenger), but she still seemed disappointed in me. We reached the hotel, and we parked, and I checked in. Lucy was on a tight budget, and had planned on spending the night in an all-night diner instead of paying for a hotel room, which I thought was silly if she didn't mind sleeping on Jouni's and my floor. Which she didn't mind at all, in the end. We dropped off our bags, and I called Davey to let her know I was in. She told me to come on up, so Lucy and I hauled the things I needed to bring up to the penthouse, our center of operations. The program was the last thing planned, and we had a lot of ups and downs with it. I'd only done a small part of that, mostly making phone calls and arranging for DVDs to be where we wanted them to be, and trying to track down people at FOX Movies, etc., all of which had been done a couple weeks before, and since then I hadn't seen anything of what we were planning to offer as programming. So my first question to Davey after the hellos was, "Do we have a program?" She grinned and chirped, "Kind of!" I went to the bathroom to throw up. Not really. But it did make me seriously anxious. Did we eat at that Mexican place Thursday night? I'm having trouble remembering. I think so. I met everybody there or just before. There were hugs, and stories, and laughings and mexican food and margaritas the size of a wash basin. Was Jouni there yet? I may be twisting these two events a bit. Lucy and I were headed to the airport to pick Jouni up from his flight from Finland in just a bit, so once we'd gotten back to the hotel, I checked in with everyone in the penthouse (running badges perfectly well without me), printed off a master sheet of our attending members, met committee I'd not met in person yet, and headed back down for Lucy and the airport. I'd just like to make a note here about Minneapolis. Whoever laid out the road plans was obviously seriously deranged. Nothing makes sense there, and things go in circles. I had very specific directions from the hotel to the airport and back, which were pants. They got us circling around what appeared to be a Chernobyl-like skeleton of what once was an airport of some kind. The most frustrating thing was that we could see the airport, just there, but no roads went that way. We turned around and started back the way we came, and ended up in some creepy subdivision. We hit a dead end, and I started to turn around. Once my headlights were trained on the house in front of us, eight or nine slavering viscious-looking dogs were barking and howling and whining and grinding their teeth at us. We yelled our dismay and horror ("get out of here! Get out of here!" "Turn! Turn! We have to turn now!"). We stopped for directions at an Ace Hardware. We followed the directions, and got lost. We ended up at a Fort Something, which really was like one exit away from where we wanted to go. We asked a man walking along the fence at Fort Whatever, and he gave us new directions. Lucy chided him for the mess that is his city, and he humbly apologized. We twisted and turned, and then had to improvise a little, and then, finally, we made it to the airport. The airport, which does not have directions for Arrivals and Departures, but for some other terms that confused my weary brain. We parked, very carefully noted our parking spot, and went on the hunt for Jouni. We walked around a bit, discussing what he looks like (I really wasn't sure, actually), and then digressing into a conversation about The Look that all Neilish fans have. We saw a very weary looking Finn dragging a suitcase behind him, and we ran up and introduced ourselves, holding out a sign with his name sharpied onto it. And then we assured him we wouldn't get lost on the way back. But we lied. It wasn't nearly as bad as before, though, and we did make it back to the hotel in a much shorter time. Then... erm... dinner at the mexican place I've already talked about maybe.. Jouni was very nervous about everything, because it was his first time to the States and it was to launch the book he'd just done, and he didn't know what he was supposed to be doing or when or where, and so I tried to find out as much info for him as possible, which actually, wasn't much that night. Still, I made sure he knew where to go for the launch party. I was bitterly disappointed that I would not be able to go to it or the first panel, which were the two things I most wanted to see. then... erm... oh! More con preparation upstairs. Until I decided that I had to go to bed. Did I do anything else? I think maybe I popped by the lobby. I talked to Circus, who was on the computer editing B.'s paper, and I think I snuck in after Jouni was asleep. Lucy was already on the floor, I think, and I gave her my extra pillow and said goodnight. And then maybe I slept..

	2004.11.25  10.04 Fiddler's Green Recap. Yes, it is very slow in coming, but give me a break, I had to recover. Wednesday, November 10th. I'm starting a day early, because it's the day everything started really. Well, I mean, things started back in March or something, but Wednesday was crazy crunch time. Neil had called a few days before to tell me he expected to be in around 3:30ish, and suggested that I grab sushi from the excellent place near me and bring it to the hotel, which is what I was planning on doing once he called. Megs had school, so the plan was to grab the sushi, grab Megs on the way, and then get to wherever he was staying so that he'd have time to eat before his interview and his reading that night. He called around 3ish, told me someone had arranged for him to have dinner with Gene and Rosemary, and would I like to come and say hi and play with Maureen (McCarty, the artist who did the Endless Docs)? I said absolutely, went to find Megan, who wasn't following the plan as per yoosh, and then we set off to find the hotel. We did, eventually, caught him on his way out, got hugs, got a vague description of Maureen (whom I had never met), and then they were off and we were searching for Maureen. We found her, and went driving, ending up at a sweet shop nearby Lincoln Park, which is where he was reading. I had pumpkin ice cream. Maureen had a little scoop of pumpkin ice cream and a nut cookie of some sort. Megan had a tarte and a cookie, and Chrissy had some other things drenched in raspberry and custard. And we told stories, and I am sure I was making no sense, being giddy with lack of sleep and nervous energy. We got to the venue, met up with the Unusual Suspects (Tara, Mary, and DebbieandChris), and went in for the interview, which was lovely. Gene Wolfe continues to be an absolute delight. I'd had the pleasure of watching Neil interview Gene a couple of years ago, and even when they tread familiar ground this time, it was just engaging and wonderful. Rushed out after the interview for a cigarette, where I met Lucy. The Lucy Digression Quite some time ago, when I was organizing the Guest of Honor dinners and starting up research on the badge production stuff, I got an email from Neil to both me and a woman named Lucy, introducing us and informing me that she needed a ride from Chicago to Minneapolis and could I help her? Thank you. I was deeply perturbed by this, having ninety other things on my plate for immediate consumption and not needing also to arrange car pools for everyone in the area. I sent him a short note: "you're very helpful. stop it." and replied to Lucy that I didn't at the time know anyone who was driving but that I would ask around, noting that I would have to be going to MN earlier than everyone else, and that I would be staying later than everyone else, and that I expected to have a car full of things I had to bring. She mentioned that any help would be appreciated, and remarked that she wouldn't mind going up a day early. I told her that driving long distances often prompts me to chain-smoke, and she said "oh thank god, I smoke too!" Once I established that I would not have to bring coolers or coffee machines etc. up with me, I told her she could ride with me. We exchanged emails whenever I found the time to write, and arranged to meet at Neil's reading, so I could get directions to where she was staying so that I could pick her up and we could be on our way. A few days before he was due in Chicago, N called to talk about things and let me know what he was going to be doing and stuff and things, and as our conversation was winding down, he said, "Did everything work out with Lucy?" to which I replied, "Oh yes, everything's fine. She's riding up with me on Thursday morning." "Oh good!" he enthused. And then there was a pause. "And when you get to the hotel, you can tell me whether or not she is a dangerous insane person or not." I paused. And then I started yelling at him for not knowing whether or not she was dangerous and insane before he gave her to me, and how if I ended up dead on the way to Minneapolis, I'd focus all my energies on haunting him for the rest of eternity. He sounded mildly hurt and defensive when he said, "But you know it's all really Megan's fault." And so we had to have another discussion. Back to the Cigarette Break. Lucy and I talked briefly -- she had closed down a bar or four the night before and was hurting. We went back in to the theater and caught Bill and Cassie in line, and we burbled to them on the fly. Plans were set, and we went in for the reading. N read skips and chunks from Anansi Boys, and it was touching and very funny and reminded me of my father's family. I liked it. Someone at the Humanities had decided that after a Neil reading there should follow a Neil signing . . . the reading ended sometime around 10, I think. We talked to Bill and Maureen and Cassie for some time before I realized that in a half hour, the line had not actually moved yet, and that I had not yet packed nor set aside the things I was to remember to bring, and that I had to be up around 6:30 so I could load the car and get to Lucy in order to make it to Minneapolis on time. So I ran up to a diligently-signing writer and told him I was leaving ("you're leaving?" "yes, I have a lot to do before tomorrow," "but," "I'll see you this weekend!"), and then we made for the hills. Er, the Lake Shore Drive, I mean. Parked the car, hiked to the house, started piling things and stuff into a mountain by the door so I wouldn't forget anything, took a shower, and finally got to bed. Realized I never actually told him happy birthday, and then went to sleep.

	2004.10.09  17.57 Fiddler's Green is in ONE MONTH. There are still registrations available. You really ought to come to this thing, because there won't be another. And because I've been working on it since April, so you will effectively render me absolutely useless and superfluous if you do not come. I may feel slightly bad about myself if you don't show up. I may question my work ethic; my very purpose will be called into question. None of that might be true, but I really do want you to play with us in November. Fill out your registration form. Send it to us. Book your travel arrangements. Come play with us. Mood: productive Music: Bank of Boston Beauty Queen (The Dresden Dolls)

	2004.07.21  04.29 Happy Birthday to Chrissy!

	2004.07.21  04.22 Things in my head while I've been neglectful of this journal, by H. Maure Luke Nonny is getting old, for a mouse. I am afraid she will die. I find myself more and more wanting to move to the middle of the woods -- maybe the Pennsylvanian or upstate New York woods, because I seem to feel at home more in east coast woods, and I actively miss my weekends in autumnal Pennsylvania -- in a quiet house with no neighbors and no town around me for miles. I think about this a lot, and it really appeals to me, until I try to figure out what I would do for a job, which leads my mind down several roads but always ends up with my little house in the woods having to be a brothel, because I can't think of anything else I could do for steady money while living as a relative recluse. A backwoods brothel for very desperate lumberjacks. Coal miners. Other recluses. Something. But I'd have to hire women, and oversee everything as the brothel madame, which would negate any hermitism I might have hoped to develop. What a bother. So, anyway, that's out, and I really am comfortable struggling in my gorgeous grumbling city. But sometimes I just imagine that slightly spooky house somewhere in the fog-laden woods, and I like the thought an awful lot. Who knows -- I might even start writing again. In my house. In the woods. My Cats would have fun there, catching wild things and eating them to death, or letting the occasional one go on accident and finding some other little creature to take its place. They'd like finding their true claws again. The couches and scratching posts offer very little sport. I was very sick yesterday, but I feel much better today. I have four stool tops to paint for my mother. I have a book to finish, and some data-entry to finish, and I have to think of something great to do for Chrissy's birthday. I also have to find a shirt to match my skirt for Fer's wedding. I've discovered that while I thought previously that I hated all diet sodas, Diet Cherry Coke is really very good. Better than Diet Dr. Pepper. Not nearly as good as real Dr. Pepper. So, if a stranger asks you for a cigarette, and you give it to him, is it good karma or bad karma? I mean, you're giving him a gift, something he wants or maybe needs (psychologically), something that may make him more peaceful, performing an act of giving that may brighten his day (or even his week). So that would be good. But the gift is something that is working actively to kill him. So that's bad. Does it just cancel itself out? Does karma work that way? Why am I even thinking this? I don't believe in karma. Mood: busy Music: If I Could Write (Sam Phillips)

	2004.04.26  23.17 Megan was robbed -- someone snagged her bank account numbers and pin and wiped her out entirely. She's taking legal action. We thought about just sending RJ out after the perp, but that wouldn't be a good idea, what with . . . HIS BEING SIGNED BY THE SEATTLE SEAHAWKS THIS MORNING. So, Megan got fucked over, and RJ got a fucking break. Funny ol' world, innit? Mood: curious Music: Girl Anachronism (Dresden Dolls)

	2004.04.17  09.25 And the site is live: www.fiddlersgreencon.org Go look! Mood: working

	2004.04.14  09.37 Fiddler's Green Update We're so close -- can't you feel it in the air? The announcement and update list is open for business. Should you want to get, um, announcements and updates regarding the progress and development and such for Fiddler's Green, you can go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/fg-announce/ or send email to: fg-announce-subscribe@yahoogroups.com to sign up to the mailing list. If you're planning on buying a membership and coming to FG, you'll probably really want to join the mailing list, as we're doing all progress reports electronically. Mood: working Music: Art Star (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)

	2004.03.31  17.52 How do struggling actors do it? Today, after work, Chrissy and Fer and I went to stand in line outside for five hours to get inside a theater for ten minutes to drop off headshots and an information form to the casting directors for the Chicago portion of Ocean's Twelve. I've never even seen Ocean's Eleven. But, had nothing pressing to do today, and we thought it would be interesting. It was just depressing -- there were literally thousands of hopefuls there -- people hopeful for freaking extra work -- and so many of them had dressed to the nines and were doing their damnedest to schmooze up the casting directors. The whole outside line (which wrapped around an entire city block and never did unwrap until they finally sent everyone home) and the entire theater were absolutely dripping with desperation. I hate the smell/sight/look of desperation, and we were saturated with it today. It was just . . . depressing. I wore scrubs -- a hoodie and some yoga pants and a grey t-shirt, and Fer and Chrissy dressed similarly, and our "headshots" were polaroids we took a few minutes before going inside. The info/contact sheet asked for special abilities/ talents and hobbies, so I wrote about comics and persuasion and making coffee, and listed stealth, avoiding debt collectors, and ennui as my special talents. Chrissy listed "the Robot" as her special talent. I think Fer talked about her work for the political activist group Democracy Now. Based on the numbers they need vs. the numbers which showed up, our chances of being asked to come to the shootings are 1 in 3. Pretty good odds, actually. Except that it's fairly obvious we're *not* struggling actors who take it seriously. I certainly wouldn't hire us. Or actually, I would -- which is why I'm not a casting director and why I want little to nothing to do with the film industry. I just keeping thinking of all these people, freezing their asses off in Chicago spring, doing breathing exercises and practicing a song for audition (it was OPEN CASTING! No one wants to fucking hear you sing! You drop off info and go!), and running over things they'd planned to say to the directors to make them notice them. Yuck. Anyway, I might be one of the non-distinct background blurs, somewhere behind one of the famous twits, in the new movie Ocean's 12. I'm sort of hoping not. I'll find out sometime in the next couple weeks, apparently. Mood: working Music: Coin Operated Boy (the Dresden Dolls)

	2004.02.22  16.32 Fiddler's Green In November (most likely the second weekend), in Minneapolis, there will be a Sandman convention you will want to attend. Start saving your money, because this will be really supra-cool. Guests are still TBA, with the exception of the writer, of course. Events are still TBA, although, holy schmoly, the ones we've been discussing are excruciatingly cool. All profits will go to the CBLDF, who is supporting the endeavor. Lots and lots of work still ahead of us, but I will pass on more information as I am allowed. I mean it -- start stashing cash. You won't want to miss it. Mood: pleased

	2003.10.13  21.56 the things you can find on the internet . . . This both disturbs me and bores me. The thing is, most of our unspoken guilts are freaking boring. They're small meannesses, or little ragged bits of mundane cruelty, and they're not uncommon, or unique, or even, most of the time, remotely noteworthy. But the project as a whole is interesting -- all these people who desperately want to tell the world their tiny acts or thoughts of small evils, without having to take direct personal responsibility for them, or even without having to interact with the people who read those transgressions. There's no glory of confrontation, no redemption, no genuine apology. It's sad, and pathetic, and it makes me feel more lonely for having read it. All these quiet voices, more isolated than ever via mass confession. Mood: sad Music: Someone New (eskobar with Heather Nova)

	2003.10.13  03.33 Jouni! My lips are moving but you can't hear a word I'm saying! Ok, this post is for Jouni, if his email account is still acting as a black hole to my celestial matter. Jouni, we can have a conversation of sorts here, if you're still not getting my emails. Mood: anxious

	2003.09.06  20.05 In high school, I had the biggest crush on this kind of dorky but charming guy who was a senior. I was either a freshman or sophmore, I can't remember. No, wait. I was a freshman. I remember getting into the chorus in our school's Peter Pan as a freshman. You gotta understand -- our school had a history of brilliant theater work. Several people went on to Second City and other solid acting careers. Others became one-hit wonders, etc. It was just that kind of high school. Getting into the musical as a freshman was a big deal, and I even got a line, so I was ... well ... a very geeky freshman with a line in the high school musical. I was not always this cool, collected, epitome of sophistication you read before you today. Hard to believe, I know, but I too did really embarrassing high-schooly things, such as change my class schedule in order to go down the same hallways between classes as this guy, just so I could see him. Yes, I ended up having to take remedial math and english-as-a-second-language, but everyday I got to walk past, or near, or next to the dreamy (er, in a manner of speaking) guy in bad flannel. And the resulting necessity of my taking summer school for the following four years was undoubtedly worth it to me at the time. Ok, I'm just pulling your leg -- I graduated in the normal four years without summer classes, but I really did change my class schedule to mimic his paths around the school. For Winter One Acts, he wrote and directed a one-act (naturally) play that took place entirely in a restroom at a restaurant, and it was called "When Ure In Love." Get it? You're In, ure In, urine, takes place in a restroom? Right. Ok, just take my word for it, it was really really funny. I was head over heels for this guy. He was the cat's meow. I couldn't for the life of me talk to him, though. I think the few times we did manage to have to speak to one another, I mumbled incoherently some vague excuse to leave, and then did, very very quickly. The highlight of my freshman year crush was when we were in Peter Pan together. He was the dashing and vile Captain Hook. I was Indian #43. Ok, actually, I didn't have a number, even. It just makes me feel more important to think of myself as having a number, like a title of some kind, as if it were an actual character I was playing, instead of just "indian chorus member." I don't think we were ever actually on stage together. But on closing night, after the curtain fell, everyone cheered, and rushed around hugging these people who'd become sort of a half-assed, incestuous family of sorts for the past few months. I had to cross the stage to get to my small group of friends on the other side (they were mostly random Lost Boys or other Indian Chorus Members), and in doing so, I had to pass by Hook himself. I lowered my head and made a mad dash for it, hoping he wouldn't see me blushing and stealing furtive glances at him in the ensuing post-curtain furor. And then, oh, glory! O wonderous joyful horror! He grabbed my arm and turned me as I tried to slide by, and hugged me in one perfect rapturous bear hug. I was lit from inside with the holy fire of a dream realized, and in my ecstatic state, I hugged him back! I did! So, the year ended, as years do, and he graduated, as some seniors do, and went off to college. I forgot about him mostly, except for those times when I get together with my geeky girl friends who have similar stories of humiliating high school antics, which is the only time I'd dig that file out of the locked box in the back room of my mind. But I got an email today about Emmys or something, and I saw his name, and thought, "Hey, I knew a Josh Gilbert..." and so I looked him up. Yup, Captain Hook has won an Emmy, writes for Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and is an Acme Player. So, if you're in L.A. (Walker, Pamela!), go see him maybe. I bet he's still a doofy-looking sweet guy who is funny as all get out. Just don't mention this blog entry if you happen to run into him. I'd immediately dissolve into 14-year-old mortified me again, and that's a place to which I would never willingly return. Unless it were funny, of course. Mood: impressed Music: Aging Spinsters (the 6ths)

	2003.08.16  12.40 LiveJournal Haiku! Your name: maure Your haiku: a froo-froo girl if you're going to look enthralled after the first song Username: Created by Grahame My haiku is very ... me. I think it's funny, and sad. Mood: awake Music: Yes, Anastasia (Tori Amos)

	2003.08.13  17.50 When I got home from work today, I discovered that I'd left my keys inside my locked house. I could see them, too, in my head, right where I'd left them. I'd put them under the Map-of-Places-Which-We-Will-Rule-One-Day ... er, I mean, the map of the world .. so I'd remember to pick them up before I left for work. Very tired (had to be up at 3:30am for work today), very discouraged, and incredibly annoyed, I sat down on the steps in front of the locked door and thought about crying. Instead, the image of a bobby-pin popped into my head, and I dug through my bag to find one. While digging, I pulled up my old CBLDF card (the one with the saluting man on it). I decided it was as good as a bobby-pin for lock-picking, and slipped it between the door and its jamb, and click-click! went the lock, and I swung open the door. I walked to my apartment door, and tried the card there too, and what do you know? It worked! All of which made me very relieved, but also very worried. Our locks suck! Anybody with a piece of plastic (such as a handy-dandy CBLDF card) can waltz into my home stealthily and steal all of my supra-valuables . . . oh. Except I have no supra-valuables. Well, they could steal all of my neat things (that are only neat to me) out of spite after realizing they wasted time breaking into an empty treasure chest (arr!), and then I would be very sad. Guess I'll be dead-bolting the door every time I leave now. Went to the comic shop today and picked up the first issue of 1602. You know, I really ought to learn patience. I prefer whole stories, so trade-paperbacks, to single issues. But I just couldn't wait. And it is very very lovely. Managed not to get it out and read it at lunch with Chrissy, but had to get it out on the bus home. I finished it just as we got to my street. And my day got a little better. Had an incredible weekend. The first night that I saw Tori, from where I was sitting, the sound was all bass and drums. Very, very rarely when the band was on stage could I hear any piano. In fact, it was difficult to hear Tori at times. V. interesting new arrangements of old songs, but I wish the sound were better. It wasn't the band's fault, or even the sound people's fault -- the accoustics in the Auditorium Theater as heard in the gallery section just aren't conducive to electric bass, I don't think. When he used an upright, it sounded much more balanced. Was somewhat disappointed, but happy to have been there. The show the next night was absolutely stunning. There was some old black magic, and Megan's and my Row W seats became Row A seats. The Skyline Stage is an outdoor theater, and so no thunderous reverberation of bass and percussion to mar the mix. She was NEON, I'm telling you, she was so on. She played my favorite cover, "Wrapped Around Your Finger," and my favorite (almost always) song, "here. in my head." She also played Megan's favorite songs. Megs and I were on fire with glee. We couldn't stop grinning at each other. It was wonderful. Mr. X and Megan spent most of the day trying to drive me mad by indicating that they were in "cahoots." I know they are in no such thing. If you have any information as to what they could be in cahoots over, please email me right away. That was a joke, because I know for certain, 100% positive, that they are emphatically not in cahoots. My email is egregiousbalihoo@aol.com Thanks! So, very odd, very wonderful weekend. It made me happy and sad and something else too, and there's something about those kind of layered days that I just love to pieces. Then, yesterday morning I got a call from my friend Amy from college (the first time I went), one of the original Clickers. She is bringing her Lucy to see me at the end of the month. I was there for Lucy's birth, and I got to cut the umbilical cord. I haven't seen them for almost two years, and was astonished to hear Lucy talking to me on the phone, because in my head, she's still a scrunched-up, blotchy adorable tiny thing who blinks and knits her eyebrows at everything and to whom English is as foreign a language as Aramaic is to me. I am so excited to have them visit. And to tie this all up in a neat little bundle... Once upon a time, there was this thing called something like The Final Heavenly Host tour, which was a reading or something by some guy who might or might not be referred to in this journal as X. I didn't know anyone who really wanted to go, so I made Amy, who was heavily pregnant at the time, come with me to hear some stories and other miscellany. When she first learned she was pregnant, she had decided that if it were a girl, for which she hoped, the girl's name would be Lucy. She had learned that she was having a girl in the morning, and so the baby was officially given her name. At the reading that night, the writer read a poem that was a prayer for a friend's unborn baby. And then he read a children's book that didn't actually come out for years afterwards, whose main character was a little girl named Lucy. I think such coincidences are interesting. Mood: exanimate Music: Sehnsucht (Brad Mehldau)

	2003.04.28  17.16 RJ has signed with the Tennessee Titans as a free agent. I'm very proud of him, and very excited for him. Mood: productive Music: The Olde Headboard (Rasputina)

	2003.04.01  17.04 Secretary is a new addition to my favorite films list in my head. It's charming. I loved it. I've noticed that I become exponentially more productive than usual when I have the use of a car. This morning after I dropped off Megan at school and Colleen at work, I went to the bank to get a new bank card (apparently, the bank I've been using was hacked, and my number was one of the many they stole, so my bank closed my card so it couldn't be used, but of course didn't tell me. I tried using it and it said it was deactivated, and I got the real story three days later because no one I talked to knew why it had been closed), went to the post office to pick up and to mail, went to my sister's bank to deposit something for her while she's at DisneyWorld, went to the grocery store, and then went to Blockbuster. I had a real meal for brunch, and got things for a real meal for dinner (grilled veggie burgers on pita with avocado and bean sprouts, sides of zucchini and summer squash, and red potatoes, mmmm...). I organized laundry, but there is a crew of construction workers in the basement where the laundry machines are, who, by the way, keep knocking our power and hot water out, and I've decided to wait for laundry until they go home. And as much as I enjoy the streaks of cobalt and green in my hair, I think I'll turn it all brown again tonight. Mood: productive Music: Torn Green Velvet Eyes (Magnetic Fields)

	2003.03.26  08.23 This is interesting, and exemplifies the reason I could not in good conscience ever out-and-out protest the war: http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-war-callhome24mar24004422,1,3509140.story WASHINGTON -- As Iraqi Americans reach out to their relatives in Baghdad and Basra, in Kirkuk and Irbil, some are hearing words they never thought possible: Iraqis are speaking ill of Saddam Hussein. They're criticizing him out loud, on the telephone, seemingly undeterred by fear of the Iraqi intelligence service and its tactics of torture for those disloyal to the Baath Party regime. "I was shocked," said Zainab Al-Suwaij, executive director of the American Islamic Congress, a nonprofit group in Cambridge, Mass., that promotes interfaith and interethnic understanding. "It's very dangerous. All the phones are tapped. But they are so excited." Samira Alattar, a housewife in Annandale, Va., has a similar story. A friend in northern Virginia was talking to relatives in Baghdad when one of them started badmouthing Hussein. "My friend tried to shush her, but the lady in Baghdad said, 'Let us talk, enough is enough,' " Alattar said. "They have the feeling that they are going to get rid of him; that's why they are talking." A call to Baghdad can cost almost $1 per minute. When the U.S. heavy bombing assault started Friday, calls to Baghdad were harder to place. But when they did get through, many Iraqi Americans were astonished to learn that their relatives still had electricity and running water. "They feel better than during the last war," Alattar said. "They're used to it. This will keep them going." As war unfolds, Iraqis who came to the United States in the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s are glued to the news, some staying up until nearly dawn to watch the latest developments. Some are thinking about returning to Baghdad to help in the country's reconstruction. Others are upset by antiwar protesters they believe have been duped by Iraqi propaganda. They are eager to celebrate the end of a regime whose abuses they recount with personal grief and pained memories. Tamara Darweesh, 30, is a lawyer with the Los Angeles firm of Kegel, Tobin & Truce. Her parents were leftists, and university scientists, when the Baath Party came to power in 1968. "They made my parents' lives miserable," said Darweesh, whose 32-year-old brother is a transplant surgeon at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. Their father, a Kurd, was an engineer but was forced to work in a concrete factory. Their mother, a Shiite Muslim, was a chemistry professor who was imprisoned for teaching children to read and write, Darweesh said. They left in 1980, just before Tamara turned 7, escaping first to England with help from friends in Iraq who subsequently were killed for smuggling them out. A few days ago, Darweesh went to the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, where antiwar protesters were gathered. She asked to talk to them about why it is important to topple Hussein. The protesters thanked her, turned and walked away. "I'm so disappointed with the left," said Darweesh, who considers herself a liberal. "They are in complete denial because it doesn't fit into their equation of the Mideast. But Saddam is an Arab leader who has killed more Arabs than Israel ever has." The antiwar protesters, she added, are "very condescending. They are supposed to be for human rights, but the suffering of the Iraqi people just doesn't exist for them. They deny us our stories." Ridha Alattar, an ophthalmologist, has not written or talked to his brother or his sister in Baghdad since he fled Iraq in 1982, for fear that they would be questioned or even tortured to learn his whereabouts. This way, he figures, they can truthfully say that they have not heard from him for two decades. He does not know if they are alive. Five college graduates in his family were killed because they refused to enter the Iraqi intelligence services; other relatives were deported to Iran for having Persian ancestry or their sons were taken away, said Alattar's daughter, Maha. "I am one of the 5 million Iraqis all around the world who deprived themselves of our country just to evade Saddam's persecution," the elder Alattar said. Now a U.S. citizen, he moved his family first to California, then to Nashville and finally to the Washington area to ensure his daughters would get a good education. Maha Alattar is a neurologist at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill. Lina Alattar is a graphic artist. "I lost everything just to get my freedom, but I con- sider myself a winner," Alattar said. "Freedom is worth much more." Alattar ran a little sandwich shop in Nashville, and served as a guest physician at Vanderbilt University. Now retired and "over 70," he enjoys reading history and literature. But "since the war broke out, I prefer looking at television," he said. If Hussein falls, Alattar may return to Iraq to advise the U.S. government about eye clinics. Until then, he's a news junkie. "I'm very excited to see the advance of our troops," he said. Mood: aggravated

	2003.03.01  20.31 Chrissy just called to play the music for one of our songs over the phone for me. I am so excited I can barely stop bouncing. It's fantastic!! I can't wait to get a recording of it myself so that I can practice. IT'S SO GOOD! We're going to try to hit the studio sometime in the next two weeks. Woo!! Mood: giddy

	2003.03.01  09.06 Friday Five, on Saturday: 1. What is your favorite type of literature to read (magazine, newspaper, novels, nonfiction, poetry, etc.)? Short stories are my all time favorite. I could read anthologies forever. I consider comics to be short (or serial, really) stories, so I love reading them too. HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT SCARS? I got the second issue yesterday. Dear god. It's absolutely riveting. You need to check it out, I mean it. I haven't been so fully dissolved by a splash of horror in a bigger piece since the zoo scene in WHITE APPLES (Jonathan Carroll). I sent Warren an email telling him how much I hate him. He apologized for making me cry. I'm telling you, if you like Law and Order, or Law and Order:SVU, CSI, NYPD Blue, any of those crime shows, you want to read SCARS. 2. What is your favorite novel? Sometimes it's A Soldier of the Great War, by Mark Helprin. Sometimes it's The Dragon Waiting, by John M. Ford. Sometimes it's Sleeping In Flame, by Jonathan Carroll. It has been known to be Neil's Neverwhere on occasion. And, in some moods, it's A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. I don't know what my favorite is. 3. Do you have a favorite poem? (Share it!) Yes. I don't really want to share it right now. 4. What is one thing you've always wanted to read, or wish you had more time to read? The Histories, by Herodotus. I've owned the book since a friend gave it to me (after we heard the story K told in the English Patient), which was years ago, but I've not read it yet. 5. What are you currently reading? The Roald Dahl Omnibus. I've been thinking of rereading some old favorites (see above favorite novels) because they make me happy. ____________________________________ I worked yesterday, and this guy who always comes in asked me how I was doing (he knew I've been sort of under the weather lately). I told him how I spent some time in the sun, and how it made me feel better. He told me I need to spend time in the tanning booth. I laughed and he said, "It's fake, yeah, but it'll make you feel better!" and I held up my arms to display their um . . . pasty translucence . . . and he said, "Slather yourself with SPF 30, and get to a tanning bed." But I don't think I'll do that. I'm just going to walk around a bit today, and that should make me feel even better. It's sunny so far. Mood: awake Music: The Cat is Dead (Danny Elfman)

	2003.02.21  13.40 Does anyone want to hire me? I can do anything. I'm smart, I'm usually quick on the uptake, I have a better grasp of grammar and communication skills than most teachers I know . . . no, I don't have a degree in anything, but if you hire me you'll see I don't need one to do most things competently. Or, does anyone know how I can buy a degree on the black market? And how much it would cost me? I've lost all enthusiasm for my job. Mood: okay

	2003.02.20  22.06 I've had the most painfully long day in the history of my short career at Starbucks. Bleh. I have two days off now, and yes, they're much appreciated. I have eight rolls of film to develop. I have a bunch of swirling phrases to jot down and see if I can make something coherent of them. I have a handful of nightmares to use up. I'm not sure of my own merit, so that's a stupidly, obscenely, huge obstacle for me, but maybe I can get some stuff done, despite the crippling fear. hahaha! Mom is coming to spend the night tomorrow night. I'm very glad.

	2003.02.18  17.35 Ghost Story I watch the western sky The sun is sinking The geese are flying south It sets me thinking I did not miss you much I did not suffer What did not kill me Just made me tougher I feel the winter come His icy sinews, Now in the firelight The case continues Another night in court The same old trial The same old questions asked The same denial The shadows closing round Like jury members I look for answers in The fire’s embers Why was I missing then That whole December? I give my usual line, I don’t remember Another winter comes His icy fingers creep Into these bones of mine These memories never sleep And all these differences A cloak I borrow We kept our distances Why should it follow that I must have loved you? What is a force that binds the stars? I wore this mask to hide my scars What is the power that moves the tide? Never could find a place to hide What moves the earth around the sun? What could I do but run and run and run? Afraid to love, afraid to fail A mast without a sail The moon's a fingernail And slowly sinking Another day begins And now I'm thinking That this is indifference Was my invention When everything I did Sought your attention You were my compass star You were my measure You were a pirate's map Of buried treasure If this was all correct The last thing I'd expect The prosecution rests It's time that I confessed I must have loved you I must have loved you Mood: calm Music: Ghost Story (Sting)

	2003.02.14  18.16 Happy Valentine's Day from Megan and I! Mood: amused Music: She's An Angel (They Might Be Giants)