The New Kids in My Life

Funny to think it’s been two years, more than two years, since I’ve stepped foot onto a college campus, for the purposes of academic pursuit (there have been recruiting events…).  Tonight, I did it.  Decided that I miss blogging and that I should take a writing course.  Yes, I could just blog, but the issue is that my idea well runneth dry.  Life just isn’t as zany as it used to be.  That, or corporate American has sucked out all the creative juices that used to help me formulate more offbeat or entertaining observations .  Either way, blogging is considerably difficult when you find you have no material. 

Fortunately, between now and next Wed night, I will not only be forced to write a three page short-story (Note:  I’m having trouble selecting my topic: it’s between a young boy learning that his family eats his pet chicken’s eggs and then discovering they eat more than the eggs when the chicken one day disappears; the discovery process around Thai food and Thai food traditions; or flow charts as the inspiration for organizational skill development within the context of modern life… Best not to get into the details of the source of these ideas.)….

 …Continuing on…but I also have a new source of inspiration for blogging:  Classroom (mostly classmates) of Room 266 at the Ocean Campus of City College of San Francisco.  I think Wake may be one of the preppiest college campuses, running amuck with future yuppies of America…and then I went to business school…which largely speaks for itself if you’re speculating on your character types.

City College in SF:  very different scene.  I am clad in skinny jeans, orange flats, white tea, long grey cardigan, colorful scarf, and layered jewelry…and I looked the picture of whitebread, suburban, clean-cut, normalcy in terms of dress code within the confines of this classroom.  That is just a visual descriptor for you to absorb.

My fellow classmates…where to start. I think w/ the oddball talkazoid (yep, that guy has already revealed himself and he simply won’t shut up).  Dressed in gothic apparel, boots crumpling down over his black jeans.  I fortunately connected myself to him personally, as during our introductions (given by newly-met partners, stand-up style) it was noted that I care for the literature of Gregory McGuire.   Old talky nodded my way and later on made reference to a McGuire novel.  Awesome. 

There is one guy who absolutely fascinates me.  Scrawny little hipster, with long, side-swept hair covered by a vintage fedora, wearing a Goodwill purchased Smithsonian t-shirt from 1983.  In his introduction, I learned that he writes and produces hip-hop (apparently has worked w/ Del the Funky Homosapien), has ghostwritten for Comedy Central, and is a freelancing restaurant consultant.  Either all of this, or, he made it all up.  But, impressive sounding. 

There is “that girl” as well, potentially the dullest in class to behold visually, and the dullest to behold when she speaks as well. I think that she was one of the few that indicated she somehow made some sort of living via the written word. I guess maybe she writes like manuals for power tools or something.  She at one point asked “how many pages does it have to be again?”  It’s an f’in creative writing class.

One final character to paint out…  The scared-of-the-world.  She could barely make eye contact with anyone in the class, the only one who refused to stand up for her intro. I don’t begrudge her this as there is nothing wrong w/ shyness.  I am only pointing out that JR (only name that I remember) had a subtle creepiness.  She is apparently working on a novel, but her partner was unable to “do the novel justice” via any description, and I’m not sure how that bodes for the novel.  Anyway, she reminded me of Aly Sheedy in the Breakfast Club.

So for now that should give a moderately detailed portrait of this classroom.  It’s definitely one that enables me to be excited to attend the next class not only for the writing, but also for the chance to continue observing my fellow writing peoples. 

Acting Your Age

On Fri night, we didn’t head out to dinner until nearly 10pm.  Which meant a few things…1)  I couldn’t put the boiled peanuts and pickled vegetables that we ordered to start into my mouth fast enough (yes, you read correctly, our starters at Magnolia included boiled peanuts and pickled veggies, and they both absolutely correct so stop making faces) due to my extreme hunger by that point.  2)  We didn’t have to wait for a table which NEVER happens.  3)  It was bound to be a bit more rambunctious than usual given the later hour.

Ok maybe it’s really pretty lame that I’m using 10pm, Friday, and later hour all in the same line of thought, but these days I’m gearing up to turn 29, thinking it really means I’m pretty much 30, and feeling like I frequently spend my weekends in the manner that bests suits someone who is a suburban 40.  I think I’m mostly ok with that.  But anyway, the debauchery was eventually brought, right around bite 2 of my delicious bleu cheese and bacon burger when a group of raucous 50 year olds walked into the bar.

The event:  a man’s 50^th birthday.  The crowd:  weird (sorry, can’t really come up with any better adjectives to describe the assortment of individuals).  The mode of transportation:  an SF cable-car style party bus.  The attire:  large balloon hats.  Ok, so there was really only one balloon hat.  It was on the head of the birthday boy.  But it counts anyway.

And it really started to count when the wearer of the hat decided it hilarious to pop one of the balloons.  I startle easily.  So pop number 1 nearly caused me to spit out a bite of my food. Or maybe choke on it. I don’t know. It scared me.  I was certainly not amused. 

The birthday crowd on the other hand certainly was amused.  The balloon popping continued, picking up pace. I remember when I was little, spending the night at my cousin heather’s house, and during summer thunderstorms, we’d count the seconds b/t thunder claps (the closer the storm got, the less time b/t the claps).  I liken the balloon situation to the storm:  time b/t pops quickened, laughter of the 50 year old party grew, silence among the other patrons deepened, stares raged, and the storm gathered force.  The downpour I suppose then was when a staff member actually took the balloon hat away.  The storm didn’t last long, however, as it was returned, and not less than a minute later, Mr. Happy 50 was at his antics again.  Very soon, they departed, hopping into their classy cable car and taking off for greener pastures where they could pop balloons until their hearts’ content, or at least until the hat was no longer a hat but simply a mass of sad deflated rubber pieces. 

My emotions were mixed as the crowd departed, and I finished up my burger.  I was certainly sated, but that is neither here nor there as it’s a feeling related to my food consumption rather than the birthday antics.  I was relieved, as I’d been startled so many times I was on the verge of needing a xanax.  But I suppose I was also a little wistful, wondering, will I grow down by the time I’m 50?  Is there hope that I, too, can someday be a little debaucherous at a riper age?  I invite you, if you’re reading, and you’re still around me by that point, to remember this post, and to help me reach that goal – even if it only means crafting me a balloon hat and encouraging some bad behavior on my part in public…