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 Sitting in my crappy living room, drunk and still unpublished, crying about how Orson Welles had achieved so much more than me before he was my age.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.

Emily

I've been writing a series of stories about the random people I met from the interwebs back in college. Some were from MySpace, some were from various Yahoo groups. There's one in particular I'm currently writing about who, every time I think about her, makes me a little sad. Her name was Emily*. She was a bit older than me- most of the people I met were, as I just seemed to have an easier time having conversations with older individuals (no offense to my peers, but most dudes either took conversation to mean flirting and most girls would freak out that another girl would want to talk to them about, you know, whatever).

Emily and I met in a Yahoo group and we’d started up an e-friendship where we’d talk every other day about the group and how hot the moderator was and a whole lot of whatever. Emily worked as as a computer tech in Maryland* who traveled often for her company and once, when she was flying into Chicago for a training seminar, she invited me to her hotel for dinner. As a broke college student, naturally I jumped at the opportunity to dine with a complete stranger. Also, she was staying at the Hilton hotel on Michigan Ave in downtown Chicago. Pretty swanky place (hey, I’m not above touristy lodgings), so the restaurant had to be equally impressive.

And it was.

We met on a Tuesday evening in the lobby, Emily appearing to be exactly as she described herself in the group: she was a short (about 5’1), full-figured blonde with an infectious smile. Dressed in her business clothes from the day, she gave me a rather warm hug before leading the way to the dining room. We made small talk: she asked me about my commute in from Naperville, I asked her about how she was liking Chicago so far and if she would get to do anything fun while she was in town. After we were seated, and I was reassured that I could order whatever I liked, she started discussing how, as much as she liked Chicago, she really missed her boyfriend. She then began to tell me a story that’s stuck with me for 10+yrs.

Emily was seeing a married man- who was also sick, sort of. He was slowly losing his eyesight, so in addition to the physical affair they shared, Emily also served as his nurse & caretaker- his own Clara Barton. Emily told me that caring for him was almost becoming her second full-time job. She wanted to feel bad about what she was doing, but she felt too connected to him because he needed her. She explained that despite his health, his wife didn’t realize that he still had other needs as well, and that’s where Emily came in. She discussed her frustration over the fact that he had made it clear that divorcing his wife was not an option, as she did still care for and love him when Emily wasn’t around; he couldn’t be that cruel to her. And yet, Emily couldn’t let go either. And it was driving her mad how much she actually loved everything about this man. She couldn’t wait to wrap up the trip so that she could start making plans to see him again. In an attempt to brighten the mood she talked about how, despite his failing eyesight, he was still adept at bondage and rope play and that’s one of the things that ties them together even more (pun very much intended by me).

On the whole, Emily seemed sad. But I couldn’t tell if it was because she had found the perfect man who could never 100% be hers, or if she felt defeated because she couldn’t break free from her feelings for him. She steered the conversation in a different direction afterwards, more cheerful conversation about our group, her travels, my relationship with Halbastram. The rest of the dinner went smoothly, although I never stopped thinking about everything she had told me.

After dinner she drove me up to Rogers Park to Halbastram’s apartment and gave me another warm hug, expressing how much she enjoyed meeting me and dinner and how she hopes to have better news for me when she returned to Maryland. And she drove off.

The last time I heard from Emily, she told me that her and the boyfriend were making plans to move in together, as she had finally convinced him to make their thing exclusive. She never mentioned “divorce” and I never asked. But she seemed very excited.

I never heard from her again after that. And I always wondered if it ever worked out in the end for her, in any regard: did he finally leave his wife completely and stay with Emily? did Emily finally break free from her feelings and find someone new? It’s bothered me for years that I never found closure on that story. I realize that feeling sympathy for “homewreckers” is an unpopular opinion, but Emily seemed like a genuinely nice, warm and loving person who just happened to find what she was looking for in an unavailable person.

Wherever you are, Emily, I hope you’re well. And happy.

*come on, man...you know the drill: all names changed