Dreams, decisions and destinies

Yesterday on Facebook I posted an update about purchasing an album I was unfamiliar with after seeing a picture of it on an Apple commercial. The commercial didn’t play an music from this particular album- it was just an actor’s voice-over describing the features of the new iPhone while a personless hand demonstrated. The picture of the album flashed briefly when the voice-over/hand reached the part about the exciting new iTunes features. I had seen the commercial enough that I had committed the name of the album to memory: Ellie Goulding, “Lights.” During my next iTunes purchase-a-thon I made sure to grab the album I didn’t even bother to preview before hitting the “purchase album” button. My reasoning was that if it was in an Apple commercial, it had to be decent. Apple is generally considered a pretty “hip” company, so I’d trust their taste in record-label-purchased taste in music.

The album turned out to be decent. Not mind-blowingly amazing, but I did get a couple of tracks out of it that I really enjoyed. So in the end it worked out, so to speak.

Recalling that instance reminded me of other life decisions I’d made because of television- some of them actually having profound, long-standing effects.

I’ve always been a dreamer: as the single blerd (black nerd) in my group of friends on Chicago’s south side, I spent a lot of time on my own, watching alternative videos on MTV, reading Goosebumps, taking the bus to the library to pick up a ship load of books, etc. I used to imagine myself as a rock star, the girlfriend of a popular baseball player, living on a farm with ten kids in Kenosha, WI (don’t ask why I chose Kenosha). As I got older I never really stopped to consider that perhaps I needed to pull myself back to earth just a little- after all, a little dreaming never hurt anyone. Except when I realized, when actually presented with the opportunity to pursue some of these dreams, how much work was involved and how, maybe, I didn’t want it as badly as I thought.

Let’s look at some examples.

• Around 2008, Halbastram and I started watching a lot of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent.” I became smitten with Det. Gorens and the idea of becoming a detective. Of course, you can’t just leapfrog to being a detective without some cop time in there first. So twice I applied to become a police officer- once in Lisle,IL, again in Olathe, KS. And twice I changed my mind right before the physical test- because I didn’t want it bad enough to be exerting energy and running and shit.
• For Christmas of 2008, I bought Halbastram the boxset of the the tv show “The West Wing” (which cost a little over $300; it is now for sale at Best Buy for about $50...ugh). I’d never seen it before but, once again, just like with Det. Gorens, I’d become enamored with the character Josh Lyman, the Deputy Chief of Staff. Now, this one is a little more complicated. Since my childhood in Chicago, I’ve actually loved all things politics. I used to sit at the kitchen table with my uncle while we watched the news and cracked jokes about Mayor Daley. When it came time to pick colleges, I applied to Truman State because they have the best Poly Sci program in the country. I didn’t know in what capacity I wanted to be involved, but politics have always been destined for my future. Some time after college (not Truman State), I started reading John Kass, a political columnist for the Chicago Tribune and loved his style so much that he became my journalistic hero. I figured that political journalism was where I wanted to be. Fast-forward to 2008-2009- after discovering Josh Lyman, Halbastram and I made the decision to go to grad school because everything around us fell apart: we lost our jobs, our home, our cars. Might as well start over. Josh Lyman still fresh in my mind, when it came time to choose a concentration, naturally I chose poly sci. Not only was it obviously my destiny, but because I made the decision right then and there that my one true goal in life was to serve as some politico’s right-hand woman. I never fancied myself a leader, and I’m generally fiercely loyal to those whose trust I’ve earned. I was going to Josh Lyman the shit out of some mayor or senator or future president. Three years and one Master’s degree later…

It’s probably not even worth mentioning the numerous cooking shows that tricked me into thinking that I knew what the hell a chicken cacciatore was and that I had any business trying to cook it.

I’m 31 now and still as much of a dreamer as I was when I was 11 or 21. I still have grand ideas about working in politics; I still fancy myself becoming a brilliant political writer like John Kass; I still can’t cook chicken cacciatore for shit.

I could scold myself for not taking life decisions more seriously, but I don’t believe our lives are supposed to be so linear. Dreaming of and wanting to do something out of the ordinary or spontaneously isn’t the problem.

it’s the courage to follow through. no matter how long it takes.

Where's my Orson Welles?

It was a little over a year ago when I had my first existential crisis.

It was a Friday night. Halbastram and I were still living in East Lawrence in a crappy two-bedroom with barely enough room for two people, let alone two people with mountains of belongings. He was still driving drunken KU students between the campus and Mass. St. bars on the weekends, so I was left to my own devices. As I usually did on those lonely nights, I had a couple of beers as I watched a whole lot of nothing on TV. I found that I needed the alcohol and the mindless entertainment to take my mind off of the fact that Halbastram was driving around drunken students who could turn into dangerous drunken idiots depending on the moon. Except this night, my mind refused to rest. And it was nothing to do with inebriated students. It was about my place in life and how slowly anything was progressing for me.

I can’t remember how exactly I ended up on Orson Welles- I wasn't watching Citizen Kane or anything with him in it- but that’s where I crash-landed. For reasons only my lubricated brain and subconscious know, I began ruminating on the fact that Mr. Welles, that wonderful man, had written, produced, directed and starred in the greatest movie in the history of the world by the time he was 26. At 26, I was busy going through a bankruptcy, a foreclosure and working a shitty retail job. And where was I at 30? Sitting in my crappy living room, drunk and still unpublished, crying about how Orson Welles had achieved so much more than me before he was my age.

Now, if this were an inspirational movie or novel, this is where my character, after hitting rock bottom, would toss that bottle aside, pull out her laptop and start making waves.

Except I’d been doing that for the better part of a decade with minimal results. I was tired of that trope because it wasn't a trope that worked in my favor.

So I did the next best thing: drunk-texted my best friend and whined about it.

The beautiful thing about my best friend- My Lady- is that she’s always been supportive of me and my decisions, whether I decide to live as a housewife or work crappy retail or write the Great American Novel. She doesn't judge nor does she scold. She listens and offers advice, but never pushes. And I like to think that I am the same with her. When she moved to Hollywood to work in radio, I was beyond elated. There was never any jealousy- only sadness, because she’d be so far away from me.

So, in the midst of an existential crisis, I trusted her more than anyone else.

And, although I wasn't even sure what it was I wanted -needed- to hear at that moment, somehow she found it. The text message has been lost in the tangle of the thousands of others we've sent each other since, so while I don’t have the exact wording, her message was essentially this: that I shouldn't compare myself to Orson Welles because we’re all meant to do things differently and that we all take different paths to get there, and that I’ll get to where I’m meant to be soon enough.

Summarized as it is above, you could probably find guidance counselors and self-help gurus across the country giving the same advice for a fee. But when coming from someone who truly loves you when you’re at a ridiculous low point, it’s the difference between cracking open another bottle and choosing instead to go to bed and attempting to start again when your head's clear.

Nearing 32, I’m still unpublished, but I don’t feel sorry for myself anymore. I still find myself thinking about all that Orson Welles accomplished at a young age, but now it’s more from a place of awe than jealousy. I completed my first crappy novel and I’m constantly fine tuning it. Maybe it’ll get published this year; maybe it’ll get published when I’m 40. Or 50. As long as I keep working, I feel fine.

Why I can never quit Coldplay

I realize that Coldplay isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Much like the Gallaghers back at the start of Oasis’ meteoric rise, and their comparisons to the Beatles, Coldplay seemed to encourage comparisons to U2 and, understandably, many U2 fans weren’t exactly on board. Others may have just found their music boring- “mom music”, for lack of a better term. And while I started out as just a casual fan (come on, Parachutes is a great album), over time I developed not necessarily a great fondness for them, but something akin to a spiritual connection with them. They inadvertently became a part of my history and, much like stupid John Mayer, despite their failings, I’ll always come back to them.

Like many people, my introduction to Coldplay came in the form of the song “Yellow.” It was the summer before freshman year of college and it was all over alternative radio. Back when CDs were still a thing, I went out and purchased Parachutes. I listened to it sporadically, but it wasn’t my favorite. A former friend was later introduced to the band by a douche named Strokey McStroke (I don’t know his real name- only that he wore a Strokes tshirt every time I saw him), and she played it non-stop, like it was her Sgt. Pepper. Luckily our friendship fizzled soon thereafter, so I no longer had to deal with her, Strokey McStroke or Parachutes.

I’d largely forgotten that Coldplay was a thing that existed until “The Scientist” came out. And I fell in love all over again. Only to forget about them again soon thereafter. Then came the great, controversial “Talk.” Another pleasant radio hit, another soon forgotten gem.

And, of course, how could we ever forget the joy that was the immensely popular “Viva La Vida?”

This is where my forever love for Coldplay begins.

As many of us may have done, I have a habit of buying an album based off of one insanely popular song and never listening to the whole album. Such was the case with “Viva La Vida” when it first arrived at my home. I played the title track and nothing else non-stop. After moving to Kansas and starting grad school, being so far away from home and knowing absolutely no one, I started randomly listening to a lot of my CDs while I studied. I found that Coldplay made for great study music because it was so...mellow, to put it nicely. Not Kenny G. mellow, but like “a cold beer after a long day of something difficult” mellow.

Anyway, over time, three albums became my constant companions in helping me cope with the loneliness of Kansas: “Alphabetical” by Phoenix; “Tourist History” by Two Door Cinema Club; and “Viva la Vida” by Coldplay. I listened to them while walking to class; eating lunch in the Union; reading in the library; writing papers 8 hrs before they’re due; driving home at 1 a.m. after visiting a friend and realizing that I had 16 hrs to have a large research paper done and didn’t have a clue as to what I was going to do; etc. These songs, these albums, these bands became my rock, my happiness. I loved “Lost” so much that I bought every alternate version available on iTunes. According to my iPod, I listened to the acoustic version over 100 times in a year.  And whenever I listen to any of these songs/albums, I think back to my time in Manhattan and don’t remember the stress of school or being poor or lack of job opportunities; I remember the times when I felt hopeful because I was never sad as long as I had my music.

We were still in grad school when Mylo Xyloto came out, and I remember wanting only that for Christmas, since we were still on a tight budget. But for some reason I didn’t connect with that one. I suppose I already made my decision with Viva La Vida and was in comparison mode: everything they make thereafter would be compared unfairly to that one album that I formed an unusual bond with. And, although it wasn’t fair, to this day I still haven’t really given the album a chance. I honestly don’t even know where the CD is today.

So that’s the long story of why I will always have an unbreakable bond with everyone’s second favorite band to hate, Coldplay. I’m just lucky that I hadn’t been in possession of a Nickelback album during that time or I would have really been in trouble.