hmmm...

Of course I find it sad that John Travolta's son died. Of course I think it's crappy that the paramedic (& others) tried to extort a ridiculous amount of money from JT after his son's death.

But I cannot get over how weird looking the kid was! Also: I'm very affectionate with my parents, but some of the photos make it look like Jett & John are on the verge of a kiss, or at least a lovers' embrace. Ick.

I'm evil. Goodbye.

I'm not here.

At long last, someone from Charter came today. At 6 PM, an hour later than promised. But that's a story for another time.

Turns out a Charter agent had driven out here last Thursday morning and physically disconnected my internet connection. Pair that with this event, and I feel like a ghost: I got a hot pink slip in my mailbox today informing me that my house was vacant and no mail should be delivered.

What's going on? Is this a prank? Is the Charter disconnection connected to the USPS note? Did I perish a week ago yet continue to think I live? Is there a Janet living in a parallel universe who just moved out of her house?!

WHOA! Then I got this message from blogger just now!

Conflicting edits

There was more than one attempt to edit this resource at the same time. This may have been because you double clicked on a link or a button or because someone else is also editing this blog or post.

no more drunky driving!

Anyone who's ever met me knows how hypersensitive I am when it comes to drinking and driving. Chalk it up to friends having learned heartwrenching lessons, having read one too many stories or having seen one too many MADD billboards, or even dismiss me as paranoid. The fact remains that drinking and driving is, at its best, really risky if you're thinking about the legal battle you'll face if you have to blow into a breathylizer. At its worst, you or others could die.

But let's get a little happier, shall we? In last month's Paste, I read about this service in select cities, a service whose drivers scoot to you on scooters, pack the scooters into your trunk, and drive you home in your car. No trying to figure out how to get your car from that parking lot downtown the next morning as you're facing a huge hangover. No playing games with your fate, hoping you're just on this side of sober to be able to make it home safely.

Check this out! Considering the locations of the few people that read this, I'm pretty sure it's in a city near you.

candle in the wind

As I think I mentioned a while back, I'm reading Donald Spoto's biography of Marilyn Monroe. This 500+ page book is taking me FOREVER to read. It's full of facts, names, places, and sadness. It's not boring, though--not in the least. I can't quite get a grasp on all the names and faces, and that's my fault. What I want to grasp onto but almost hate learning about is how beautiful and fragile and funny and smart Marilyn was. I've rented two of her films while making my way through this book--I watched The Asphalt Jungle (a movie in which she has only a handful of lines and just a couple minutes of screen time) and Bus Stop. I wanted to see them for their own sake but also because I'd just read about her auditions, the other cast members, her agonizing self-criticism that caused her to ask for take after take until she got things somewhat right. A classic perfectionist (and not a narcissist, as it's erroneously believed), she would make and remake her face for hours before going out into public, terrified of any possible scrutiny, feeling as if she always had to look her best. The reasons for this fear were founded in her upbringing as well as her own temperament, I'm sure.

Donald Spoto's biography of her is well-revered for many reasons: it's well-written and very well-researched. He strips away layers of myth surrounding her, myth that was often created by people on her periphery (or even people who didn't know her in the least), people who used her name to make themselves some money. The whole JFK "love affair"? Yeah, that was one time. The two of them met exactly four times and shared a bed once. The way that story spun out of control is all documented.

Most of the book isn't made up of Spoto unraveling myths. On the contrary, he paints a beautiful picture of this vivacious, loving person who made her place in Hollywood and the world.

Right now my reading has slowed to a snail's pace. Look at me as we speak: I'm writing about the book instead of reading it. Why, you ask? I've reached 1962, the year of her death.

And I've just come to love her.

Mitch Hedberg & his widow

For those of you who don't already know it, let me say it to you now: I adore (adored?) Mitch Hedberg. He died in March 2005 and I sincerely wept upon hearing the news--for several months there, I wasn't able to listen to his comedy CDs at all. It was just too unbearable.

Clearly my grief is nothing compared to that of those who knew him. I ain't claiming that in the least. But it is strange when someone whose words you've laughed at uproariously and memorized for their wit and humor is suddenly gone from the world. His wife Lynn Shawcroft was one of those left behind to mourn him, and just tonight I stumbled across her blog. I don't necessarily recommend it unless you're really curious about her as a comedienne or wondering what her life (or life as Mitch's widow) is like. In my few minutes of browsing, I did come across a few particularly candid entries dealing with her loss and grief--in these particular entries the writing was really bare and unflowery. It made me scared for the time when I will begin to lose those who are close to me because she tossed neither herself nor her readers the smallest morsel of comfort. If I knew her, perhaps I'd commend her on the bravery it took to put those words to paper (or screen, as it were). What does it say that she then posted them to the internet? I'm not sure.

In any case, now I'm thinking about love and loss and Mitch and what it must be like to lose your partner when you and he make your living as comedians. You must perform and make others laugh if you are to succeed in the business--but how do you do that when you're mourning? I suppose it's the quintessential question all actors face. Truly, it's probably what most people face whenever they're going through a period of loss. I would guess that most people struggle to maintain a somewhat normal facade to cover up what's going on behind the scenes.

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

The end.

Mission: Space

I was just watching a show on PBS about space exploration. I tuned in during a synopsis on the Apollo 13 mission and, as always, got nervous as the astronauts in space and scientists on the ground had to figure out a way to get the men safely home despite a huge hole in the spacecraft, a defunct second oxygen tank, and a possibly malfunctioning heat panel. And when they landed with success in the water? Of course my vision went blurry with tears. Space exploration always gets to me.

After some unknown force guided my hand to ABC's supposedly addictive Dancing With the Stars, a show I found to be intolerable for more than two minutes, I flipped back to ol' trusty PBS, right in time to see the Challenger explode. It's funny--when I think back to the Challenger disaster, I remember being in Miss Johnson's class. I seem to recall learning about it then. I knew for sure it was in 1986, but this Wikipedia article confirms that it was in January of '86 and not after my first grade school year with Miss Johnson would've started in August. Funny how the mind convinces you of these things.

When I was younger, I remember feeling especially saddened about the death of Christa McAuliffe (back row, second from left), the teacher who was to be sent up in space along with the all-astronaut Challenger crew. In reading about her now, I understand that my sympathy was somewhat constructed by NASA and the media--one of the goals of her presence and of the Teachers in Space program was (and is) to generate more public attention for the space program. Well, it worked for me. Any time photographs of the deceased astronauts was in the paper or on television, my eyes would drift straight to hers. She had a daughter my age, and she was a teacher. A teacher. And everyday person.

Now when I look at the photo of the seemingly energetic and ecstatic crew, it's Ron McNair's face that gets my attention. He's the one in the front row, sitting on the far right. He just looks so eager and ready. I just know he was the nicest guy, quick with a joke or to light up your smoke. I get the feeling--the altogether faulty one, I'm sure--that this photograph was taken minutes before they boarded the shuttle, ready to face the final frontier.

I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in sight of the Challenger when it took off, let alone to know someone on board as we stood and watched it leave from its port. Seventy-three seconds between blast-off and explosion. Imagine the noise--the machinery, the rumbling, the vibrations, the crowd, the running.


My parents can see and hear shuttle takeoffs from their house in Melbourne, FL. Cape Canaveral is just 10-20 miles away. Oh, why do I shy away from exact mileage here? My parents tell me the exact distance frequently. It's 17 miles away. At least I think so.
The first time I went to their house after they relocated to Florida, I was up in the middle of the night. I started sensing a rumbling in the tiles under my feet, the keys under my fingertips as I typed late-night emails to my friends. What was that? I checked the dryer; I felt the dishwasher to see if it was running. I pressed my palm against the warm glass of the window. The window was vibrating, ever so gently and rapidly. Nervously, I stepped outside the front door and onto the driveway that was brand-new to me. The vibrations and rumbling were much louder out here and getting more intense by the second. Everywhere, sound. Nothing was visibly shaking, but there was an energy to the thick, humid air. I was shocked to see that my parents, their neighbors, the cops! weren't outside on the streets, curious and demanding to see what the ruckus was about. An earthquake in Florida? Doubtful, plus it was going on for too long...right?

A few minutes passed, and the sound began to subside. I crept back into the house, where things were suddenly serene and eerily quiet.

The next morning, I mentioned the strange incident to my mom--the light of day made the whole thing less alien-invader-like but I was still discombobulated. "Oh," she remarked lightly. "I told you--we're right near Cape Canaveral. There are shuttle take-offs in the middle of the night sometimes....it's really loud." With that, she left the kitchen.

2/7/06 - tongue drills and other morbid things

February 7, 2006 - Tuesday

By the way, I later learned that my mom's tongue was viciously SLICED, not drilled. Still, I choose to stick to my story. Poetic license and all that.

11:43 PM - Who needs a tongue ring when you can get a TONGUE DRILL? Secret tongue piercings of the Geddis family just intensified, kids. My mom went to the dentist to get a crown yesterday, got knocked up on Novocaine, and then had her tongue accidentally drilled by the doctor. EWWWWWWW. She then had an awkward ride to the oral surgeon's office in the hygienist's car (about which she said, "I mean, it definitely wasn't sterile!") as the dentist chanted, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry" while squeezing my mom's tongue the whole time. A few stitches on her black and blue tongue later, my mom was back home lisping with a brand new bill for the dentist: miraculously, the $1100 crown suddenly cost...nothing! "It smacks of malpractice," my mom said, referring more to the dentist's panicked manner and profuse apologies. As my mother knows people make such mistakes and isn't inclined to sue, the dentist really doesn't need to worry about malpractice suits. The free crown is pretty cool, though. Maybe I'll stage such an "accident" next time I go to get work done.

3:00 PM - morbid morbid morbid At first I thought this was cool. Then, after finding the page that organizes celebrities according to cause of death, I got really upset. It's intriguing, that's for sure. Take tissues. Currently listening : Kicking Television: Live in Chicago By Wilco Release date: 15 November, 2005