sirena: (End on end like a long lost astronaut.)
My grandmother's old boss, the OB/GYN who delivered yours truly into the world (for which I will never completely forgive him) (haha), passed away last week. Somewhere I still have the stuffed cat he gave me back then. Her name is Samantha.

Also, last night I had a dream that (amidst a live-action version of Monty Python and the Holy Grail) Casey Boo had returned to life, sort of like that dog that survived euthanasia, although even in the dream I didn't see how it could be possible after so long. It's been almost a year since she died, and it's still a gnawing thing that lingers in the back of my mind and gets me when I'm not expecting it.

Also also, I'm watching the fifth season of Buffy right now, and of course this is the season where Joyce gets a brain tumor and dies, which of course leads me down all sorts of thought paths, like, "What if this happens to me? What if this happens to my mother? Or my grandmother? What will I do when my grandparents die? How will I ever get over that?". So--I really, really think I'm going to have to skip that episode.
sirena: (End on end like a long lost astronaut.)

Rest in peace, Mr. President.
sirena: (End on end like a long lost astronaut.)
Shitty Garage Band is back and they are mangling the already ear-bleeding guitar screeches of KoЯn's "Freak on a Leash." Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. IT WORKS, OKAY.

On Sunday, it will be two weeks since Mrs. Fannon died. It has already been one week since her viewing last Thursday and her funeral on Friday.

I seem to have come to a weird zen place about it all. Whereas last week I was a trainwreck with my heart full of regret, I think now I am straddling acceptance and complete, irrational denial. There is absolutely a part of me that acknowledges that yes, she is gone. The memories of the funeral home are not imagined. I did walk up to her, at the end. I did see her. Even though that was not how I wanted to remember her, and she looked so thin, and her hair was gone. But I would never get to see her again, so I did.

My mother had told me to let go of the regret and stop being angry at myself, and while I knew she was right, it took someone who knew Mrs. Fannon, Mrs. Flagg, saying the same thing for me to really hear it. (That syntax is awful, I know.) "I'm mad," I said, and what I thought I meant was that I was angry that she had died, but she just said, "Don't. Don't you dare do that, you do that too much. She would be thrilled that you're here now." She knew what I meant better than I did. And she's right--Mrs. Fannon would not have wanted me to sit around for a week crying over her death. But it is precisely because that's how she was, that I was so heartbroken.

The funeral was packed. I was there half an hour early and it was already 60% full. There was a reception in the high school cafeteria afterwards, while her family attended the burial, and it was nice to see everyone again (only one other person from my class, though; but then, we always did suck). I hadn't seen Mrs. Coleman since the AP English test, probably. I feel like I might have been trying too hard to reconnect with everyone, who were dealing with their own losses, and I was certainly not the only student there who needed some consoling, either. So I made my rounds and snuck off to see if the rest of the school was open.

It was. And there, right upstairs, was her classroom, with the door open, and all of her things and her artwork right where she left it, most of it right where it had been since I was in high school. (If I closed my eyes, I could imagine her bustling through the room, hear her voice telling someone to tuck in their shirt.) Some of it was stuff I remembered from elementary and middle school, from before she moved out of the art room in the basement. I didn't realize how much I had taken these things for granted, the way I had taken her for granted, until I saw them again. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I took pictures with my cell phone.

(A side note: I'm going to Alumni Night at the fall festival this Friday. I'm thinking of asking my old principal and/or vice-principal (who love me, by the way, and I promise that isn't bragging) if there is something of hers I can have as a memento. I would love to have the "Birth of Venus Bean" poster she had on her door, because it has her handwriting on it, as well. I'm afraid this might come off as creepy, or scavenging. Yea/nay? I think they would understand, given that they know me and know how I feel about her death. But I just wanted to check.)

In a way, this has helped to heal a wound that I avoided for a long time. But this wasn't the way I wanted to do it.

BUT. That was all part of the acceptance. The rest is pure denial, because I feel incapable of conceiving of an OLMC without her. She was there as long as I was (minus kindergarten, sorry, Mr. Buck). The room was wholly hers. In one year everything will probably be gone, and I don't know what that is like, and part of me refuses to believe that could ever be the case.

I have resolved myself to be kinder, and more welcoming, and more optimistic in her honor. That was how she was. I know you will find this hard to believe, but sometimes I can be bitter and negative and spiteful. Most of the time I forget that I promised myself to be better and fall back on my old emo ways. But I'm trying. Something good should come out of this. (I'm also drawing again. Seeing as she was my art teacher, I thought it would be idiotic to let myself fall further into ruin.)

I will see her again. I want to believe this with all my heart.

In other news, after ten days of normalcy, the breathing issues came back Sunday. Right now it's not too bad, although I am having troubles yawning (seriously, wtf). I had a chest X-ray yesterday morning, putting me one radiology procedure closer to completing the circuit (MRI, ultrasound, CT scan, X-ray!). Hopefully it will come back clean. I still can't say what I think it is; sometimes I think it's something physical, and other times it feels psychological.

Also, I am getting totally chubbers because of it (and, ok, let's be honest: my laziness and my awful snacking habits). For once I will start doing something about this, but it's hard to keep eating salad because salad goes bad quickly and I really hate grocery shopping. I keep waiting to get some motivation, but really, there's no need or reason to wait for that. You just do it, whether or not you are motivated. Motivation can come later.

Look, look. Sometimes I can be mature.
sirena: (End on end like a long lost astronaut.)
I just found out my high school art teacher died. I didn't know she was sick. I have wanted to go back for a visit for years, but school and work and laziness kept me away. But she was one of the ones I wanted to visit most, and now she's gone, and I will never have that moment of popping my head in the classroom door and giving her a hug and telling her what I've been up to and what I'm doing now.

Thank you, Mrs. Fannon, for putting up with my shitty anime art through high school, and teaching me the difference between printer ink and copier toner, and for being rad enough to win tickets for yourself to go to the HFStival, and for driving around in a green VW Beetle (I have thought of her every time I've seen one since she first got it), and for letting us camp out in your backyard when we were in high school, and for never telling me I sucked, even when I did.

Mrs. Fannon was big on playing music during class; a lot of the time it was rock, as evidenced by her going to--and enjoying--HFStival. But once she played "When I'm Sixty-Four," and I remember (maybe erroneously, but I think I'm in the ballpark) she told us that it was special to her and her husband, that it was something of an inside joke between them--but a joke in a sweet sort of way. I can't think of the right word. I'm having a hard time with my English right now. Anyway. She will never get to 64. I can't stand this. I have so much, so much regret.
sirena: (banksy; i'm nothing if not unrealistic)

I suppose it is worth mentioning in here, for the recollection of my future self, that this is the week in which Ed McMachon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson died. Today I checked Twitteriffic and learned that Billy Mays, master pitchman and possessor of one epic beard, has also passed. What in the nine hells? If we go back a few weeks we can also include David Carradine in this macabre little club. Rob Cockerham might be right about celebrities not dying in threes--we're well over three now. Now it's getting creepy. Who's next, Patrick Swayze? (I'm sorry, Patrick Swayze, I don't mean to call you out! I will feel so bad if that news hits tomorrow.)


My brother started police academy this past week, and it is nothing like the movies, let me tell you. (Also, seriously, what kind of judicial system offers "be a cop!" as an alternative to jail?) I give him all the credit in the world, because no power on Earth could make me want to get up every morning at 4am, run myself to death for 12 hours, and get screamed at by a man who looks like an angry boxer (the dog, not like Mike Tyson)--EVERY DAY, for 27 WEEKS. No thank you.

Ahh, what else. Um. My mother's doctor thinks she has an enlarged heart (or something), so she goes to see the cardiologist tomorrow. I think I have an ovarian cyst (or something), so I...have to get off my ass and make an doctor's appointment.

In two weeks (God willing) I am going to Minnesota to (a) meet J's entire frigging family (OH MY GOD) and (b) go to a wedding. Paul's wedding, in fact. Yes, THAT PAUL. Wow, that whole situation was one big false start, wasn't it? I'm happy with the way everything turned out, though, which is all that really matters.

DID I NOT TALK ABOUT THE DECEMBERISTS CONCERT ON THE 8TH?? HOW DID I NOT TALK ABOUT THAT?? It was amazing. It was, as expected, mostly their new stuff from The Hazards of Love (and no "Shiny"! Sadness!), but it was great--their two female guest vocalists (Becky Stark (Lavender Diamond) and Shara Worden (My Brightest Diamond)) were super awesome. Becky Stark came out all Galadriel and serene, and then Shara Worden!!! Holy cats, this chick, just watching her--hell, just thinking about watching her is enough to get me all jazzed up. She was so tiny, but so kickass. I wish her My Brightest Diamond stuff was as energetic as she was that night.

I suppose that's everything new. Getting ready for Minnesota in the next two weeks, then getting ready for New Orleans (SIGGRAPH) after that. (This involves a Cindy Crawford workout.) I'm excited about NOLA, but holy cats, it's going to be hot down there.

For lack of a better closing, I am completely obsessed with the opening cinematic for The Beatles: Rock Band (here it is, annotated). I think I've watched it 10 times now. I love the part where they change into the Sgt. Pepper uniforms--reminds me of Utena. I love Paul's little movements, the way he turns his head slightly and puts a hand on his hip. (I also love the "sitting in an English garden" part--there's something about seeing characters react to physical changes in their environment that excites me.) It makes me want to get back into animation (which was, y'know, my MAJOR even if they did shaft us on the education).

I want to play it NOW. Dibs on George.


Next time I need to read something gut-wrenchingly sad.]
sirena: (End on end like a long lost astronaut.)
Bryan called me on the way home to tell me that he'd just heard on the radio that Ricardo Montalbán died. I am a sad panda. But at least we still have Fake Ricardo Montalbán (aka Juan Bonifacino, one of the researchers at NIH--dude sounds exactly like him).

In memoriam, I give you some episodes of Freakazoid featuring him as Guitierrez.

The Chip: Acts I - III (Part 1 of 2)

The Chip: Acts I - III (Part 2 of 2)
The Chip: Act IV [with Jack Valenti]

The Wrath of Guitierrez (Part 1 of 2)

The Wrath of Guitierrez (Part Two)

Hero Boy (Part 1 of 2)

Hero Boy (Part 2 of 2)
sirena: (Default)

"Hello, I'm Jack Valenti, and these are my cheeks."

Vaya con Dios, Mr. Valenti.

Ratings system controversy be damned. This is how I will always remember him! (Clearly this is the whole episode, as there aren't any files of just Jack Valenti's appearance. Oh well, it's Freakazoid AND YOU WILL WATCH IT AND LIKE IT.)

{ETA 11/14/07}
Finally! The clip by itself. Huzzah!

Now might be a good time to tell you all about the Motion Picture Association of America's FASCINATING rating system!

If the movie's rated NC-17, that means that kids can't get in. Only adults can get in. Mom doesn't want to see adult movies. But Grandpa was in the army and he's not bothered very much, and so he decides to stay, along with Sergeant Scruffy, who's just a dumb dog anyway.



sirena: (Default)

June 2011

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