Taking its toll

I'm driving up the Turner Turnpike, which is the part of Interstate 44 between Oklahoma City and Tulsa, to go to work. As I pulled up to the toll plaza, I saw I was getting the booth with the blonde with curly hair. I hadn't seen her in a while.

"Hey, I haven't seen you in a while." she says to me.

Wow.

I am at the point that the tollbooth operators recognize me.

Let me just say that if I hadn't already given my two-weeks notice the day before at my job, I would have done it as soon as I had gotten there today.

My CR-V is about to hit 145,000 miles. It was at about 118,000 when I started this job -- close to 30,000 miles in a little over eight months.

But thankfully, it has shown no signs of slowing down. I mean, a little while back kc and I were going to Hy-Vee in Lawrence and she asked me if something was wrong with my engine because of the way it was groaning.

"No," I replied. "We're just going uphill."

So that's why it's amazing that this little four-cylinder engine has made six trips through the Rockies and seven trips through the Sierra Nevadas. It's cruised on portions of famous highways such as U.S. 1, Route 66 and the Pacific Coast Highway. And I mentioned the Turner Turnpike; my car has traveled the full lengths of the Kansas, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Massachusetts and Florida turnpikes.

No wonder I feel like I don't have a home -- all my time is spent in my car.

Oklahoma's sex drive

You've all seen them: Those signs by the side of the highway as you enter cross the border to welcome you as you enter another state.

The Texas Department of Transportation has that sign above by Interstate 35 about 0.15 miles south of the Red River to give a big "Howdy" to motorists venturing into the Lone Star State.

But there's one problem with the logistics of that sign: It comes about 0.1 miles too late.



This is the sign that actually greets travelers when they cross the Red River as they're leaving Oklahoma to go into Texas.

Any adult who has lived in Oklahoma knows why: You can't get porn in Oklahoma. At least not the hardcore stuff. That's why I was so shocked to find it playing in motels here.

But I guess the law is that it's only illegal to sell it. Hence the store right across the border: DW's Adult Video, which I find very interesting. DW has rekindled my interest in film lately. And now this -- coincidence??? If it is him, I guess it's what puts the wood in "Driftwood."



You can see here just how close to Oklahoma this store really is, calling, beckoning us to make the trek down south on a porn run. It's the state's dirty little secret. And yes, I have made this trip on more than one occassion. Why am I not embarrassed to say it. Why? First, after the motel porn adventure, can I really find anything more embarrassing? And second, I know I'm not alone. For many Oklahomans, this store is a tradition, a rite of passage. I learned this when the subject came up several times working at the OU paper, pretty much everyone had done it. They even had a column about it last month, (jokingly) arguing that legalizing porn in Oklahoma would reduce greenhouse gases. Indeed, in the parking lot Monday, there was a nice black Mercedes that pulled in just as I got there, a Cadillac, a Toyota and a pickup truck -- all with Oklahoma plates.

And let me say now, please don't think I'm some sort of porn addict. The number of porn runs I've made you can count on one hand (give or take a finger or two). Plus, I actually haven't bought any in a while, since it doesn't matter if I'm 14 and it's under the mattress, or I'm 30 and living at my own place in Florida -- if my mom sees it, it's going in the trash.

The reason I'm sharing this? Well, I guess I'm not going to be an Okie for all that much longer, so I don't feel the need to keep our dirty little secret.

Live On, University

Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner,
Boomer Sooner, OK-U!

Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma, OK-U!

I'm a Sooner born,
And a Sooner bred,
And when I die
I'll be Sooner dead!

Rah, Oklahoma! Rah, Oklahoma!
Rah, Oklahoma! OK-U!


OK-U!
This, up until a few months ago, was my favorite OU shirt. It commemorates OU’s national title run in 2000. That fall was one of my most memorable semesters during my college career. I got to follow the Sooners all the way to the Orange Bowl.

My mom and my sister hate this shirt, because no matter how big the holes in it get, I still wear it. My mom says it makes me look like a homeless person.

But I guess I’m just hanging on to that shirt for the nostalgia. Fall 2000 wasn’t just about football. That was when I added journalism as a second major, having found that I could be really good at it, and it was the semester I earned a copy editing internship to The Boston Globe before I even took an editing class.

As you can see, the shirt seen a lot of wear, and has gone through extensive repairs. I should have thrown this shirt away years ago.


OK, you!
The shirt was knocked off the top spot by my OU scrubs, given to me by the gang at the Journal-World. That’s it over on the right, next to my jersey. It was so cool that they did that for me. They know how much I love OU and how much thought I had given to going to nursing school. It was perfect.

Or so I thought. The main reason I wanted to study nursing at OU was the intensive one-year program. But that fell apart pretty quickly. And now, really my entire plan has come undone. I don’t want to go to nursing school at OU any more.

Really, it’s hard to think of OU without conjuring painful memories. And thinking of only good stuff just reminds me of good times, that try as I might, I can’t get back again. Going back to OU is like hanging on to that shirt. No matter how much I sew it up (OK, OK – no matter how much I get my mother to sew it up) it’ll never be the same, and it won’t fit quite right anymore.

Oh, KU!
So I figure this brand new career will start someplace else. So I’ll get a new shirt from my future school, and I have a pretty good idea which it'll be -- the one that matches my new hat.



We can credit kc for getting me out of the KU closet. She was the one who first saw it, when about a year ago at work I mentioned a KU story, and she called me out when I referred to the Jayhawks as "We" instead of "They."

I'm a Sooner born and a Sooner bred, so I wondered whether becoming a Jayhawk would make me a traitor, but even though I'm just going from crimson and cream to crimson and blue. But I've gotten a seat for kc on the Sooner Schooner, so it kind of evens out.

Boomer Sooner, and Rock Chalk, Jayhawk.

Momma's boy

OK, I figure if I do this, it has to be in vignettes. Giving a full dose of my mom is like going into the reactor room or looking at the sun too long; prolonged exposure can have harmful effects.

- You've probably seen how my mom had me dressed when I was very young. Add to that how she refers to my shirts as blouses and my underwear, whether they be boxers or briefs, as panties -- well, it's a good case for homosexuality being genetic, not environmental.

- My father was named George. She named me after him. That's not an uncommon thing. My mom named her youngest daughter Kim -- Kim Novak Z., actually, after her favorite actress. A bit unique, but not weird. Then my mom received her citizenship, and got to choose her own name. She chose Kim. Yes, she named herself after her own daughter.

This also caused plenty of confusion when someone would call and ask for Kim or George, and we'd respond "Which Kim?" or "Which George?" My mom often adds "Big Kim or Little Kim?" with her being Big Kim and my sister being Little Kim -- this just adds to the confustion; my mom is 5'0" and 100 pounds. My sister is considerably bigger.

- Speaking of names, she can't even pronounce mine. Imagine how much I was teased growing up, as we all know how cruel kids can be, when she came along and called me "Zhock-ZHEE."

I actually have a Vietnamese name as well, but I think I'll keep that to myself.

- I mentioned she's 5' and 100 pounds -- she's had two lipsuctions and three facelifts.

- My friends in high school learned it was futile to call. Before she'd let me talk to anyone, she'd have to know not just who they were, but she'd ask whether they were going to college, what they planned to major in, and what their grades were. They'd complain to me later that all they wanted to do was talk to me, not play 20 questions with my mom.

- There was the time she yelled at me because I had gotten my car all dirty and wasn't trying to immediately wash it. I told her it was salt and sand from the road, and I couldn't wash my car because it was like zero degrees outside. She told me she didn't care and left to wash her car. She was back 10 minutes later, freaking out and now yelling at me to help her get the inch-thick layer of soapy ice encasing her car -- like I said: it was zero degrees outside.

- She tends to perpetuate certain Asian stereotypes: She's been in four car accidents in the past four years. And a while back, she decided she wanted to buy a convenience store. I was the only one against the idea, everyone else told her to do it. So when she did buy it, she didn't tell me. For three months she left every day to run her store, and I had no clue (this was my freshman year at OU). It wasn't until one of my sisters accidentally told me. I don't know why she felt the need to hide it from me. I supported her as much as I could, working when I wasn't busy skipping classes.

She lost the store a little over a year later.

- Just a few weeks ago, she told me I should stick with journalism over nursing. She said I was an editor, and that's like being a doctor of the newsroom. She's never understood my explanation of just where copy editors are in the newsroom heirarchy, though I have a suspicion she sometimes has selective fluency in English. Actually, I know this is true.

- She took 12 years to get her degree. Not a slam against her, because it took me 12 years to graduate college, too. And while I got two degrees, she took over a decade because she was also working a lot of the time, and raising two kids. And while I spout off on how much weirder she made things for me growing up, and still makes things weird today, I know that she's always looking out for me.

Filmwurst

It was the culmination of my education in Film and Video Studies: my senior capstone project, a 45 minute featurette written by me, directed by Wes and shot by Dusty about a criminology student who, for his senior capstone project, decides to plan a crime spree.

And it’s gone.

I had decided I might YouTube the film, or at least the portion of the film I wrote, and blog about it. But the thing is, my only copy of the film wasn’t where I had left it. I have moved 12 times since spring ’99, it’s a wonder I didn’t lose it earlier. But I know I had it in OKC while I was living in Lawrence. Who knows where it is now.

The name of this film? Well, for those of you who know me it won’t be a surpise: “Cap a Stone in Yo’ Ass.”

I had already lost all my papers and scripts from my film school days in a computer crash in 2002, as the backup CD, I found out later, didn’t burn properly. But that didn’t bother me that much. But losing the film does. Three years in the Film and Video Studies program, and that was what I had to show for it. (Well, that and my degree, which has been proudly placed in the backseat of my car.)

I didn’t hang on to the film because I thought it was good – there are good things in it, such as some great performances from some of our actors, who we got from the drama school – but I actually consider “Cap a Stone” one of my biggest failures.

I mean, I got an A on it, and I would consider it watchable. But making that film was one of the most painful experiences I ever went through. Wes and Dusty worked hard on the film, but I don’t thing they ever really understood just how much I put into that film. Originally, Wes was to buy the digital camera, which he did, spending about $2,000; I was to buy the editing hardware for my computer, spending about $1,000. But while my computer met the minimum requirement for the editing board, for it to actually perform properly I needed to buy a new video card ($200), more memory ($250) and a high speed SCSI hard drive ($400).

But it wasn’t just the money I poured into it. I was committed to this film. While Wes and Dusty were going to classes during the day, I was skipping classes to scout locations, buy clothes and find props – which included two realistic-looking pistols, a Dieon Sanders T-shirt and a wooden duck, which, given that this is Oklahoma, was much harder to find than you’d think. I spent weeks combing sporting goods stores, but since it wasn’t duck season, I had no luck. It wasn’t until I stopped at an antique store in Moore that I struck gold. Jesus, I just realized that I skipped all those classes just to find a fucking duck for a three-second sight gag.

So for all this work, I got an A in my senior film class. I also got a B in my Lit class, and an F in my other English class, Critical Reading and Writing. (After that semester, I changed my second major from English to Zoology, with the idea that I would make nature documentaries.)

Really, for an undergraduate student film that was 45 minutes long and edited on hardware that even after I spent all that money was woefully inadequate, it wasn’t too bad. My real regret was not telling Wes, after coming to me to tell me that he doubled the size of the script because we needed a scene to “explain” everything they were about to see, that if what I had already written needed explaining, then I should be kicked off the damn project. He even agrees now that the exposition scene in the apartment before the robbery was a bad idea, and he wanted to re-edit the film without it.

But that’s the other thing: Wes had the master copy on digital cassette – and he lost it last year. But he still has his other scripts and film projects. “Cap a Stone in Yo’ Ass” was the last bit of what I had.

There are copies out there; we gave some to the performers, and our capstone instructor was given a copy. But after writing this, that copy of the film isn’t what I miss most. You see, even though it got battered during shooting, I kept the duck when we were done. I had it for a few years, until my mom tossed it – it was broken, she said.

So I have my film degree, but really, I didn’t work all that hard as a film major to get it – I worked a lot harder just to get that stupid duck, and I’d rather have that wooden mallard to show for my troubles.

My mom's front porch

As I can't think of anything else to blog about, I'm going to do what I always do in this situation: steal from someone else.

You might have read before kc's excellent post about her front porch. You can call it an allegory for everyday life in east Lawrence.

Now, I have to settle for my mom's porch.



As you can see, it's quite large (That's me helping paint the columns). There's plenty of space, and could fit all sorts of outdoor furniture for plenty of people. It was also one of my favorite playspaces growing up. The walkway that ran adjacent to it was my highway for my toy cars, and when it reached the door the path turned left down an incline toward the street; at that point gravity would sent the cars to the street without my help.

Now that I'm back on Sherwood Drive, I've taken to the porch once again. But it's not the same. Really, it's kc's fault. When I visit her in Lawrence we pass the time with a beer or brandy discussing parliamentary procedures. For one, as you can tell the view of the neighbor's back fence doesn't exactly add any charm to the street, and since it's late at night, I'm all alone on the porch. And no cackling girl stuffing her face with sweetrolls, asking whether we have cigarettes or how much the place next door rents for and she's going to drop off some old bread to the homeless shelter down the street, and say it all in one sentence. No eccentric Ed, nor Eddie the dog, faithfully waiting on his porch for his owner to return.



But I do always get one visitor, almost without fail: a gray cat. The kitty never comes over, just sits and watches me, almost accusingly. I think it wonders what the hell I'm doing back in the neighborhood -- I don't belong here anymore.

No, this hasn't been my neighborhood for a while now; the house no longer feels like home. Life as an Okie suburban cowboy isn't for me anymore, no matter how much I thought it was.

But still, it's good to visit the place. And as boring as the neighborhood is, I'd miss it if it were gone. Which it almost was after May 3, 1999, when tornados tore across Moore, and then again in 2003, after this happened:



So the neighborhood rebuilt its homes; I'm getting ready to rebuild my career. Maybe after that, I can work on finding my place to call home.

And you'll be invited to come sit with me on my porch anytime.

Inn cahoots

A night that shifted from surreal to scary.

As I got off work Friday night, I was greeted by one of the many homeless who wander the streets of downtown Tulsa. She asked me for change. I told her I didn't have any. Then she saw I was carrying a plastic cup filled with soda.

"Can I have some of that pop?" she asked.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a silver can.

"Ooooooo! A beer!" she exclaimed as I handed it to her.

She sang some little ditty as she skipped down the street with the Diet Coke I had just given her.

That night I stayed at another motel. Not the Interstate Inn, but the Royal Inn: it's in a different area from the other ones just off the turnpike, kind of an industrial area just off the I-44/U.S. 75 interchange. The time I stayed there before it wasn't bad; slighty bigger room that was slightly cleaner, wireless Internet and no porn channels -- just Showtime.

As I pulled up into the parking lot, I saw a woman, scantily clad, get out of a car in the lot, while her male counterpart stayed in the vehicle and watch. She knocked on one door, then moved to another. It seemed like she wasn't sure what room she was looking for.

As I headed for my room, a man walked across the courtyard, making a beeline for me. In a way, I really wasn't surprised at what happened next:

"I need a friend; would you be a friend?" he slurred. "I'll give you $10 if you can give me a ride."

I can't help but wonder whether offering $10 for a ride is some sort of street code for something unsavory. It was eerily like before.

I got to my room and locked the door, a bit disappointed that there wasn't a deadbolt. This was when I found this in the bathroom:



Then a knock at the door -- a very soft knock.

I slowly hooked the doorchain, which seemed woefully inadequate.

At this point, I don't know what's scariest: the homeless lady who's going to be mad at me for turning her beer into a soda, and a sugarless one at that; what might be pimps and hos canvassing the neighborhood; the ginormous syringe that is used for purposes in seedy motel that I dare not imagine; or just that fact that I keep staying at these places.



LF: $204.38

The show has hit the road

For the latest installment of The Writer's Block/The Brainwave/WhateverthehellI'mcalling this blog, you have to see my guest spot on kc's blog.

It's kind of a fitting post; her superior blog has always made me green with envy.

Back to the Futurama!!!

Futurama is back.

It was already coming back as four direct-to-DVD movies starting in 2007, but Comedy Central has guarenteed at least 13 episodes for 2008.

I know none of the rest of you care, but so what? I GET BACK MY FAVORITE TV SHOW OF ALL TIME!!!

This should be no surprise to you give the art I use on this blog, as well as many of the episode titles of Futurama:

"Roswell that Ends Well," When they mistakenly go back to Roswell, N.M., in 1947.
"Crimes of the Hot," the Al Gore global warming episode.
"A Head in the Polls," when Richard Nixon's head runs for the presidency of Earth.

On the surface it's easy to see why people avoided the show: silly sci-fi cartoon with characters who aren't all that smart. But it's a very clever show, working in obvious parodies of "2001," Star Trek" and "Star Wars," but also "Midnight Cowboy," "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and "The Cider House Rules."

And the show has taught me so much:

It's shown me what a man with a cannon in his chest can do.

It's taught me that the quickest way to a girl's bed is through her parents. Have sex with them and you're in.

And most importantly, it's taught me that the Dave Matthews Band doesn't rock.

So now, or more accurately another year or so, my education can continue.


LF: $103.35

An Inconvenient Shame

"Florida Gov. Jeb Bush met with scientists last week to discuss the possible connection between global warming and increased hurricane activity, but said he’ll pass on seeing Al Gore’s global warming documentary 'An Inconvenient Truth.'

'No, I’m not going to do that,' he replied when asked by a reporter if he’d see the movie.

Bush then offered a short review of the new movie 'X-Men: The Last Stand,' which he called 'excellent.' "

-- NexsMax.com

Typical.

I'm really not surprised. Today I watched Al Gore's cinematic presentation on global warming -- it didn't really give me much more information that I hadn't already read as a copy editor or researched my own on the Internet. But the film was really eye-opening nonetheless. The move was part slideshow, part indictment, part confession -- and it really gave an unexpected look at Gore himself.

I couldn't help but ask myself "What if?" What if he had won 2000? Would the country be in a better place than we are now?


Who knows. But if he had won, I guess he wouldn't have appeared in one of my favorite episodes of "Futurama," a global warming episode called "Crimes of the Hot," which was written by his daughter Kristen, where he was introduced as "the inventor of the environment and first emperor of the moon: Al Gore," and also my favorite all-time quote from him, which you can hear by clicking on my blogger profile and playing the audio clip.

How could this man have lost to W? Hell, he couldn't carry his own state!

As I sat in the movie theater, which was about 95 percent empty, I felt sad that he is not my president, and sad that he isn't running in 2008. He wants to continue his fight against global warming, and that makes me sad, too.

Sad because as well-done as his film is, the only ones who will see it are the ones who don't need educating/convincing. I told people in the newsroom that I had gone to see "An Inconvenient Truth." I was laughed at, and told by several that they would make a point of not seeing the film. And what do they have against Al Gore?


He's a Democrat. Never mind that he's presenting the issue as a moral dilemma rather than a political one. (OK, he does take some shots at the Bush Administration, and even puts in a clip of Oklahoma's own Jim Inhofe, calling global warming the "greatest hoax ever perpetrated on the American people."

And that makes me feel it's just as well Al Gore wasn't elected president in 2000. I wonder whether our country deserves him.


LF: $102.82

The best job I ever had

It's amazing how quickly I forget things.

An innocuous e-mail conversation with kc brought up something I hadn't thought about in maybe five years: working in the theater. I told you about my worst jobs. Now I'll tell you about the best.

In 2000 I was getting ready to finish my film degree and looking at grad schools. I've said before how bad my grades were in college, but at this point my GPA had been repair to the point were it wouldn't have been near impossible. But there just aren't a lot of graduate film programs out there, even fewer with a screenwriting program. So to increase the odds of extending my school career buy another half-decade, I started looking into playwriting MFA programs. And that led me to volunteering for a theater company.

That summer I worked on running crew for "Six Women with Brain Death, or Expiring Minds Want to Know," a musical by Oklahoman Mark Houston.


It was such a great show. It was fun to watch and so much fun to do, even though it was so demanding. Wearing all black I got to do set changes between scenes, and twice during the show I had maybe 45 seconds to run from backstage to the top of the auditorium to operate the second spotlight. The second time I did it I didn't have to go back down. I got a great viewpoint to watch the finale every night, and even though, including rehearsals, I saw it over a hundred times, it never got old.


The official cast party was held at home of Phil, the stage manager, and Don, the crew chief. The fifteen unofficial cast parties were held mainly at Galileo's in Oklahoma City's Paseo arts district, with the exception of one or two held at On the Border when we were in the mood for margaritas.

And it wasn't until the last show that I found out I was getting paid for my efforts: a whopping $50. I felt like I was stealing. And the bonus: the theater company director wanted me to be sound operator for "As Bees In Honey Drown."

That was an unremarkable show, except that the girl with the blue hair, Katy, was really hot (trust me -- the picture nor the wig do her no justice). I also had less time to enjoy being with the crew; school was back in session and I was also working at the paper. But this shows how much I loved working there: I missed the first two games of OU's 2000 national championship season to work that show.

But I didn't get offered a spot on the crew in CST's next production: "Deathtrap." That was disappointing to be sure. Until I found out I didn't get offered because they had me in mind for light board operator in "Les Liaisons Dangereuses," starring the very cool Alley Mills, whom you all know as the mom from "The Wonder Years."



Yes, for the entire first day on the set during the rehearsals I kept thinking of her as Kevin's mom -- right up until the point she yelled "Oh fuck! LINE!" She really was a nice lady.

And her husband was cool too: Orson Bean, who was so awesome as the boss in "Being John Malkovich." And if I had known then that he was the voice of Bilbo Baggins in the animated version of "The Hobbit" I would have developed a man-crush on him on the spot.

That show was a lot of fun, too. And it only ran one weekend, so it was two weeks of work while OU was on the road or on a bye week, and it paid $100 because it was a Stage Center production.

And what show was next? "Over the River and Through the Woods." But I can't tell you anything about that. When they asked me whether I'd be available, and of course I said no. By that time I had added journalism as my second major; next semester I was to be entertainment editor. I wasn't going to have time.

What disappoints me now, looking back, is that I remember during rehearsals for "Six Women," when we were working well past midnight trying to get ready for opening night, I thought to myself how much I loved the theater. I should have found it earlier in life, but it was lucky I had found it then. I promised myself that wherever I ended up after leaving OU, I would stay involved with the theater.

Obviously, I broke that promise.

That December was when I got the internship in Boston: my mealticket. Which, working nights and weekends as a copy editor, meant the only theater I could hope for was catching a Sunday matinee.

Now, as I take my career path on yet another direction, I think it's for the best I forgot my stage dreams as quickly as I got them. Journalism did take me to three corners of the country, whereas theater probably would have gotten me as far as northwest Arkansas, and I would have made even less money than I would have with film. You can even tell where I am now: I write "theater" rather than "theatre," unless part of a proper noun.

I love "Six Women," but if the show is ever playing near me, I don't think I'll go. There's no way it would be as good for me.

Same with working for a theater company again. I think it would be different now. I'm different now. Maybe someday I'll be called back to the theater, but for now the theatre is dark.


LF: $102.82

Inns and outs

I thought I was finally free.

In the past week and a half, not only did my apartment lease in Tulsa run out, but my place in Lawrence has been rented for the rest of the summer. The financial obligations are gone.

One problem, though: For now, I'm still working at the Tulsa World.

I actually tried commuting from OKC. But 300 miles round trip put a hell of a lot of miles on the car. Going back to school means my Honda needs to last another couple years. And putting 7,000 miles a month on my car isn't helping.

For anyone who's driven up the Turner Turnpike into Tulsa, you notice all these cheap motels. They all offer weekly rates, and one even has three- and four-day rates. Considering I go to OKC every weekend, a four-night stay would actually make sense. I mean, for less than what I was paying for my Midtown apartment, I would get a room with maid service, cable TV and all bills paid.

I got a chance at a test run at this motel, the Interstate Inn, when I was given the wrong shift on a Monday, having to work too early to be able to drive home at 1 a.m., then come back to work an noon.

Several of you have heard this story already: The room was a bit small, maybe a little larger than a cargo van, and a shower/bathroom the size of a broom closet. What was disappointing was I found no movie network while channel surfing.

So after I got off work that night at 1 a.m., I went to my room and turned watched Adult Swim and read my copy of "The Phantom Tollbooth." As it got close to 4 a.m. I needed to turn in. For some reason I flipped through the channels one more time, this time stopping on a station with a topless women jumping up and down.

Maybe there is a movie channel, I thought.

Oh, it was a movie channel. It was "The Erotic Network."

Porn.

Harcore porn.

I didn't even know it was legal to show that kind of stuff in Oklahoma. My reaction was to be a little freaked out and a bit pissed. Freaked out because the Tulsa World had done an article a few weeks earlier about the high number of registered sex offenders living in these motels along this stretch of I-44; it's one of the few places in the city they're allowed to live. Hardcore porn doesn't seem like the best thing to show them.

But why was I pissed? While I spent three hours with cartoons on TV while reading a children's book, I could have been watching porn!

Part of the deal of my mom buying me a new laptop was that I spend my workweek in Tulsa; she doesn't want me on the road that much. So last week I spent three nights again at the Interstate Inn.

I used to think of Tulsa as a very safe city. But there's a record homicide rate this year, and add what I already said about the sex offenders, well the stay in the seedy hotel for a few days had me a little on edge.

My first night there I got in just before 2 a.m. I was pretty tired, so I just had a bite to eat and turned in. At 4 a.m., I got a phone call:

"Hullo?" I said.

"Hey, dude!" the voice on the other end said. "I saw you come in a little while ago. You still up?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, my taxi's letting me down. Can you give me a ride to work?"

You might think, "Oh, George ... you're tough. You were in a gang. You were a jock. You can do a nice thing, and if something does wrong, you can take care of yourself."

Yeah, right. I'm afraid years of working technical support and editing and designing for newspapers, where my shift involves me sitting on my ass for hours on end, means I'm no longer hardcore; my physique is now soft and doughy. I didn't know if he wanted to steal my car, take me away from my room so an accomplice can ransack it, or if he just wanted to make me his bitch.

"Um, I have to get up early in the morning," I said to him. "Sorry."

This might also be the place where you say, "Sure, George: You were 'sleeping.' When you had free porn?"

Well, the sex offending thing keeps the mind racing. Sure, I turned on the porn. But then you can't help but think how many others were in that very room, on that very bed, with those very sheets -- watching porn. Animal Planet helped keep my mind off that.

Really, what got me through it was Fa, a German shower gel kc and I bought at Brits, the English store in Lawrence. The back of the bottle has this claim: "fuhl dich selbstbewusst in deiner Haut und zeige deine Identitat."



I translated this to mean: "Specially engineered to be extra concentrated for additional protection whenever staying in seedy motels."

So what now? There's always Tent City on the other side of the Arkansas River.




LF: $101.82

London calling

I opened a savings account with ING when I was out in LA. I started with $50, and since I did it at their trendy cafe in West LA, they threw in an extra $25. So after not touching the account for two years it has grown to a whopping $79.35.

So what to do with this surplus? It is now officially my London fund. At the end of every post I put on here, I will list what's in my savings account. If it doesn't look like it's growing, pester me. If it ever goes down, well, that's when I'll need a kick in the butt unless I have a very good reason. The key is accountability.

And of course, donations to the London fund will be gladly accepted.



LF: $79.35

How different is a Globe from a World?

I got two e-mails yesterday from my Yahoo! account -- because that address has become so riddled with spam I don't use it that much. The first message was from a girl I worked with at the OU paper who's now interning at The Boston Globe, where I had my first internship back in 2001. She said people there had been trying to track me down, and they wanted to know where I was at. So I told her where I worked now and that I was planning to go to nursing school.

The next e-mail was one of the newsroom administrators at The Boston Globe, saying that while they didn't officially have any openings, they were tracking down former interns from the copy desk to see whether they would have interest in coming back. I clicked reply to say the same thing, but then stopped.

Just the other day I was telling kc on her porch how if I didn't get into nursing school, I had no backup plan. And the past two months I've had a really bad feeling that I was not going to get accepted. Then what? Stick around at the Tulsa World?

I've always said that if I were to stay in journalism, there's no place I'd want to do it other than Lawrence. But how often do they have openings there? Could I wait?

The Boston Globe was an amazing experience. Just imagine, whatever your field is, you're working with the best of the best, every night. The pay is top-notch, even when considering high cost of living, and you can't get much better in terms of places to live than New England. Could I stand to be halfway across the country from everyone in my life?

Should I close that door and possibly burn that bridge? I said in an earlier post that when in Lawrence I was just a shade of the copy editor I used to be. Well, in Boston is where I was at the top of my game. Maybe going back would rekindle something I lost? It's something that had to be considered. It's likely they'd never call, but it's good to have a plan B.

Then today I got this letter:



To: dbaines@globe.com
From: george@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Boston Globe

Donna,

Good to hear from you. The Boston Globe would be an amazing opportunity for any journalist; the paper is second to none in excellence. However, I will be entering nursing school in the fall, so I don't think it's in the cards for me.

Give everyone there my best.

George Z.

Getting schooled

I think everyone has to have done it at least once: There's something you're really trying to convince your parents to buy you, whether it be a new computer, a car (to go to and from school), a trip to Europe, a cell phone for calling home or whatever. The parent in question is just about to give a negative response to your request, to which you respond: But it's for my education!

I did a bad thing. My mom has been hassling me about commuting between Tulsa and Oklahoma City so much. The point I made to win the argument would be that I had no computer in Tulsa, and I am taking online courses. It is true, but really I do it because I'm mainly just bored up in Tulsa. The computer I gave my mom is in OKC, as well as cable TV which I help pay for.

But today my mom gave me an early birthday gift:



Now I feel really bad. Do I give it back? Do I use it to stay connected during stops at seedy motels as I continue my career transition? Do I use it to start writing again so this stupid blog can once again live up to it's name?

I'm such a bad son.

Know what I mean

I put this post up not too long after the incident happened, then took it down because I cooled down a bit. But I was telling my friend Wes about it, and he actually came up with a new last line for it, and I had to put it back up.

------

By George, I've had it!



I finally gave in and went to get a haircut. I went to the SuperCuts I always go to about once every two or three months, and because of that I never see the same people working there twice. This time I came in and the girl asked for my name to write on the ticket like they usually do. I answered and she said something I didn't quite get, so I asked her what she said.

"Do you own a jungle?" she asked. "Just trying to be funny."

At least "Georgie Porgie" stopped after grade school. But for some reason "George of the Jungle" has never stopped. I never saw the cartoon, and I didn't see the movie. But people always make that joke.

It wasn't funny when I was six years old. Or when I was 12. Or 15, 21, 28 or now that I'm 32 fucking years old. Her name was Melissa. So while people sing "George! George! George of the jungle, watch out for that tree!" to me about once every few months, I bet no one's ever asked her if she was a lesbian rock singer or acted like a teenage witch.

So if I ever go back to that SuperCuts and she's still there, if she hums one note I'm going to invade her home and employ a shock and awe campaign by shoving a cherry tree I chopped down up her Clooney.

Watch out for that tree!

------

I also decided to put it back up because of Erin's blog, showing how wise she was as a 13-year-old: "I know, that was mean. I don't care. I want to be mean."

Why shouldn't I be mean? I've been made fun of because of both my first and last names, my weight, my ethnicity, because I was mistaken for other ethnicities, because I was smart, because I was stupid, because I was me.

Can't I get a turn at being mean?

Major purchase ALERT!

Yesterday Kim tried to call me from Lawrence, but as my phone sometimes does, it didn't ring when she called while I was at work, and it didn't notify me of the voice mail until I stepped out of the building. And while it probably wasn't the phone's fault (actually, it helps prove my theory that this place is really dense), I went ahead and splurged on a new phone.



I look at it this way: I didn't spend $150 on one thing -- I spent it on three. In addition to it being a supercool slider phone with a bigger color screen and better Web capabilities, it's a decent cameraphone. I've traveled all over the country these past three and a half years, and I have no pictures to show for it. I've caught myself many times wishing I had a digital camera.

And since the iPod shuffle was kind of a bust (bought on the advice of Ann Gardner), it's also an MP3 player. It holds about 20 or so songs, and memory upgrades can be bought to hold a lot more.

So I'd like to think this phone isn't like a lot of other impulse buys I've had in the past (my last post titled "Major purchase ALERT!" was for the PDA I bought with which to write my novel, when for about $100 more I could have gotten a new low-end laptop). And as a way to show you how useful it is, here's a pic of what I look like now:

Nurse Strangehate (or: How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate the Media)

Warning: Blogging Gone Wild. This is a post that was supposed to be short, but got out of control. I decided to still post it for anyone who really wants to know why I'm getting out of journalism. Otherwise, it's just about a bunch of heartache that you might rather not read.

-----



Opening Internet Explorer on my mom's computer brought me to MSN's homepage, and I saw a link that led me to this Salon article. It's about how Stephen Colbert blasted both Bush and the Washington press, and the media's response is to just ignore it. Weird how "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report" seem to lead the way in terms of journalistic integrity.

After reading the article, I thought to myself, this is what drove me to hate being a journalist.

I was lured into journalism because it was about doing important work for the community, being a watchdog for society. But I had come to hate it because finally working in the real world it was about having clips and building a portfolio. I hated it because I found after working for real papers that journalism today is about journalists' egos, not serving readers.

But really, after thinking about it more, that's not true. It started hating it long before I left OU.

I mean, I was really thrilled when I got into journalism. I was always really excited to come into the newsroom, and always left way late, skipping classes and putting off homework, just so I could do more with the paper. I interviewed all sorts of people, from Bob Stoops to Dennis Hastert to Garrison Keillor. I thought I loved it.

I had a lot of fun my first year and a half doing it when I was doing entertainment stuff, but I have to say, looking back now, I don't think I ever loved journalism.

You see, after going through 15 majors and already one career change it was nice to finally see something in which I had a legitimate future.

I didn't love it. I just loved that I was good at it.

During my 11 months at the Lawrence Journal-World, I think people there were pleased with my performance. I feel like I had the respect of my collegues and bosses, and had I stayed I would have had a really good future there.

But I felt like a fraud because I was just a shade of the copy editor I used to be.

I felt I always had the support and encouragement to try different things and take risks in Lawrence, because I couldn't ask for better people to work with. But I was held back because couldn't get past how much I hate journalism.

I hate how it ruined my writing; everything's in succinct sentences now.

I hate how badly it is practiced in Oklahoma.

I hate how it robbed me of being blissfully ignorant of the world.

I hate how it's stolen my concept of a weekend, or the idea of staying up late.

I hate how after almost repairing my GPA to a 3.0, it brought me down to a 2.6.

I hate how I chose it over taking a chance at being a screenwriter/playwright.

I hate how the Kent Nichols, the Todd Baileys and the Dennis Andersons are the successes, but the Kelly Furnases, the Leigh Barnetts and Kim Callahans don't get the respect and rewards they deserve, and are even driven out of the business.

I hate how almost every friend I made at the OU paper turned into an enemy, and it was never over personal differences. It was because of either a job I got over them, or because I picked someone more qualified for a job either over them or someone whom they thought was a better choice. And I really hate how much of a bitter person this has made me, and how much harder it is for me to make new friends now.

But, oddly enough, what I don't hate is that I became a journalist. If I hadn't I wouldn't have gone to three different corners of the continental U.S. And I wouldn't have made the friends I did make.

And without journalism I don't think I would have discovered nursing.

I do have fears about nursing. I'm not afraid that I'll find that I'll hate it, like I did with journalism. But I'm afraid that I won't be good at it. I mean, pride in my work aside, if I'm not good at it, I'm potentially putting lives at risk.

I really hope I'll be a good nurse. Because if I come to find I was better at being a journalist than I'll ever be as a nurse ...

Well, that's something I'd really hate.

I have been eggs-communicated

Since Sister Callahan has basically threatened to whack my hands with a ruler like a nun, I guess I better post.

Well, to update what's been going on, the move isn't going to happen. I found out at the end of last week. I ended up tumbling into a depression that I combined with alcohol to get really drunk last weekend.

I think last Saturday I drank maybe 3/4 of a bottle of Seagram's 7 while fixing 7 and 7's, which I consumed during episodes of "Six Feet Under." I fell asleep at about 4 a.m., and awoke just before 8 a.m. with a weird desire to go to Mass.

The problem I had was that I don't know where any Catholic churches are in Tulsa, I don't have a phone book nor Internet access. But I still dressed up and started driving around town looking for a service.

Let me just say that whenever "The Sopranos" is on, I always have a feeling that I should be a better Catholic. I guess since I used that analogy for my situation this makes sense.

Anyway, I passed maybe 15 Baptist, five Lutheran, three Methodist churches and one synagogue. I drove all over Tulsa and ended up two blocks from my apartment at an all-you-can-eat breakfast. I didn't eat all that much because I started feeling a bit dehydrated and maybe a bit hung over, so I bought a big bottle of water, went home and drank it, then slept till just before 4 p.m. when I had to be at work.

My friend Austin said I should include that experience in some future story I write, but I'm dubious. He thinks there's something poetic about looking for the Holy Spirit and instead finding scrambled eggs and French toast.

But for now I'll just try to be content where I'm at. The money here's better than anything else I could get right now, and if there's anything positive about my situation I guess it's that I at least live right next to a great place to get breakfast for $5.99.

War stories

OK, probably most of you have heard what happened last week, and I've spent a mostly sleepless weekend trying to figure things out. I've come to one conclusion:

This means war.

But because of certain policies it is not yet wise to post about whom I am declaring war on. A snippet from "The Art of War:" "... hide yourself, making yourself inscrutable to opponents."

You can get fired for bloggin about work, but what about blogging about blogging about work?

Anyway, pretend Tony Soprano is my war correspondant. This will be in terms of the North Jersey mafia. Organized crime and journalism -- it's about the same.

Yes, and to help me go to the mattresses, I've got a copy of Sun Tzu's tome.

"A military operation involves deception. Even though you are competent, appear incompetent. Though effective, appear ineffective."

From here on out, I will seem to be the most incompetent, ineffective Wiseguy on the Arkansas River.

It begins.