The Night that MJ Died

Two weeks before Michael Jackson died I purchased my first vinyl record: Thriller. It was the twenty-fifth anniversary edition, with covers from current artists as well as the remastered originals. Upon purchasing the album, I slit the cellophane wrapper, placed the disk on my turntable, and listened to Billie Jean. One would assume that the title song would be the obvious choice, but I wasn’t in the mood for the Vincent Price voice-over in the middle of this particular June day. After Billie Jean, I promptly removed the record from the player, placed it back in the sleeve, and filed it away on a shelf. 

Vinyl has a romantic touch to it. Especially the old records, with pops and static as the needle traces the groove on the way to the first note. I had listened to the voices of my peers, to coworkers, to customers (at that time I had been employed at a local music store). They told me that vinyl was king. After hearing the full-body sound of Billie Jean play from my newly-acquired system, I had to agree.

Michael Jackson was as good an artist as any to start off my record collection. The King of Pop had credibility, staying power, funk. The album sounded upbeat, while being utterly dark. It was a classic. But aside from these facts, I never really had a profound connection to Michael Jackson, or his music.

Two weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon, I was informed by a regular at the store that the King of Pop was no more. It had already been a bad week for famous people. Ed McMahon had died earlier in the week, and that same day Farrah Fawcett succumbed to her battle with cancer. When I heard the news, I took to the internet. Within moments the news was confirmed, and I knew what would happen next.

            Over a year earlier, when Heath Ledger passed away, people had reacted in a way I hadn’t expected. To console themselves, or to commemorate his life, crowds entered into the store to purchase memorabilia. Posters, books, old movies. Anything that had his face or name. I knew that with Michael Jackson, the public mourning would be multiplied. I was right.

            Within the hour the store had flooded with new customers. We sold out of records, CDs, music videos and other DVDs, posters, trading cards, books, and bobble heads. I printed his name, followed by birth and death dates on a piece of paper that I taped to his name card in the CD section. It sat like a tombstone without any CDs left in front of it.

            The death of any individual is a tragic thing. But the death of a pop star is an entirely different animal. People remember where they were, what they were doing, who they were with, when these things happen. I was working as the only manager at a record store with only one other employee on what would have been our slowest night of the week. I had just shut down the secondary register for the night. I had asked the employee working with me to start vacuuming the store. And then, I was helping seven customers at once, I was fielding phone calls about what Michael Jackson merchandise we had in stock, I was talking with New 9, WMUR.

            In the following days, our warehouse’s supply of MJ products was depleted. The same vinyl I had purchased two weeks prior was listed on EBay for three times what I paid for it. The death of a pop star is a peculiar event. It is the one thing that is tragic enough to make us mourn with our wallets.

Ghosties and Ghoulies

Halloween is right around the corner, so I thought it would be fun to take a look at some of my favorite Halloween costume choices available.  I HIGHLY recommend going to your local thrift store and digging through your closet because you’ll likely find what you need at a fraction of the cost. Also, thrift store shopping is just so much more fun. Happy Halloween my little beasties.

I think they got the codpieces right… A Clockwork Orange

Character: just one of the Droogs

Outfit: Bowler Hat, White Suspenders, White Jeans, White Shirt

Accessory of Choice: your cut-throat britva

Everyone’s favorite spook: Edgar Allen Poe

Character: Well...real person in this case, Edgar Allen Poe. 

Outfit: Men’s coat jacket with tails. Men’s dress pants, White button up, Scarf, 

Accessory of Choice: Raven

Sylvia Plath….medium rare

Character/Person: Sylvia Plath

Outfit: any old dress 

Accessory of Choice: Oven 

No better way to rock out to some Phil Collins… American Psycho

Character: Patrick Batemen

Outfit: Clear Poncho, business attire, clear rain poncho

Accessory of choice: Axe and/or Eggshell white business cards with Romalian type, raised lettering, a subtle 7” bone border.

Lolita

Character: Lolita

Outfit: Heart shaped sunglasses & something with ruffles

Accessory of choice: lollipop

Great stippling! (That’s not dirty, I swear)

Character: any comic book character ever

Outfit: lots of face paint, wig, some clothes that POP

Accessory of Choice: A speech bubble

#Halloween #Costume #Literature #Literary #Book #Fun #DIY

Raised Without Religion

My family has had a tumultuous relationship with religion.

Both of my parents were raised Roman Catholic. My grandfather on my dad’s side was also Catholic, but his wife had been raised Baptist. She, in fact, was the daughter of a Baptist minister. She married the son of an Italian immigrant, a Roman Catholic, with olive skin. But from what I understand of my family lore, she didn't miss the Baptist church she grew up in. When she was a teenager, she witnessed a community member proclaim to the congregation that he had been living in sin, sleeping with another woman, disgracing his wife. Nana wasn't one for public proclamations, and her sense of empathy for the wife, who now was thrust into the community spotlight, made her enraged at this sort of outburst.

My mother’s parents were both raised Catholic, but divorced when my mother was a teenager. My mother recalls going to Catholic school and being able to tell which nuns were fooling around with which priests. She remembers asking questions, big questions, about life and science, with only “God’s plan,” as an answer. Her inquisitive mind could never quite accept that.

Granted, my family’s experiences aren’t meant to be representative of society’s. I’m sure many people have had wonderful and fulfilling experiences within their own churches and their own faiths. I tell you this to explain my parent’s choice, the choice to raise me without Religion.

No crosses hung in my house.  No Sunday school, no mass, no baptism, no confirmation. When I asked about God growing up, my parents would always preface any explanation with, “Some people believe…” And that was fine. They never hindered me from exploring my own faith, from discovering what it was I might believe in.

When my friends went to summer camp at the Christian Conference Center in town, I asked to try it out. My mother frowned, but allowed it. Everything there was fun and fine until the kids started singing songs I didn't know the words to. I didn't go back.

I read a book of Bible stories that my Grandmother (on my mother’s side) had purchased me. Highlighted, made notes. It all seemed so fascinating.

I asked to go to Mass at St. Joan of Arc Cathedral and my mother obliged. I was eager. I romanticized the idea of church. I drilled into my head the protocol before attending: the holy water, the cross you made on your chest, the kneeling. But forty-five minutes in and my butt hurt on the wooden pews. I had lost what the priest was saying. I felt bored.

After that, I read The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama. I studied Buddhism (as much as any eleven-year-old can). I researched Hinduism, Sikhism, Islam, Wicca. I dabbled in them, taking the parts I understood and applying them to my middle-school life, and then to adolescence. I meditated, I prayed, I read, I talked with practitioners.  

I began to have a vague understanding of my own beliefs. I knew I believed in something, but I didn’t dare name it.

My parents raised me without religion. But even without the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, or any other religious doctrine, they still raised me with compassion. They raised me with love and tolerance. They raised me to empathize with others, to participate within a community, to add to the fabric of society. And they raised me to learn.

Because of this upbringing, I had an amazing spiritual journey that stretched from my youth to my adulthood. I asked questions, and sometimes even found answers. And now, as an adult, I feel the strength in my own beliefs because I have tested them.

One Giant Game of Telephone

The United States Congress has only a 13% approval rating.

Tonight was an educational experience. For the first time in a while, I engaged in facebook argument with a friend about something of the political nature. Thirteen hours ago my friend posted an emotionally charged outcry, which at about one hour ago I responded to with an equally emotionally charged comment. We went back and forth for the good part of the past hour, bringing a culmination of feelings and fact into the debate. We argued, we challenged one another, we cited our personal experiences.

At the end of all of it, we discovered that the article of news in question was a fake. A simple lie made up by some unknown force. We were happy, because although we were on different sides of the argument, the event in question really sucked for everyone involved.

Time to get hokey (not that I wasn’t already headed in that direction). We engaged one another in political discourse for an hour. And it was all moot. The question at hand was a non-issue. But I learned a lot about this friend, and about the issue. I hope in some way that he learned a little from me too. And together we sorted the fact from fiction. Two twenty-something kids living on opposite sides of the country with vastly-different life experiences just got more accomplished than the United States Congress: we had a political discussion that ended with the discovery of truth.

So go forth and discuss, argue, yell, research and challenge each other. Otherwise the world is just one giant game of telephone. 

Books & Bikinis

I like to spend my summer days relaxing at the lake and reading a book. Or just reading. Actually, I spend most of my summer days stressing out about submission deadlines for my MFA program and writing frantically. But I like to imagine that I'm chilling out with a book in-hand by some swimable body of water.

Luckily, the folks over at Matchbook have put these two favorite things together. Behold: bathing suits matched perfectly to your summer reading material. Don't worry guys, they have some lovely ensembles picked out for you as well.

image from matchbook.com

Two Glasses of Cheap Wine

I don’t often get drunk. In fact, I’ve only been drunk twice in my life. Some might consider that an impressive fact for a twenty-something of independent means. I honestly just don’t see the point. I do, however, appreciate being tipsy, giggly and giddy. All of which can be achieved with a reasonable amount of cheap wine.

The first time I was ever truly drunk was at a company Christmas party. I used to work in retail. Of course, that usually means that you drink more, but being a store manager meant long hours and little energy. Hardly an atmosphere which is ideal to drunkenness, although it is one in which most prefer it.

The second time I was in the safety of my home, drunk off of cheap wine. This, I believe, is the best kind of drunk.

Tonight I’m not drunk at all, but I have had a few glasses of wine. The bad thing about alcohol? It lowers inhibitions, makes you more vulnerable. The good thing about alcohol? The same damned things. Honestly, at home, with a pen in my hand (or a keyboard beneath my fingertips as it were), alcohol is the great creative lubricator. It makes me stop judging the words, which is the most important part of writing a first draft. 

Ernest Hemingway once said, “Write drunk, edit sober.” Obviously Hemingway may have overdone it from time to time, but the idea is sound. Loosen up; let yourself write when you write. Edit when you edit. For me, two glasses of wine are usually enough to silence the diamond polisher within me and give the vomit drafter the vocal chords of Etta James. Do what you need to, but let yourself write.

Eat Life.

Day One

This is day one of blogging (again). I’m actually a serial blogger. I’ve started and abandoned over a dozen blogs. But this one I’m sticking with. I’ve got to, otherwise I’ll become one of “those people.” You know the kind. That person that never finishes anything, that has too many projects going to count. So that’s that.

Why is the blog called “Eat Life”? Like you really care. I’m a cannibal. No, just kidding. Not a cannibal. I don’t even like to eat chicken. Look at it this way, you’re reading the blog, right? Then stop asking so many damned questions.

I promise my next post will be more interesting. Well, I can’t really promise that. I promise I’ll try to make it more interesting.
Until then, eat life.