I was flipping through a magazine the other day and came across an odd trio—punky pop princess Pink (say that three times!), Janis Joplin, and Renée Zellweger. It transpires that two movies about Janis Joplin’s life are in the works; one stars Pink, presumably for her singing (I can’t say, as I’ve never heard her); the other Zellweger, presumably for her acting (while she was fine in Chicago, ‘fine’ doesn’t really equip you to emulate the girl who could sing the blues).

And it struck me—biographical movies always come in pairs. The Jennifer Lopez Frida Kahlo versus the Salma Hayek Frida Kahlo; Colin Farrell and Leonardo DiCaprio as duelling Alexanders. Whether or not both movies make it to the theatre, let alone at the same time, you always hear about them in pairs. Could it be as simple, and intriguing, as a genuine response to zeitgeist? That the world is simmering and seething with the need for a movie about Janis Joplin or Alexander right then? I really doubt it. I think it’s more likely that the studios know that their biographies, not usually a genre that creates a lot of buzz, will get a lot more press if people can compare, contrast, and argue about the two leads selected by the two rival operations. After all, there isn’t too much more to discuss about a bio movie, unless it promises political impact or salacious new tidbits about the subject.

So, perhaps the studios coordinate these things deliberately - they send memos back and forth whenever someone proposes a new biography - or perhaps the first studio, casting about for a rival to gain greater exposure, does a little schmoozing at parties and tries to plant the seed:

Bob Paramount: So, man, how are you doing? We’re tuckered out, have such a big project underway, such a tangle. It’s practically a Gordian knot.
Joe Universal: Gordon Knott? Who’s that, some new director?
BP: No, no, I’m just saying it’s a complicated picture. A big picture! It’s going to be the biggest thing since Phillip of Macedon.

JU: Macedonia? I don’t know, man, no one wants to hear about the Balkans or whatever, it’s depressing.

BP: URRRRGH! What I’m trying to say is, we’re making an epic! The life story of Alexander the Great!

JU: Isn’t that the czar the commies killed?

BP: NO, you… I mean, no, friend. He’s this guy who conquered the ancient world.

JU: Oh, Julian Caesar?

BP: No, no, no! Younger! Blonder! More hair!

JU: Well, sounds like you have your tagline worked out there…

I have been informed in no uncertain terms that I must impart to you, o listening throng, the intelligence that two people who you probably don’t know have become romantically involved. ‘Ah,’ I hear you say at this intelligence, ‘most edifying. But, apart from the general joy and celebration at the coming together of two hearts, what import has this fact that you impart to me, the average reader?’ I shall tell you.

I have been friends with Party A, herein called Spunkmeyer to protect the innocent, for over five and a half years now. A bubbling, sensitive sort of person, full of whimsy and optimism, passion and melancholy. An Egypt enthusiast and embryo librarian. The sort of person who has Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse on her bookshelf alongside The Feminine Mystique and the world’s only copy of the mysterious Book of Cheese.

Party B, the imperious EMeta, on the other hand, has been in the fortunate circle of my acquaintance for the paltry span of five years. He is an engineer and a poet, a crafter of horrible puns, an agile-minded, emotionally aware, and generally puckish sort of rogue. The kind of person who carefully leads you along a trail of conversational bread crumbs until you fall into the joke he has gleefully prepared for you. The sort of person, but I have this only on hearsay, who appears in gold lamé BVDs in the university Rocky Horror.

It was, they estimate, and are in much more of a position to do so, four and half years ago that Spunkmeyer visited me on my university campus, beguiling my less interesting class periods by chalking quotes in her tall flowery handwriting all over the paths. It was then that EMeta, greeting his friend and sometime Mage storyteller, was introduced to the winsome Spunkmeyer. My fancy was caught. One of my many failings, long and carefully suppressed, the tendency to matchmake, siezed on their fanciful imaginations, their literary tastes, their whimsical natures, their idealistic romanticism, and said, “AHA!” No sooner had EMeta and Spunkmeyer smiled at each other than I was the evil scheming spider at the center of a web of fantasies. They were still exchanging pleasantries while I was pondering the probable hair color of their children.

With joy and smugness, then, I watched their friendship grow throughout the Spunky Sojourn. With barely-concealed glee did I give EMeta her address and swear to her excellence as a correspondent. However, absence makes the smug diminish, and in time, as the two settled quite comfortably into penpal status, my anticipation faded, and I filed EMeta and Spunkmeyer’s inevitable romantic destiny under ‘Good Idea Unrealized’, with several other matches, a novel idea or two, and a slightly wacky scheme for world domination.

Imagine then my excitement to discover this week that Spunkmeyer, in accordance with the Punctuated Equilibrium Theory of Life-Changes, has moved, started grad school, gotten several new jobs, joined a vegetarian co-op, and, as you may have gathered, at long last implemented Spunkmeyer and EMeta’s Inevitable Romantic Destiny. That’s one match down, a dozen or so to go… this can’t be good for my resolve not to meddle or matchmake…

MWA HA HA HA HA HA! Or, rather, congratulations, you crazy kids.

On Friday, I stopped by Nordstrom to pick up something I had pre-ordered at the Clinique counter. Now, some among my audience may not have the fascination with makeup that I do. I love to mess with color, play dress-up, experiment, prettify, and coo over my vast collection of shades. It’s kind of like shoes, but you can only wear one pair of shoes at a time, you can’t layer them, and they don’t give out free samples of shoes with any shoe purchase several times a year.

This last, most happy advantage of makeup was in fact in full swing Friday, which was why I’d pre-ordered. The makeup counters are a bit like the front row at a particularly good gladiatorial combat (ooooh, note to self - gladius, gladiolus - gladiolus bulbs to be planted in June. Right, I’m back now.), what with the shoving, and well, er, mostly the shoving. Which didn’t even happen at gladiatorial combats as far as I know. This simile has run its course. Reset!

So, gift time at a makeup counter is fraught with peril, with elbowing and careful maneuvering and smiling at the person who says she was before you with a smile made of glistening ivory hatred. Then, when you finally wait, lie, and crunch yourself to the front, you ask for the items you want, which will bring you up to the required purchase amount for the gift, and they’re out of at least one of them, because it is, after all, gift time. So! On a previous trip to the Makeup Mecca, I had taken up a friendly saleswoman on her offer of pre-ordering my items for gift time. My credit card would be charged, the items set aside before the ravening hordes descended, and all would be smooth and quick.

So I assumed it would be, when I swept into Nordstrom on Friday, eying flowery tanktops with lust and sticker-shock. But I was much mistaken. The lady with whom I’d placed the order was not in evidence, and the other ladies could not find my bag. Citing their uncertainty about whether or not my card had been charged, they sent me away with promises of a phone call tomorrow morning.

The call did not come. I called, the woman I needed was busy. She would call me back. I fumed a bit, watching my husband undertake a home improvement project much in the manner of an ambitious horse taking on a granary—with no forethought and every evidence of enjoyment. I ground my teeth a bit, and when, finally, my husband, standing on a chair and staring at a hole in the ceiling and a pile of insulation on the floor, suggested I relax and go back to Nordstrom, I agreed. After all, when, during Gift Time, would anyone have the time to make a call? I have seen the tumult, and I know it well.

I arrived at Nordstrom, that temple of capitalism, and passed into its cool, marble-flagged halls. My saleslady was there, and was, to put it mildly, mortified. She was dreadfully sorry that my pre-order had been mishandled, awfully sorry that I’d wasted the gas on Friday, and terribly sorry that her cohorts had sent me away empty-handed. Accordingly, I was weighed down not just with the cheerful colors and soothing skin products for which I’d come (and the purchase-with-purchase kit I’d been tempted into), but two of the free gift packets, three travel makeup brush kits, two lotion samples, a sample eyeshadow, a headband, a scar-repairing cream, two high-quality large cosmetic brushes, and a Nordstrom pedicure gift set. As she handed me a bag big enough for two pairs of shoes at very least, and I clutched it in front of me like Anne of Green Gables clutching her battered trunk, I stared, dazed. “Uh, you’re kind of leaving me glad there was a mistake,” I observed.

“That is the goal,” she smiled.

Oooooooh, I absolutely looooooove Nordstrom.

So I’m reading Ultimate Spider-Man #61 yesterday, and I did a little “stay good” cheer for Peter Parker’s friend Dr. Conners, who decided to ASK Peter for permission before studying his blood sample. All very ethical (but hardly standards-compliant, as NIH procedures require documentation—umm, nevermind.)

The point is, this morning it suddenly struck me that Dr. Conners will be in big trouble if anyone ever finds out from whence his sample sprang, because the cause of Peter Parker’s powers in the Ultimate universe is a bite from a spider treated with Osbourne Industries wonder-drug “Oz”, which is doubtless covered by several patents and probably a trade secret!

That’s when I realized that working at a research university warps your brain. And that I’m a big geek, but that much was not news.

Now, I’ve just been on a long winding trip through Central Washington, and I haven’t done any top ten lists in a while. This was inevitable.

Top Ten Suggestions for Washington State

10. Add ‘one at a time’ to ‘pass with care’ signs.
Should be a no-brainer, but if I see any more strings of cars crossing yellow lines in tandem like the title villain of Centipede, my head may explode.

9. New Highway Signs: Cute Horsie Ahead.
The international symbol would of course resemble My Little Traffic Safety Pony. This would ensure that susceptible drivers have time to steel their hearts before they are irrevocably distracted from the road.

8. Better cel-phone coverage.
Alternatively, I could switch companies, but I’m pretty lazy.

7. Insist on better regulated faux art in hotels.
Nothing really sucks the comfort out of a Comfort Inn like two identical queen beds with two identical cheesy fly-fishing prints above them. Make an effort, people!

6. More McMenamins.
Yeah, you heard me. Six? Six McMenamins? Where am I supposed to enjoy a porter in smoke-free surreally painted surroundings? Huh?

5. Improve ‘Stylist’s Prayer.’
I don’t know who publishes five paragraphs of prayer for hairstylists on cheerful sunflower backgrounds, but I can’t believe in the midst of all that glurge about ‘being a professional’ and ‘exposing the beauty within’ there was nothing about not burning people with curling irons. My skin is sloughing here!

4. Better signage for art exhibits.
If I hadn’t needed to use the bathroom, I would never have known that the Toppenish cooperative art classes “Introduction to Tagging” and “Advanced Tagging: Keepin’ It Rural” were having an exhibit in the Shell restroom. For shame! There were even signs outside the mini-mart claiming there was no public restroom! This is no way to promote the arts.

3. Invent more vegetables and fruits.
We’ve all been to Wenatchee, “Apple Capital of the World”, and Walla Walla, home of the Walla Walla Sweet Onion. But have you ever considered that EVERY town in the fecund stretches of rural Washington should have a fruit or vegetable? Toppenish could stop being “The Town of Historic Murals” and be the “Cantalemon Center of the Universe”! Get to hybridizing!

2. Spice up your welcome sign.
Welcome to Washington? Come on, that’s weak. How about, Welcome to Washington, Funny Place-Name Capital of the World!? Walla Walla, Cle Elum, Toppenish, Tukwila, Wenatchee, Mukilteo, Yakima? Kooskooskie? Are you not entertained?

1. Gimme back my sister, you punkass state!
C’mon, pack up Mr. and Mrs. Sledge and send ‘em down here! You’ve had ‘em for YEARS!

Disclaimer: I kid ‘cuz I love.

The Grey City I
The Grey City II
The Grey City III
The Grey City IV
The Grey City V
The Grey City VI

Carys was as tired as her sister when at last their flight rolled to a stop, and they dropped their burdens to lean against each other panting and almost sobbing.

“Carys,” mumbled Eirian, “I want to sleep. I want to sleep somewhere. Maybe a lilac bush, but I want to sleep…”

“You’re right dear, hush. You’re right. We’ll go to sleep, and in the morning we’ll find Hardock Street and our aunt and uncle.” Eirian, unaware of the menaces of Runners and being Moved On that haunted her sister, and evidently too tired to imagine other dangers, promptly sat down on a dry patch of roadside and laid her head on the carpet-bag. “No, darling, we must find somewhere out of the way,” murmured Carys, and pulled the stubborn Eirian up with aching arms. Dragging the little grumbling burden, who trailed the carpet-bag, by the right hand, and latching the left one to the handle of the suitcase-trunk, Carys transported the entire party through main force to a ramshackle garden gate. It leaned against its fence, which leaned against a weathered shed, which leaned against a brown-grey house, much in the manner of the carpetbag against Eirian against Carys. Carys eyed the gate, wondering what greater comforts might be afforded by a homely garden than this waste of side-yard, filled with discards from the house, but at last set down her luggage and her sister in the open shed. She lay down, warmed by Eirian’s head on her knee and by mother’s best cloak from the trunk, still smelling faintly of love and lavender.

Above the children’s heads, the old shingles of the shed creaked in the wind, and the fog cleared to show a paltry handful of stars in a deep sky. The light of the city faded as even the privileged sought their beds, and only the befouled wind roamed abroad, trying to outrun its own smell.

That wind ran cold and rough through the branches of trees and the bristling fur of animals, and, near where the girls slept, a pair of curs, like the sisters curled for warmth, woke with the shiver of it on their cold noses. The city’s smells were known to them, but there was something else on the night wind, and they uncoiled with curiosity and malice. So it was that Carys woke from a dream that swayed and whistled like the ship to a nightmare of sound, the half-seen gleams of teeth and wide eyes, and the tense strain of dark-furred muscles against the feeble garden gate.

Eirian was awake, too, though from her clouded stare and courageous composure Carys was certain she must think herself dreaming. The dogs could be through the gate at any moment, and the child was picking up a stick! Whether to defend herself or enveigle the attackers into a game Carys did not consider or care, and at once grabbed the entire household — Eirian, carpetbag, suit-trunk, and stick — and entrained it in her flight, as a gust of wind does drops of rain.

Gasping, but far from the continuing clamor of the dogs and the clatter of waking people, Carys stopped pulling her sister along, and Eirian turned on her with a disgusted look. “They were only dogs,” the little one said, “and they were behind a gate.”

“Never mind that now,” Carys said with a slightly exasperated sigh, “Let us find another place to sleep.” She was weary beyond words, and beyond argument. She looked around, and was surprised to see a familiar violet-grey house. “Come, Eirian. We’ll sleep under the mad lady’s lilac bush.” She trudged toward the side of the house, where a white picket gate stood, and hoped that Ferdie did not sleep in the backyard, as if she started and ran at a tiny terrier, Eirian would never forget it.

It seemed a long way across the damp grass to the gate, and Carys, recalling faintly the bent old woman’s terror, cautioned Eirian to silence. They crept forward, and Carys began to hear a sound. A series of cascading plops succeeded a dull ‘thunk’, again and again, and louder as the picket gate grew nearer. The sound was quite close as Carys put one hand against the painted wood and brought her eye close to the gap between the planks.

The garden beyond was a shadowy thing, painted in the weak light of stars and a waning moon. Movement, she saw first, and then a flurry of tiny shapes against the sky; someone was digging, and throwing the dirt over her shoulder. The moonlight crept down to the figure, as if urged by Carys’s thoughts beyond its own inclinations, and showed a straight, strong old woman, digging briskly in a hole already up to her waist. Carys closed her eyes. She knew not why she did so, and not until she had softly, silently drawn away her puzzled sister, did she remember, or let herself see, the large, still shape next to the hole, wrapped in a shabby greatcoat.

The Grey City VIII

I decided that I wanted a FAQ, but no one ever asks me anything, so I made a FNAQ instead. The idea has a certain world-weary humor to it—plus, it sounds neat when you say it.

I hope it amuses you a little…and if you think of other questions I should answer, feel free to tell me, even though that risks making the title inaccurate. Maybe if you didn’t put a question mark at the end?

Just for your info, I got my computer back at work yesterday. Now I just have the fun task of discovering which of the programs on my computer my predecessor didn’t actually have legal copies of, and buying those…

My big sister got married on Saturday. As she wasn’t entirely joking when she called the groom “the favorite son” of his small town, and the wedding was there, you can imagine that it was quite a large event. The bride, sometimes called ‘She of Many Lists’, organized the whole thing herself, which I, veteran of the approximately 85-guest simplified wedding, imagine as something along the lines of organizing an Armada to take over England. There were programs, favors, and little pairs of apples (the town’s claim to fame) wrapped in tulle as presents for out-of-town guests. There were microphones for the ceremony, a DJ and dinner for the reception, tuxes not only for the groom and groomsmen, but also for the fathers of the bride and groom. And to top the entire thing off and leave us all gaping at her inhuman efficiency and thoughtfulness, her gift to each of the bridesmaids was a beautiful scrapbook full of pictures and thoughts on our years together. Oh yeah, seven bridesmaids. As a not entirely responsible bridesmaid myself, I can only imagine that having seven of me demanding attention, answers, and things to do to feel helpful must be less like herding cats and more like herding dragonflies.

Despite the awesome scope of the wedding and the intricacies of logistics involved, the wedding came off beautifully. By dint of muttering “Chris Rock” (apparently, the antithesis of sentimentality) to herself and others, the bride managed to hold off the majority of tears until partway through the ceremony. At this I scoffed, it being my opinion that if you just get waterproof eye makeup to begin with, you can weep freely throughout. I am an advocate of the good cry. There were some microphone problems during the opening speech by the officiants (our dear godparents), which my husband later noted coincided with the sound guy messing with things at his amp or whatever (Matt knows all about this stuff. I only know I wanted to hear the speech, not loud popping sounds and intermittent silence.) I did not realize it was the sound guy’s fault at the time, which is good, as thus I neither discovered whether a man may be killed with a tasteful bridesmaid’s bouquet of gerbera daisies, nor made a scene at my sister’s wedding.

As I’m sure you’re all dying to know, my song went very well. I was lucky enough to get to sing the whole thing at the rehearsal, which meant that I went out there, sang, noticed all the things I wished I hadn’t done, and then got heaps of praise on my ‘imperfect’ performance. It rather put things in perspective, and I was free to focus, on the day itself, on singing with feeling and attempting to utilize natural-looking hand movements (as I began music with a handy instrument to hide behind, my default performance posture is “doll’s mouth opens and closes as it sings”). Then I had to make a toast at the reception, which fact I of course remembered a month ago, resolved to plan for, remembered two weeks ago, cursed my previous absent-mindedness, and then remembered the night before and the day of, putting me standing up in front of well nigh 250 people with a glass of champagne in my hand, two pithy sentences worked out, and a general theme to work with. I was shocked that this went well. I am shocked that I was shocked, as, I confess, it’s what I did for my other gig as Matron of Honor, and that seemed to work out well, too. Maybe it’s one of those naughty little traits, like writing my best analytical essays the night before they are due.

At any rate, my beloved sis is wed and sped off to Maui, and I am left with a tear-spotted turquoise silk cocktail dress, slightly aching dancing feet, and a purple photo album that opens on two faces close together — a brown-haired little girl leaning in to kiss the cheek of a tiny, confused, squinting dark-haired baby. I love you, sister.

Another grey day here, brightened by the occasional baby squirrel leaping into the bushes like an action hero eluding a speeding train. There is not much to do here today, and I’m anxious to be home, packing for my northward trek to my sister’s wedding, lacquering my soon-to-be-exposed toenails pink, and practicing my song for the wedding.

Ah yes, the song. I have a very good voice. It is one of the things about which my ego is bullet-proof. I briefly considered a career as a classical soprano, and my teachers told me I wasn’t deluding myself at all. I decided I probably didn’t have the strength of mental constitution to persist in such a competitive biz. At least as an aspiring writer, I can be rejected safely at home in my pyjamas, without having to go anywhere or see my competition — let alone compete without even an instrument to shield me (an idea I persisted in longer.)

I agreed to sing at my sister’s wedding, beaming with pride, long before she was engaged, or, in fact, had met her fella. Possibly in eighth grade. I am not sure why she thought she needed to book early, but she did, and here I am, two days before the event, strangely nervous.

I’m not that nervous, generally! I have a sort of fatalistic attitude — do what you can, then let it happen. I’m the girl who swabbed out her oboe in a few measures’ rest at Solo/Ensemble Competition, for heaven’s sake! Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve only rehearsed with the guitarist once, maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t sung solo in public since 1999, maybe it’s the fact that the last thing I sang in public was…gosh, what was it…well, Purcell or something…and I’m singing Sarah McLachlan. I’ve never sung anything in public that ISN’T classical. It’s strangely frightening, like suddenly there’s an audience listening outside the bathroom door while I’m singing in the shower. Maybe it’s the fact that he sheet music doesn’t align quite right with the CD, so I feel like the sheet music has failed me, like the lines of the staff are melting as I cling to them. Maybe it’s that the range of the music isn’t quite normal for me, and I worry that I don’t have the control over my voice I once had. Maybe, just maybe, it’s that it’s my sister’s wedding, my only sister, the only other work from those artists, the ur-me I followed, pestered, teased, admired and emulated all through my childhood. I want everything to be perfect, I want me to be perfect. No wonder I’m nervous.