bloody marty mix
116/365: 1997-1998
Friday, 19 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 30: 1997-1998
Dave began film school in the fall of 1997, and our new apartment, with its wide open spaces and fenced in backyard, became a favorite place to shoot. His classmates would come by on weekends, and they'd set up lights and cameras, and do endless run-throughs of scripts, tweaking them as they went along. Props were scattered throughout the house: fake guns and knives and T-shirts bloodied with corn syrup and food coloring. It was amusing and fascinating to watch, and I was so happy that Dave seemed to be having such a good time.
For a long time, we had talked about getting cats, but in our old apartment, we just didn't have the space. Now we had an abundance of space, so in January we drove to the Tree House Animal Foundation to be "interviewed" by some friendly felines in need of a home. We adopted two kittens: a six-month-old and a seven-month-old. The older one was an adorable black and white male with gray eyes and polydactyl front paws, also commonly known as a Hemingway cat (so named in reference to the polydactyl descendants of Ernest Hemingway's cats that now roam his estate). His shelter name had been Indiana Jones, but I insisted on naming him Hemingway. Hemingway trotted through the house with this tail straight in the air, his extra claws click-click-clicking away, giving constant notice of his whereabouts. He must have had some damage to his vocal cords because when he meowed, he only managed to emit an occasional squeaking sound. Instead, he would open his mouth and trill like a bird. He also quickly learned how to use his extra toes as a kind of opposable thumb, and he would spend hours amusing himself by picking things up and tossing them in the air. We found him utterly strange and delightful.
The other cat, a slinky black male with yellow eyes, and a Siamese's penchant for vocalization, was tougher to name. His shelter name had been Davey, but since that was Dave's family nickname, we knew that wouldn't do. Dave had recently become obsessed with the Joseph Conrad novel, "Nostromo," and he pressed for the cat to be named Nostromo. I vetoed that option. "Hey," I said, "Pretentious literary names are one thing, but let's not get crazy." I suggested we name him Conrad instead, and Dave agreed. Conrad had his own set of quirks. He was the most affectionate and attention-seeking creature I'd ever encountered. It wasn't enough for him to be in your lap or in your arms. He wanted to be wrapped around your face. If he could have crawled inside your skin for a comfy nap, he happily would have done so. He also developed a habit of jumping on Dave's back to groom his hair while he he was brushing his teeth, a habit which Dave indulged, much to my dismay. I wasn't nearly as fond of the sudden application of claws to my back while I was bent over the sink, and I didn't think I needed to have my hair groomed by my cat, no matter how adorable it looked.
Conrad and Hemingway settled in, slowly getting used to each other, and to their new surroundings, and Dave and I settled in to our life as a couple with pets. The acquisition of pets together is a milestone in any relationship, and we were like parents with newborn children. We would play with the cats for hours, and in the mornings, we would let them into the bedroom, and they would snuggle up between us, warm and purring, while we were slowly roused into wakefulness.
As the months passed, I began to think a lot about my upcoming 30th birthday. I had mixed emotions. I don't generally like people making a big fuss out of my birthday, but I felt like I needed to mark the occasion in some way for my own sake. Maybe calling attention to my 30th birthday would serve as a hearty "fuck you" to the idea that I should be saddened by this passage out of youth and into full-fledged middle adulthood. I would not slink quietly into my 30's, pretending to be stuck at 29. I would go loudly and fearlessly. When the time came, I invited a bunch of my coworkers to play hooky with me that day, and we spent the day downtown, riding the giant Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier, and playing games at Dave & Buster's. I made a promise to myself that, no matter what my age, I would never relinquish my ability to feel the wonder and joy of a day at play.
Who am I?
I am just a big kid.
I like pratfalls, and fart jokes, and grossing people out with bloody scabs on scraped knees and elbows. My desk at work was covered with toys: action figures, dolls, Hot Wheels, games. I had every size Etch-a-Sketch in every available color, and I would sit at my desk and draw elaborate pictures on them. There is a part of me that just never really grew up. You would think, then, that I would relate well to kids, but it's not true. I am completely intimidated by them, and find myself utterly unable to speak when confronted with them. I am a big child, but I find I can only be that way with other adults. It's very strange.
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116/365: 1997-1998
Friday, 19 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 30: 1997-1998
Dave began film school in the fall of 1997, and our new apartment, with its wide open spaces and fenced in backyard, became a favorite place to shoot. His classmates would come by on weekends, and they'd set up lights and cameras, and do endless run-throughs of scripts, tweaking them as they went along. Props were scattered throughout the house: fake guns and knives and T-shirts bloodied with corn syrup and food coloring. It was amusing and fascinating to watch, and I was so happy that Dave seemed to be having such a good time.
For a long time, we had talked about getting cats, but in our old apartment, we just didn't have the space. Now we had an abundance of space, so in January we drove to the Tree House Animal Foundation to be "interviewed" by some friendly felines in need of a home. We adopted two kittens: a six-month-old and a seven-month-old. The older one was an adorable black and white male with gray eyes and polydactyl front paws, also commonly known as a Hemingway cat (so named in reference to the polydactyl descendants of Ernest Hemingway's cats that now roam his estate). His shelter name had been Indiana Jones, but I insisted on naming him Hemingway. Hemingway trotted through the house with this tail straight in the air, his extra claws click-click-clicking away, giving constant notice of his whereabouts. He must have had some damage to his vocal cords because when he meowed, he only managed to emit an occasional squeaking sound. Instead, he would open his mouth and trill like a bird. He also quickly learned how to use his extra toes as a kind of opposable thumb, and he would spend hours amusing himself by picking things up and tossing them in the air. We found him utterly strange and delightful.
The other cat, a slinky black male with yellow eyes, and a Siamese's penchant for vocalization, was tougher to name. His shelter name had been Davey, but since that was Dave's family nickname, we knew that wouldn't do. Dave had recently become obsessed with the Joseph Conrad novel, "Nostromo," and he pressed for the cat to be named Nostromo. I vetoed that option. "Hey," I said, "Pretentious literary names are one thing, but let's not get crazy." I suggested we name him Conrad instead, and Dave agreed. Conrad had his own set of quirks. He was the most affectionate and attention-seeking creature I'd ever encountered. It wasn't enough for him to be in your lap or in your arms. He wanted to be wrapped around your face. If he could have crawled inside your skin for a comfy nap, he happily would have done so. He also developed a habit of jumping on Dave's back to groom his hair while he he was brushing his teeth, a habit which Dave indulged, much to my dismay. I wasn't nearly as fond of the sudden application of claws to my back while I was bent over the sink, and I didn't think I needed to have my hair groomed by my cat, no matter how adorable it looked.
Conrad and Hemingway settled in, slowly getting used to each other, and to their new surroundings, and Dave and I settled in to our life as a couple with pets. The acquisition of pets together is a milestone in any relationship, and we were like parents with newborn children. We would play with the cats for hours, and in the mornings, we would let them into the bedroom, and they would snuggle up between us, warm and purring, while we were slowly roused into wakefulness.
As the months passed, I began to think a lot about my upcoming 30th birthday. I had mixed emotions. I don't generally like people making a big fuss out of my birthday, but I felt like I needed to mark the occasion in some way for my own sake. Maybe calling attention to my 30th birthday would serve as a hearty "fuck you" to the idea that I should be saddened by this passage out of youth and into full-fledged middle adulthood. I would not slink quietly into my 30's, pretending to be stuck at 29. I would go loudly and fearlessly. When the time came, I invited a bunch of my coworkers to play hooky with me that day, and we spent the day downtown, riding the giant Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier, and playing games at Dave & Buster's. I made a promise to myself that, no matter what my age, I would never relinquish my ability to feel the wonder and joy of a day at play.
Who am I?
I am just a big kid.
I like pratfalls, and fart jokes, and grossing people out with bloody scabs on scraped knees and elbows. My desk at work was covered with toys: action figures, dolls, Hot Wheels, games. I had every size Etch-a-Sketch in every available color, and I would sit at my desk and draw elaborate pictures on them. There is a part of me that just never really grew up. You would think, then, that I would relate well to kids, but it's not true. I am completely intimidated by them, and find myself utterly unable to speak when confronted with them. I am a big child, but I find I can only be that way with other adults. It's very strange.
[ view previous | view next ]