Gods Themselves

(Title taken from a band that ripped off a sci-fi writer. Because I am a loser, I remember that it was either Asimov or Bradbury. I forget which, because I'm not that much of a loser.)

Okay, I promised pictures, so here's an old one:



That was the time (a mere few weeks ago) that Renata and I decided to make a mother's day cake from a prepackaged mix. It came out tasty, but visually quite displeasing. We had to bake two cakes and stack them, and they both had oddly slanted edges like the base of a cone and we couldn't decide on a frosting flavor, so we compromised. We also bought one can of microwave icing and one can of regular, and we microwaved it for too long so it melted. To use the Patwa-hated phrase, it was very ghetto.

So today I had a good time avoiding everyone I know and being a misanthropist and then I reverted to my other self and mock-flirted with Evan and Douglas and had a dozen people over at my house. They recorded random stuff on my tape splitter and ate ice cream and talked about music. The walls themselves shook with sound; the floor reverberated. Walking across the apartment I would hear three or four different songs being played simultaneously. I danced and served ice cream and watched everyone file out after a few hours and ate bellpeppers and felt nice.

And then I reminisced the days when I actually made an effort to learn to play the guitar--long gone, as I'm a crappy guitarist--and the close of another year (they came here because it was the last rock & mythology meeting of the year, and we were to broke to buy individual ice cream cones.) Two years of high school, two years of friends, two years of being abandoned by departing senior classes. My play is being read tomorrow. My two leads cancelled and I had to draft new ones, which was easy because some people volunteered, and I decided on the spot while talking to her to read Ellen's part myself.

Then Renata came home and played Bridge Over Troubled Water on the piano, complete with reverberating improvised trills, chords, solos, I'm not even sure what, and turned the empty apartment into a cathedral. DaSilva wants her to jam with his band this summer, but she's too shy and says she's not good enough. I think this is ridiculous, as she's just as good as any of them, and is probably the best keyboardist they've played with.

So I'm feeling a little musical right now; can you blame me? This is the direct result of having Alex, Burke, Lucas, Matt, Clark and Zack and Chloe (okay, they didn't contribute to the musical-mood-ness that much, but they're sweet) all at my house at the same time. I'm revisiting amazing concerts in my head: Robert Plant, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan (three times now!), Johnny and Edgar Winter, The Who, R.E.M., Television, Patti Smith... the list is getting kind of lengthy. I've even met a few of them (Donovan, JB, some lesser people) and I followed a guy around the Christmas Market for about ten minutes until I realized that he wasn't actually Roger Daltry. (I gave my Government Mule and Almond Brothers tickets away, but I may get to see them again anyway.)

I've also got some good gigs lined up, the most prominent two being Brian Wilson's Smile tour at Jones Beach and Paul McCartney at Madison Square, and I just got another piece of good news: Ringo Starr tickets go on sale tomorrow. My mom is trying to get some. I'm so excited I can barely type, although I'm doing my best not to embarrass myself again.

The sad thing about it--and the cool thing--is that I rarely buy tickets for myself. Sometimes I go with friends, but two thirds of the time I'm just presented with the tickets when my parents decide they're interested. I'm not complaining, because it's really quite incredible, but it's still a little odd to see the gods of the music world while your dad puts in his earplugs and your mother adjusts the collar of her black two-piece suit. Meanwhile, your porn-star boyfriend sits at home playing computer games and drawing anime.

Not exactly picturesque, but hey...

The weird thing about it is that at fifteen I've seen at least a third of my idols that still live, and I've already made plans to see more of them. This is one of the advantages of living in New York and having friends with connections, and music-geek parents (Footnote: Steve B. actually managed to burn out the lazar on his Mac G4 laptop burning disc after disc for his massive hundred-CD internet "trades"). I've even met some playwrites and writers and actors and such. Last week I got to shake hands with Esmeralda Santiago and Mike Franzini.

It's not like I'm unusual, either. It's New York. My mom saw Mick Jagger and Cher in the same day once. I met Krist Novoselic (at a book signing for Of Grunge and Government) and saw Television in the same day. New Yorkers simply have this advantage. We see celebrities and interesting people on an everyday basis. It's a little strange, really. People's parents grill me about things when I go out of state; my uncles want to know if I've seen their old idols, and thanks to the city my parents are more outrageous now than when they were teenagers. (Not that that's saying much. My mom hadn't finished a beer by herself until she finished college.)

It's kind of creeping me out. Our school harbors this mentale amongst us that we can all succeed with relative ease because all of our parents have; they have to, to send us to Friends and everything. We see Susan Sarandon fussing over Mile's hair and don't bat an eye. (Okay, I do bat an eye. But I try not to.) It's not unusual to have bestesellers at our neighborhood bookstore; it's not strange to see our idols at the supermarket or in the gym. Hell, H. sold Uma Therman lemonade when she was little. She used to live in the same building as Joey Ramone.

Every native New Yorker has their story: a friend who let Bob Dylan sleep on their sofa for half a year, a parent whose clientele list encompasses half the movie industry (you know who I'm talking about), friends who made it, friends who almost made it... even our teachers are successful. Camille is a published poet. Donovan has an article in Harper's. Ron wrote an opera. Jennifer's plays are read all over the city. Will we match our teachers' successes?

It's really creeping me out. Is it strange for a fifteen-year-old to wonder whether she'll make it as a writer before she falls asleep each night, or is it stranger of her to believe that she has a chance, albeit a slim one, of success?

Don't expect much of my play, you guys. Because it's going to suck. I hate it, myself; it has no premise, little continuity, and a lot of cliches.

But come anyway.

If only out of pity for a starry-eyed dreamer whose proximity with fame and glorious success can only diminish, even if her talent as a writer increases.

And it will.

I'm doomed to a life as an unsuccessful novelist sleeping in people's living rooms. At least I have friends with futons and cool parents.

Maybe one day people will be excited to meet me.

(Footnote: This is not a "pity-me post." I'm not begging for assurance or compliments or anything; I'm not really upset or anything, anyway. It's a "here I am" post.)