Cuckoo

There's a book called Greensleeves that I love. In it there is a part when a woman is explaining why she likes cuckoo clocks. She says that she likes them because they remind her of the ridiculousness of the human race, and specifically her own ridiculousness. Perhaps I need to get my own cuckoo clock.

I Shake My Fist

I hate T.V. I really do. I've lived much of my college career without one. And half the time when I did have one, it was broken in some way. Example: there is a TV in my current apartment, but it has no remote and only one button for changing the channel, which means you can only always go up. So, if you go past your intended channel, you have to surf through sixty fuzzy channels to get back to where you were. I don't think there's a way to change the volume. There are two buttons that can turn the TV on--these sometimes alternate in functionality, sometimes don't.

There are a few shows that I have come to enjoy watching: "Biggest Loser" and "The Office," for example. I dabble in others. I enjoy cooking shows. But truth be told, I could stop watching any and all of those this instant and not look back. I used to like "The Office" because it was clever. And it is, sometimes. I like "Biggest Loser" because it's inspirational. And it is, sometimes. But none of it truly excites me. When I came out here the only TV I missed was world and national news (preferably with Peter Jennings, RIP. I did actually watch the two-hour, commercial free tribute to him when he died) because I used to watch it every night with my dad. There are very few things on TV that I've seen that were actually meaningful to me: the president's inaugural address, the pope's funeral, Conference (if you can count that).

I despise having the TV constantly on and flipping through channels of nothing to try and find something to watch that's slightly less nothing than something else. I hate the way TV so often kills social interaction. Like watching TV while playing a game. Everyone stares bug-eyed at the glowing monitor, their cards limply in their hands, the game a mere background activity and conversation silenced. DESPISE it.

Sitting there watching feels like a waste. Maybe it's just because I'm so busy right now. If I had more time it probably wouldn't feel like so much of a waste. But why sit there when I can read/ write/ call someone I haven't talked to in a while/ cook/ bake/ draw/ run/ clean/ tickle someone?

When I lived at Cinnamon Bear (or, Cinnamon Tree, as the sign "says")our apartment had an entertainment center and no TV. We put the fish bowl where the television set would've gone. Maybe I'll take my vendetta to a new level and go around kidnapping peoples' TVs and replacing them with fish bowls. I'm sure there's a really tacky outlaw name I could give myself for that, but I can't think of it.

My apartment smells like fish

My apartment retains smell unlike any other I've been in. My roommate made shrimp-something-or-other a few nights ago and that fishy smell has permeated the entire front room/kitchen and set up shop. This morning when I woke up it had creeped into my bedroom. Gross. Now, though, the smell has faded just enough so that it reminds me of the smell of our condo in Spain after our madre would make us fish for lunch--which was often.

There are a lot of smells that remind me of Spain. Exhaust and cigarette smoke (I used to hate the smell of cigarettes, now I like it a little bit), fish, certain colognes and perfumes, mild laundry soap, fried churros, this Nike perfume I bought when I was there called "Up or Down," some hair straightening products, and the indefinable smell of the kitchen. And rain. Rain reminds me of Oregon and Spain. The two best places.

The waitress is practicing politics

I used to take piano lessons at this place called "Music Man." It was in the main shopping center in my home town. It was in-between a Jamba Juice and a Subway. It's still there. It's full of all these little white-walled rooms that are supposed to be sound proof. But when you pause playing whatever concerto or show tune you're supposed to have practiced faithfully for the preceding week you can hear someone else playing (sometimes just as badly as you are, sometimes far better) a piece that sounds a lot like yours. Or someone blowing thickly in a clarinet or singing "When You Say Nothing At All" or strumming away at "Good Riddance" or "Stairway to Heaven."

We had recitals occasionally. Brutally. Painfully. We had them in this one church. Methodist? At every recital there was always the some four year old playing a very bold and plunky version of "Fur Elise" or the theme to Star Wars.

I remember one recital when I was fifteen or sixteen when a boy played and sang Billy Joel's "Piano Man." He wasn't that good vocally. But I had a crush on him for the whole five minutes or whatever it was, even though I was distinctly aware that he was like two years younger than I was--which, at fifteen, matters.

In many ways it's just a song about loneliness and drinking and getting stoned and basically going nowhere with your life. So why do I like it so much?