DeepThroat identified? I took the news like Joel Achenbach apparently did:
The truth is, Deep Throat is more interesting as an enigma, as a Mystery Man. Uncertainty is liberating. In foggy realms our imagination and creativity are unfettered. If D.T. is just a top FBI official, it's a huge letdown. ...If Mark Felt really is Deep Throat, all we can say is: Oh. Him. Um, now what do we do?
Yeah. Like that. I preferred the mystery.
Sigh.
Sometimes I just... I just have to do this. Image on the way.
Sometimes I just stare at that. That's where I'll be on the night of July 15. That's the castle whose Great Hall JKR will appear in at the stroke of midnight.
It doesn't seem real, and I guess it's just not supposed to. Here it is at night, and look at the round towers. Sigh.
BTW, I have a big post from this weekend almost ready to go, but this first, because that one's not ready yet.
Anyway, I am very sore right now, because I got it in my head to take Pilates. I did for the first time two weeks ago and was so sore that I was put off exercising from then until last night. LOL! I've been pretty good about it of late, but this class is truly something else. It's taught by this towering, willowy, graceful, black woman named Tina. My sister used to dance with her in shows, and at first glance she gives the impression of being this Zen, placated, exercise diva who could not bother to be ruffled about anything and who will run a nice, leisurely, calm, stretchy class, where you could sip your green tea while slowly expanding the limits of your muscles.
No. She's a lunatic.
She first uses her limber limbs to intimidate you into submission, because if it looks THAT easy surely it's at least manageable. Right. Then as you're laying on the floor huffing and puffing and doing your four hundred thousandth crunchey type move, she starts walking amongst the class, grabbing your ankles and making like Gumby with them.
So, then, while you are becoming very intimately acquainted with the birthmark on the back of your knee, she starts her comedienne routine.
The music starts blaring, and it is NOT that uber Yoga master, meditative, stones-and-waterfalls stuff. No, it pounds through the floors. It says something like, "Put - down - the beat, uh!" and she starts chanting "Put - down - the cheescake - uh!" between snaps of her fingers. "Put - down the Burger KING! Put - down - the ice CREAM - oh yeah you know what I'm sayin' y'all!"
The laughter convulsions start, and as soon as they do, "Twenty more, y'all!" she shouts. "Y'all feel that, now? Good - forty more, y'all!"
Numbers lose meaning, they are teases and meaningless benchmarks. She says "four more" and it might be four, five, three, eighty, or six hundred thousand. And sometimes it is six hundred thousand.
The males in the class - of which there are two - are "male species."
"I see y'all over there, male species!" she said to the guy closest to me, who sounded like he might be about to cry with the pain she was inflicting. "I know you thought we was up in here with our little yoga mats! Ummm-hmmm, our little girly yoga mats!"
And just when you're about dead, on your five hundred and ninety-nine thousandth crunch, she pulls out the big guns, the endless hysterical rants on relationships, men, and money.
"Y'all want those men in their Mercedes! Y'all, they'll take you out in their little Mercedes but you'll be in the IHOP parking lot, you know what I'm sayin'? I know you DO! Wait for the Toyota Corolla, ladies! Go for the guy in the Honda CIVIC! Y'all don't want to wait the four years for him to get through med school, y'all want your Mercedes now! Sure he got a Mercedes but he lives with his mama!"
"Every time I get mad at my honey I just look at his buttocks and his shoes, uh huh, you know that's right. 'GO AWAY!'" she screams like a banshee, re-enacting her latest interaction with her hubby. "'Oh, come back, sweetie, come back here with those size eleven and a half shoes', mmmmm, mmm, mm. The butt and the shoes, you know what I'm sayin'?"
I cannot do shoulder stands, because I have certain - shall we say glands - that rise up my chest and suffocate me - so when I was just sitting there laughing, she came over to see if I was okay. I simply pointed at my chest.
"Oh I know you ain't complaining! I know you ain't! Give some to me, girl, P.O. Box 40562, any time you want! Y'all, she's complaining!"
And then during a really intense ab period (who am I kidding, the whole thing is an intense ab period):
"I know ya'll who stopped have your 18-packs already and don't need to do these sets, y'all have your 10-packs and are ready for summer, mm-hmm - I see y'all! I see y'all! I see y'all like a flip-flop in Iraq!"
I laughed so hard I hit my head against the wooden floor.
"I see y'all like a cannoli on Hylan Boulevard!"
"I see y'all like a dollar on Canal Street! DOLLA!"
"I see ya'll like a chicken wing in HARLEM!"
At this last I just curled on the side and gave in to the laughs, all of which hurt now, because somehow, in the middle of all her entertaining, we had managed to work our asses off.
I love her and hate her. It's so cool.
All right. It was a weekend of much fun and babies and more fun and driving and more babies and more more more more more driving, so let me run through it briefly before I get to the real point of this post:
1. I got to see David in a show. A real one. "Secret Garden." Such is his talent that even though I had seen him right before the show began and knew what he was wearing, and knew what role he was playing, and when he arrived on stage thought to myself, 'Oooh! David!' I was completely fooled by his British accent, suddenly brusque speechand evil JackAssness acting, all of which was helped tremendously by my lack of prescription eyeglasses. So, because I could not clearly make out the lines of his face, I chalked my initial recognition of him up to my not knowing there would be many stuffy Englishmen in this show, and decided I hadn't seen him after all.
Only, a few minutes later, there were no more stuffy Englishmen. Only this one evil-sounding one, who was certainly tall enough and had the right size feet to be my friend David, but had lost all other manner of him. My mouth fell open. It was him after all and he could ACT! And not in that, "Oh, you're my friend and you can act, let me pet you," way, no, in the "Goddamn it I can't wait to see him after the show so that I can smack him for being so evil" way (I did smack him, while hugging him and proclaiming "EVIL EVIL EVIL!").
And then he opened his mouth and sang. I told him after the show that I demanded a sound board recording so that I could have him and that song in my iPod. I've heard him sing before - not like that. I�ve seen him perform before � not like this.
To put it in the ultimate perspective: He was so good that while I was still jumping on him in congratulations, a very cute boy (one of those shiny skinned, tight black top-wearing boys who look like they have Brooklyn in their roots but Vidal Sassoon in their hair) came over and tried to get into his...life. "Ohhh you were sooooo greeeeat," this boy cooed. "That was sooo fantaastic." Maybe he said it like that, but it's more likely that he said it normally and I'm merely recreating the teasing of David I did at Starbucks later as I recounted this episode.
The night ended in David's apartment with his friend Caroline and his female roommates, after the most rousing conversation on feminism, society and other...female and male topics...I've had in quite a while. Those are the Yalies for you!
2. The William. Because after the David, I drove the Hours down the Empty Highway through the Butt Valley of the night, arriving in Salem at 4:30 am and only finding the right house because B.K. and Kirky had remembered to leave the porch light on. I couldn't find my OWN house in that darkness, and it was just like them to think to put that light on before they went to sleep. I stole into the house and tried to get my bag up the stairs without clomping like a clogger, but Kirky was up anyway. "Hi - go get some sleep!" she said in that motherly way only mothers know how to do, so after a brief hello I stumbled upstairs and into my bed, which had been thoughtfully laid out and readied. Drive through the night and end up home, that's how it felt.
So we had a lovely, lovely time watching the William turn one, chasing him around his living room, throwing balls with him, signing with him, eating ice cream with him, getting dirty with him, tickling him, taking pictures of him, laughing with him, kissing his gold-threaded head, and pushing him around in his new red convertible. Poor kid. No one loves him. He gets no attention. No one ever pays him any mind. HAH! Everyone there had dropped their lives to be there on his special day, his first and most important birthitudinal milestone, that had the good grace to fall on a weekend - and his spirits yesterday morning said he knew exactly that. A bright little bundle, he was, though in fairness, usually like that, he is.
3. As that last sentence might indicate, I've got some Yoda on the brain. Yeah, all that, "I'll let the real fans go first" crap went right out the window when I woke up on Saturday to BK's, "Want to see Star Wars tonight?" Hah. Okay! So me and Heather, BK and his parents and Nate and Ally trekked over to the cineplex and waited an hour in line to make sure we got good seats.
And that's what I really want this post to be about. THERE WILL BE SPOILERS! Fair Warning!
I loved it. It's taken a day to sink in, but the more and more I think about it, the more and more in love with it I'm becoming. I want to see it once more, to get it, but what I think I want to do more is go back and watch the first (second?) three.
See, I don't know Star Wars. I was only watched the first three a few years ago, before "Attack of the Clones" came out. Kathleen and I did a nine-hour marathon on a 13" television. We enjoyed ourselves, eating popcorn and twizzlers and marshmallows, but the overall ambience of the experience didn�t exactly smack of the way in which fans of the series are made.
I mean, I did love it, and I could see at that time why it was so popular, why it became a phenomenon. But I put it away, and lost the details. Leia was born where? She's a who? Who's her dad? And Luke - right, right, there was some igloo house and two suns. And Yoda was one of the last members of some order. And there were forces and those light sabers are cool and, oh, Vader's his dad. Okay. Sure, I got this Star Wars thing. Sure. Big fight, evil bites it, heroic redemption, etc etc etc. Am I out of popcorn?
Howdy from William DeLong's first birthday party...lots of pictures (unedited, just thrown up onto Gallery, Kristin :P) right here, featuring the boy in his new red convertible (hehe, I HAD to), and in his new sandbox. One of my favorites is this one, with his Uncle Nate, who always makes him laugh.
"He is f---ing with us numerically, isn't he...'Children, count up to 10!' 'Uh, four five six...one two three...10!"
"What's that?"
"It's the Death Star!"
"What does it do?"
"It does DEATH! Outta my way buddy!"
-eddie izzard, 'circle'
I'll see Star Wars. I will, in that calm sort of, wait-until-I-can-get-a-ticket way. I'm thrilled about it, because it's been going on for almost 30 years, since before I was born - this is the seventh book of HP for the Star Wars fans - but I'm just not in it like the real fans are. I'll sit back and let them go first. This is tremendous for them, and I'm thrilled for them. A colleague today, who is usually dry and completely unimpressed with everything, was running around counting to everyone who would listen how many times he would see the movie this weekend (four; tonight at 10:30, tomorrow ditto, and two matinees over the weekend). Another came over and showed me the NY Times review, and said it convinced him there was nothing really to see, so he just didn't want to go - and I was sad for him, because he didn't get it.
The movie might suck. If one and two are any indication, it will. But that's not it. That's not it. IT is sitting in the theater while those words disappear into that historic vanishing point, it's 'I have a very bad feeling about this,' it's the force being strong with that one and this other one being the last hope but wait, there is another. It's a long time ago and far far away - and wait! It's not! Because it's over. Goddam, is that exciting.
Have a great time, Star Wars fans. I'll know how you feel in a few years.
This week, I'm more glad than I've ever been for people who understand me.
Friday, when I staggered into my house, half-dead from the no-sleep, all-excitement day, I said hello to my roommate ("...iiii..." was what it really sounded like) before stomping up the stairs, throwing my stuff at the foot of my bed, and then collapsing upon said bed. I plugged in and turned on my phone, and called the few dear friends I hadn't yet spoken to on the phone that day, because we kept missing each other and also because my phone had been acting like it was the only hardware available at a telethon.
David picked up the phone. And started laughing.
In that insane, like-Sirius way I've been doing all over the past 10 days.
"I mean..." he said.
"I mean..." I said.
"Okay. Go to sleep," he said.
"Okay..." I said.
But of course I didn't. Of course we had to have our play-by-play, for just a few moments. But the laugh, and those two words, were all that was necessary between us.
I got to tell Kathleen personally, before she actually read the news (I had instructed her to CALL ME ASAP and she obliged), and she had the same sort of 10-minute waiting period before it really sunk in. She said, "Huh. Oh. Wow. Okay. Wow!" in this dazed, "I don't really believe you but I'll hang out here until you get your meds" voice. And then 10 minutes later it struck, and we had that insane-laughter conversation, too.
I can't even explain how nice it is. How easy and wonderful. No worries, nothing but their pure pride and excitement shining through, no eggshell-walking, no stroking of egos, no feeling bad because I've achieved something good. No pettiness. No one I spoke to yesterday would ever begrudge me. It was nice, because I've been made to feel bad before, and I now fully realize what a terrible thing that is to do to a person.
Because while the reaction to all this has been amazing, and beyond what I expected in terms of the warmth pouring in, it has highlighted certain things, and shown me how small some people can really be...and the point of mentioning it, the thing I realized yesterday that was so uplifting...is that I've ceased to care. I'm happy for the revelation, I'm happy for the information, I'm happy to know who I'm dealing with and yes, a little annoyed at and disappointed in those small ones, but - other than that, on the whole, this has created this soft cushion around me, and I spent yesterday, and have spent today, warm inside it. Smiling contentedly. Laying in the hammock my roommate set up in the backyard, staring up at the trees, and having nothing in my mind whatsoever.
It's new.
And while the interview might have pushed it there, it has nothing to do with the interview.
It has to do with having those people who know. Who know. Who have nothing else in their hearts but pride. Who know that when the tables are turned it's the exact same situation.
It just makes those others look...not small but miniscule. Insignificant. Microscopic. When you have these friends nothing else touches you, certainly not negativity and ill-spiritedness. If you could find a way to make yesterday's news negative, then that cocoon simply isn't there. At least, it's not the same, true kind, the kind that makes negativity seem so stupid. Even the little bitching I did was in a more resigned, "huh, isn't this interesting" tone than anything else. Friday has made me do nothing but smile, and about nothing to do with Jo Rowling.
And so, I fell asleep on my bed, in my clothes, for 14 hours, untouchable.
And now, on the first Sunday in a year and a half in which I donothaveWORKTHANKYOU, I am back to the old grind. Working on Leaky's next big thing. Like nothing happened. But better. :)
Wow, there are a lot of you here today.
For those of you who don't come through Leaky, read the last few posts and then come back and you'll know what I'm talking about.
It has been a long day, and it's not through yet. The phone is now off, so I can write my story for work and go home and find a cold compress for my head. The phone has been ringing like it is its job (well, it is its job), the e-mails are overflowing, the comments and posts and LJ posts and...and so much more...I knew it would be a day of overwhelming, and I tried to prepare myself for it, but I could not.
I don't really know what to say here. This is the culmination of more than four years of work. I mean, I even dare to hope it's not the actual culmination, but at THIS point, it is. How do you deal with something like that?
I think back to how I got into this fandom - Emily and Rebecca and Teri, that's how. I met them on a message board just when I was about to give up on finding intelligent, mature fans. They're the ones who sucked me in and are wholly responsible for everything that happened after that. God, that's when I really didn't even know that the wand-order mistake had been noticed by anyone but me. LOL! Anyway, I still love them, and still talk to them all, and that's just so special. I actually spoke to Emily on the phone today, as she was someone who has been so sure, for so long, that this would happen (OK, I know many of you were, but she's been particularly supportive, not that I don't appreciate everyone's confidence), that I needed to bust out about it with her. I still have so many phone calls to make. I feel like I've won Academy award - it's a day of so much concentrated love and appreciation, both pouring in and out, that it's depleting me fully.
And outside of all that, I've gotten, today, a marriage proposal, a date request, and a random call, I still don't know from whom, using the relay service that hearing-impaired people use, to tell me that they were Jo, and they were just kidding, and I can't come to England after all, and that they had to go and call Emerson and tell him, too. I just lauuughed and lauuughed.
My cheeks hurt from grinning, my eyes hurt from reading, my feet hurt from yesterday's heels, my stomach hurts from working out (hence the laughing is painful), I have not slept more than 45 minutes, I have a story to write about a cemetery cleanup (yeah, talk about the opposite end of the spectrum), and if someone offered me a pillow, I might not wake up until Tuesday.
But life? Oh, god. It's so good.
