I printed the contents of my first blog, a year long stint on Open Diary during my junior year of high school. I look back at what I wrote, at how I wrote, and I roll my eyes…a lot. I thought the silliest things were so devastating. This is how teenagers think, though.
I’m sharing an entry here about one Saturday night when I went out with my friend Aaron. Keep in mind that he and I were two awkward smart alecks with a love of musical theater coming of age in a culturally lacking town in South Texas. We were itchy and restless and easily amused. And self-important, oh yes.
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4/9/2000
Saturday nights are for the cultured, or at least people who need to stay busy. I’m a decorated member of that society. Furthermore, church every Sunday morning just isn’t as much fun when you haven’t had fun the night before.
After seeing American Beauty, I’ve noticed how little things do come together to make a beautiful moment. After being an aspiring writer for many years, I try to tie things together in symbolic, little bundles.
I was originally condemned to the worst sentence yesterday - “family time.” This time isn’t truly “family time,” because my mom works on weekends. “Family time” too often means going to a Home Expo or catching up on yard work with my dad. I’m nearly salivating at that description. Yawn.
I talked things over with my dad about my prioritization and potential, and then Aaron’s call interrupted the banal talk that always leaves me extremely burdened by possibilities.
We made plans to leave at 3:30 (4:00 capricious, or theater person, time). My curfew, now altered to accommodate even the most insomnia-plagued five-year-old, was 9:30. However, a wise man once said, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” (This is the sort of quote that would only make me grab the beast by its jaws and pull them apart. What is a “gift horse,” anyway? Horses smell. How about a gift Volkswagen Beetle, wise man)?
Aaron was actually only seven minutes late. (Applause). I was given a check to cash at the local convenience store, but I forgot about it. Memory struck when Aaron stopped to get gas, and I couldn’t cash the check there. We ended up driving to another convenience store where I had to explain the whole situation, give my driver’s license number, participate in a full cavity search, and pledge allegiance to Castro. Or something like that… The lady only had a five and ones. I knew at that moment I was true Dead Bohemian, because only a street performer would have such pitiful increments of cash.
[Aaron and I were obsessed with the idea of being artsy bohemians, despite the fact that we both shopped at the Gap, among other things. Ah, naivete.]
The Artfest was our first journey. It was hot and pretty disappointing. Just a bunch of wannabe Monets one step above paint-by-numbers. There was one nice jewelry exhibit. Aaron and I spiced things up by jay-walking, me constantly fixing the velcro on one of my platforms, and Aaron gaining, losing, and regaining a British accent…
The next stop was the heritage festival. It was so much fun. First, I bought a Chinese bracelet and Aaron decided to get a bindi painted on his wrist. He got black goop to decorate himself, and we went to a vintage clothing display. This was about the time that I was telling him he shouldn’t have gotten painted, since the design can last up to two weeks and we have regional competition this week.
Aaron accidentally smeared my white shirt with his body art. We were back to the booths. Aaron hoped that they would retouch his bindi design, since it now looked like diarrhea. I hoped I would be reassured that the paint was 100% washable.
No such luck. “Bindi” actually means “poopy design” in some language and I was told that even Clorox wouldn’t get the dye out. No ethnic cleansing here.
I got my palm read by a Chinese man. If he said he saw a stain in my future, I would know it was a crock and I could declare his practice a fleecing of America. I love that term. Fleecing of America, fleecing of America, ooh… Here’s the outlook: one true love of my life, good health, some sort of self-employment, at least two overseas journeys, no children, and high intelligence.
Aaron and I bought a fruit cup and fried green bananas. We pretended to like the plantains until we left sight of the vendors. Aaron left it by some car. We hope some rat really enjoys the multicultural snack.
We looked at a Western booth of belt buckles, cowboy hats, and fake jewelry, and heard the German singing group nearby announce the Chicken Dance. We waited and were inspired when I turned around to stretch and saw that the next city street was Fitzgerald Street. What a sign, double meaning intended! (Aaron later tried to convince me that I turned to think of my stained shirt, and that’s why I saw our street, so it was a good thing we got the stupid bindi painted on him). By the time the accordion player started his whiny chords, we were onstage dancing the Chicken Dance. We were the only young people without leiterhosen.
[We were also smitten with the idea what we were the reincarnations of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Yes, people really do get this nerdy in real life.]
After that, Aaron bought another fruit cup, I bought an African necklace and Aaron went to the Chinese booths again to get “Fitzgerald” written in Chinese characters. I should mention about now that we were going by the names Zelda and Scott that evening, except when I forgot. Oops.
Aaron told the Chinese woman at the booth that his last name was Fitzgerald, and one Chinese lady started saying her last name was Fitzgerald, too. Aaron told an elaborate lie with some facts about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life, like about how we was born in England and his family moved to North Caroline when his mother became ill. I introduced myself with my real name, though I should have said I was Zelda. Scott and I could be dating and she seemed to think Aaron and I were anyway.
She asked if I was from England, too, and told Aaron she had a floral shop. She was so ready to become Aaron’s distant cousin-in-law that she asked for a local phone number to reach him.
I nearly died when Aaron gave her the local Dairy Queen number.
Note to readers: This is why a good literary background is important. 1) You won’t be fooled by more intelligent kinds of pranksters. 2) You can be a part of the fleecing of China (and America).
Aaron parted ways with Auntie Jing-Mei Woo Ling Fitzgerald and we decided to walk down Fitzgerald Street…
I am dying laughing! OH MY GOODNESS. I’m going well, very tired. How are you. I’ll send a real e-mail. Don’t respond to this commment….
BUT THAT POST IS KILLING ME! I needed that. WHat’s was I thinking…It’ reminds me of the time(s) that I told my father, “You don’t understand! It’s harder for my generation.”
LOL. Oh dear.