Happy Easter!
Well, here's Easter. The day that signifies Jesus’ rise from the dead, which is lucky for Jesus that it happened so long ago and not in modern day because, now-a-days, we've all seen zombie movies. And, thanks to the hard work of the Bush administration, we've also all got shotguns.
Regardless, because of some recent phone conversations, I've been thinking about what this day used to mean. When I was growing up, this was a day of family. I remember a few Easters that were spent in Midland with my mother's parents. It seems like, if I remember correctly, we spent Thanksgiving with my dad's parents and Easter with my mom's. I remember my grandma would make these sour cream twists... they didn't taste like sour cream, as they were light and fluffy and tasted of cinnamon and sugar, but I am assured that sour cream was a basic ingredient. And there would be colorful pastels and large, hearty meals… and, of course, church meant dressing in our “Easter best.” Then the mid-90s came… and both my grandparents died. Ironically enough, both in the first week of April, one year apart… making Easter now something different than Easter then. As we all know, sometimes Easter falls in March… but sometimes it falls in April. I think those Easters are particularly hard on my mother. Regardless, and like most things that once sparkled, Easter now seems tarnished. The luster is gone. Easter for my family now-a-days consists of a nice brunch; church in dressy, but not our best clothes; and finally eating the chocolate that we no doubt gave up for Lent. This year I didn’t give up anything for Lent… and I didn’t spend Easter with my family, either. I fear this is the beginning of years of Easters like this… the holiday has lost all importance to me, and I’ve lost all connection to it. Part of me thinks that all I’ll have to do is wait until I have (or my sister has) kids… as kids seem to bring new excitement to all holidays. But I’m selfish, and I don’t want to have to wait that long. I guess what I’m really saying is that I miss my grandparents. And I miss the magic and love that Easter used to bring… and I hope to God that it’s not going to be replaced by the complete nothingness that was my Easter this year. It was just another day. Just another day.
Yesterday was honestly the first sunny/nice day I've been able to enjoy since I moved here. I thought about it, I moved here in the fall of 2003. And, by the spring/summer months of 2004, I was working at Coldstone. And a sunny/nice day while working at an ice cream store is hellish. I dreaded days like that all last year... while I loved rainy/cold days. Hopefully this year, I'll continue to enjoy rainy days... but I forgot how much I missed enjoying nice days until today. Yesterday was a nice day (today is shaping up to be a nice day, too)... and everyone I talked to yesterday was in a good mood because of it. I didn't go out and get pictures like I wanted to... but I have a feeling that there will be other beautiful days this year that I'll be able to enjoy. Yesterday was just the first.
By the way, my life is now complete. Because of three magical words: Chocolate Lucky Charms. Can you believe it?! Chocolate Lucky Charms! I’ve died and gone to Irish chocolate Heaven.
I find myself sitting watching “Big Fish” on HBO again. This movie is the very definition of McKee’s ‘good story, well told.’ It is a movie about a story-teller… so the movie itself is well told and all the sub-plots and mini-stories are well told as well. This is just a fabulous story full of fabulous stories… and it’s a real treat to watch (BTW There is something inherently creepy about twins. Particularly if they’re dressed alike… or conjoined… unless they’re hot. Then they’re just two times the hot) (Also, Jessica Lange is a beautiful woman… and, the woman they got to play the young version of her, Alison Lohman, is perfect). It makes me wish I was better at telling stories. I’ve never been much of a story-teller… I always feel like the audience is bored half-way through (probably part projecting my own insecurities and part remembering what it was like to grow up listening to boring and long stories). A good story-teller is like magic… and only recently am I beginning to believe in magic again.
What the Breakfast Club teaches us about being a dork: Yes, at the end of the Breakfast Club, all the different groups are all happy together. We know the poignant ending that the jock, the princess, the basket case, and the criminal are all happy and now have new significant others. Everybody’s happy! Well, except for the “brain.” While everyone else is busy making out with their new significant other, the dork is stuck writing the essay. The dork is stuck with weed in his underwear. The dork sounds as though he’s got no friends. Basically, it seems like the dork is still not understood by everyone else, even at the end of the movie. Perhaps I need to see it again before making broad and sweeping generalizations about the true nature of that movie. But, basically, my point is that it doesn’t pay to be the dork… even if everyone else is making earth-shattering realizations about the true nature of teenage social interactions: you’re still going to be left by yourself, pencil in hand.
From the "Thanks for policing us even more" file, here's a story from Queensland, Australia. I would think something like the "lunchbox police" would be something that would appeal to Americans... if not for the complete infringement on the freedom to eat as one chooses. It would be a battle of two epic “American” ideals: a universal fanatical health fixation versus the freedom to do (and eat) as one chooses. I have a feeling that freedom would win.
I’m very upset at blogger right now. It is becoming increasingly difficult just to log on to post something, no doubt due to the popularity of blogging and free blog sites. They must have a lot of trouble keeping up with the amount of traffic they’re getting… I can’t blame them, I just really want to be able to write. And so here I am, writing in Word and hoping to be able to actually get online and post this later. And, little did I start complaining that blogger is back to its normal, awesome self.
Update/Tangent:
I think a person’s wardrobe can say a lot about who that person is, and who that person used to be. Today I found myself pulling out an old Hawaiian shirt to put on. In Albion, it was a staple of my fashion diet… and I would wear a Hawaiian shirt seemingly at least once or twice a week, regardless of season. Hawaiian shirts WERE who I was in Albion: loud, obnoxious, in-your-face, slightly irritating, but light-hearted, bright, and fun. And, ever since I graduated, I’ve had trouble wearing them. I’m not in the same place: physically or emotionally. Some part of me—that iteration of me, and who I was—died or was lost when I graduated (or shortly thereafter). And, as I stood today looking in the mirror at myself wearing a bright blue Hawaiian shirt (complete with huge white flowers), it wasn’t me I was looking at. It didn’t feel right anymore. I ended up putting on a short-sleeved polo shirt (which is far more “me” now). Something inside of me tells me that I needed to be that loud Hawaiian shirt wearing guy while in Albion… that it balanced the seeming verisimilitude of everyone there. And I don’t mean that everyone there was fake… but everyone seemed to fall into their own little categories—having friends that fell into the same (or similar) categories. Even the “radicals” seemed to fit neatly into nice little categories. And, for as radical as they claimed to be, they never really had anything new or interesting to say. A lot of people in college were contrary just to be contrary, probably because they thought it would make them look smarter. I have to admit, it worked on me in college… but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t sick of hearing it. I remember something about getting the ACLU on campus when I was there and, basically, instead of doing something good (which I think the ACLU is more than capable of doing), they were just trying to piss people off because they wanted to prove how smart they were as individuals. I’m not saying anything about that particular group nationally, but locally at Albion, when I was there, it was just a bunch of assholes trying to prove something. How did I get here? Oh yes! Wardrobes! Yeah… Hawaiian shirt!John was there to say “I’m gonna get in your face, and make you have a good time!” And part of it was, I’m sure, me trying to prove to someone that I really was different than everyone else. Whether or not my wardrobe did that successfully, I’ll probably never know. But I don’t need to draw that kind of attention to myself here in Chicago. As a matter of fact, I don’t want that kind of attention. At all. I want to blend in here… I want to disappear. It’s safer that way. So I’ll wear something nice and plain… like a polo shirt. How irritatingly bland I’ve become.
(Another reason I mention this is that I just got a new pair of shoes for the summer. They are the White/Fairway/Ivy shoes here. The shoes have absolutely no traction… and are the first pair of shoes I’ve ever bought that are purely for ‘show.’ I feel like a newborn peacock)