What I’ve learned about parents, from my own personal experiences and observations as well as some wise words from a certain friend, is that you don’t have to like your parents. That’s right, you don’t. You don’t have to like them one bit. You can DISlike them if you want. Now, I love my parents, I really do. And I will be forever grateful and appreciative of everything they’ve done and given me. But this goes beyond that. This is me knowing that my parents are simply that – my parents. They are not my friends, my therapist, or my keeper. I love them, but I don’t have to like them. Confusing, right?

My parents and I share genes and characteristics and a dislike of cats, but other than that, they are not the kind of people I would look at and say “Hey! I like the looks of those two – they seem to be a conservative white couple who drink too much and indulge in politically incorrect digs. I’m going to go make myself some new friends.”

This discovery was highlighted under one of those industrial stadium lights construction workers use at night, when my mother discovered that I’m serious about getting a Monroe piercing.

I’ll save the gory details, but it ended with her crying about me ruining my beauty and demanding to know when my fanatical piercing was going to end and how far was I going to take this kind of insanity?! I know it was mean, but I laughed. On the inside, but still – it was a laugh, and I think a smirk may have slipped out. She was dead serious – she is convinced that I am ruining my life with these “acts of self-mutilation” and that I’m doing it as a way of retaliation and means of getting attention.

Enough with the teen-angst drama. The reason forthat sob story is to highlight my real point. My parents and I don’t like each other. We don’t like the decisions the other makes and we don’t get along with each other. And that’s ok. Really, it is. While a therapist would say that in I am actually upset by this fact and I’m retaliating by suffocating my feelings and instead using my stubborn nature as a shield, but I know now that’s a bunch of bullshit.

My parents are who they are and they will never like what I do and they will never be ok with my tattoos, piercings, friends and boyfriends, and that’s just going to have to be ok.

So moral of the story, kids? It doesn’t matter what your parents think and it’s OK not to like them! If I’m not a good enough role model, I’ll hook you up with the inspiring story of the aforementioned friend who has mastered the art of the “I don’t like my parents and it’s ok” speech. It’s quite inspiring, actually. I may like to hear it again myself.

_First, a big thank you to The Sexretary for sharing her first Creative Non-Fiction assignment, the one I liked so much. Also, an equally big thank you to her for not telling the Halloween story. That’s for another day.

_But the title of her post made us think about our subject matter. The lady that teaches the Advanced Fiction Seminar that The Sexretary and I are taking keeps telling me that there’s too much drinking in my writing. I suppose this might be true, but I also suppose that if I played bridge every night, that’s what I would write about.

_But it’s a fair point. Sometimes it’s hard to realize the line between where we dictate the subject matter and where it dictates us. There does come a time when we, as writers, start doing things simply to have something to write about. And that’s bad. So this week we’re here to remind you all that subject matter is simply something you write about, not something that rules your life. If that’s the case, you need to reevaluate your life as a writer.

- Kid

I know, I know. I’m a day late (and more than a few dollars short, after the celebrating that went on this past weekend). But I’m here and have for you something both exciting and embarrassing:

My story from Creative Non-Fiction.

The story that brought me to meet Kid.

The story that moved Kid so much that he was compelled by some unknown emotional force to ask me to write for The Digital Scene.

The story that led to Halloween 2008, when we… well, never mind.

Bottom line, this story led to a lot of interesting, embarrassing, awkward, hysterical, and insert-your-adjective-here. It’s kind of the story that got me started. So here it is. I like to think that I’ve grown as a writer and that my pieces don’t sound nearly as juvenile and sophomoric as this, so don’t be too hasty to judge. Actually, do judge. In fact, send us your story – the story that got you started… that way we can judge you too and we’ll all be even and feel  better about ourselves. Ahh.

[Author's note: being that I was not yet acquainted with Kid and lacked his literary wisdom and ingenuity (oooh I bet he's loving this...), I came up empty for a title]

If she was a color in the 64-count deluxe Crayola Crayon box, she would be Cornflower blue. A Paul Newman blue. That kind of sky blue that is so unreal, it makes you think you’re looking through a pair of tinted sunglasses. Blue. She looks blue and feels blue.

In her bottom desk drawer, hidden under the old history notebooks and math folders and long forgotten college applications was her version of a Bucket List. At the top of the paper, in her careful cursive, was printed in blue ink “To Do Before I Die.” The rest of the page was empty.

—–

If she was another color in the 64-count deluxe Crayola Crayon box, she would be Unmellow yellow. A sunshiney yellow. The kind of yellow that is almost obnoxious in its bright fluorescent hue. Yellow. She looks yellow and feels yellow.

Her long straight hair used to be yellow, that unmellow yellow. Yellow hair that didn’t stay yellow for long. She’s fueled by a fear of remaining the same, of staying one way for too long, and the manic need for change was what pulsed through her veins as she tried to become someone else under a coat of Easy Dark Brown # 4,  haphazardly drowning the blonde and coloring in a new picture of herself.

—-

If she was yet another color in the 64-count deluxe Crayola Crayon box, she would be Wild Strawberry pink. A pretty pink. The kind of pink that reminds you of a lipstick stained mouth. Pink. She looks pink and feels pink.

Ironically, she’s allergic to strawberries. But it’s not like she can escape them, what with the strawberry birthmark staining her back in a pink blossom. It is something to be loathed and loved and forgotten and reminded of. It will always be there, but like other parts of her person, she can sometimes manage to forget it’s there, marring her skin.

—–

On a blue day, she might lie in bed for hours, letting the alarm beep itself hoarse. She may lie there with her eyes closed, losing all train of thought and simply falling into a trance of a daydream. The hours roll by slowly behind her drawn curtains, outside of her warm covers. An entire day might pass before she is able to get up. She can’t really explain why she can’t get up, she just sometimes can’t.

On a yellow day, she may throw herself into madness. She’s reckless and dangerous and sad. She runs herself ragged on these yellow days; she can’t stop thinking and can’t stop doing. Impossible to keep up with – the ups and downs and emotional surge. But it’s how she has always been and what’s always been part of her. She doesn’t really know why it happens, and she doesn’t seem to know how to stop it.

On a pink day, she could wake up still drunk from the night before, running on nothing but Smirnoff and Marlboro’s. Pink days are the days when she tries to live the day before… a Bill Murray Groundhog Day kind of complex. She is still living the night before, still tasting the liquor and breathing the smoke. Coming down from her high, she falls hard and hits the ground in a mess of vomit, tears, and shameful regret. She doesn’t know how she gets through those days, but somehow in her intoxicated haze, she manages to forget about how much it will hurt to fall and wake up on the ground.

—–

That blue day, that was the worst. She’s celebrating life with a bottle of dark burnt-yellow rum and vanilla vodka. She’s letting the fear drown under 70 proof, waiting for him to grab her hand a drag her back to the dorm room with the window that won’t quite close and the carpet that her toes sink into when she tiptoes out of the room after it’s over. When they’re there, they hit the alcohol harder, and she watches herself walk away from the bottle and over to the desk covered with biology homework and empty liquor bottles. She picks up his license, sticking out her tongue in concentration as she traces the card across the porcelain plate resting precariously on the edge of the college-issued desk. She takes an audible breath, dropping the license on the floor, leans over, and elegantly snorts a line.

—–

She wakes up the next morning still drunk and high. She sits up in bed, pulling the sheets over her nakedness, putting her head in her hands. She’s seen the bottle and the empty porcelain plate. She cries, and her cheeks turn pink.

_So last week The Digital Scene turned 2. We are now in the terrible twos, and to kick it off, The Sexretary and I spent the week celebrating. Yes, for a whole week, culminating in a very sloppy Halloween.

_And now that we’ve recovered (for the most part), it’s back to our regularly scheduled programming.

_So today on Mixtape Mondays, it’s time we talk about something that we have come to know a great deal about over the past week: hangovers.

_That’s right. There’s nothing worse than waking up with that head-crushing, stomach-churning, “I’m never drinking again” feeling after a wonderful night. So even though it hurts to hear loud noises when you’re hanging like a demon, we here at The Scene have put together a few songs that will sum up your hangover experiences.

_The Morning After Playlist
_ _Alkaline Trio – “Crawl” This song is perfect for those days that you wake up and, as the lyrics say “zero in on medicine.” Perfect for those days where it hurts to even open your eyes.
_ _Dave Matthews Band – “Grace Is Gone” Sure it’s a bit old, but this song is perfect for those lucky days when you wake still a little loopy from the night before and can grab a drink to take the edge off before pounding the water and coffee.
_ _The Dandy Warhols – “Sleep” This one goes out to everyone that has ever had to work early in the morning with a hangover and spends the entire day thinking “oh I could sleep forever.”
_ _Kings of Leon – “Use Somebody” A perfect, mellow, non-abrasive, but awesome and cute song to play with your significant other while on the way to get breakfast when you wake up at two in the afternoon, both still half comatose from the night before.

_If you didn’t know about those songs and their curative properties, you do now. Enjoy our playlist and as always, feel free to send us yours.

_Keep listening, and we’ll see you next week.

- Kid

Happy Birthday Baby

Two years ago yesterday, the Digital Scene was born.  I wasn’t in the picture back then. Two years ago yesterday, I had just come back to Baltimore after a not-so-tragic breakup, but was seeking solace in lots of home-cooked Jewish food anyways (courtesy of D).

One year ago yesterday, Kid invited me to make an appearance on The Scene. Oddly enough, I have yet to post the story that got me involved, but even so, I’ll be forever grateful for the Creative Non-Fiction  Writing assignment that got Kid’s attention and led me to where I am today – sitting on my couch with Desperate Housewives on in the background, writing the “Happy Birthday to The Digital Scene” post.

This birthday is kind of a big deal. Turning one was nice and all, but it just meant that we’d survived. Turning two means that we’ve actually established ourselves. We’re not questioning whether or not we’re going to make it, if we’re going to reach people, if we’re going to turn into what we want to be. We’re sure, now that we’re two. We’re getting places and doing things (big, amazing, awesome things that are soon to come) and making The Digital Scene something to follow.  In one year from yesterday, we’re going to have even more to brag about, and I know that I, for one, am damn excited about that.

So keep reading, keep writing, keep watching. Big, exciting things are coming… as soon as we recover from our serious birthday celebrations.

Happy Birthday to us, The Digital Scene. Here’s wishing for another year of snark, sarcasm, wit, and brilliant writing.

Health care. Insurance. Obama. Three things I am always terrified to talk about. For one thing, I am not well-versed in politics and the great entity that seems to be Obama, nor do I know much of anything about health care. What I do know, however, is that the health care and insurance systems are really, really fucked up.

I won’t be able to eloquently paraphrase the content of this news clip, so your homework is to watch it, read about it, and tell us what, if anything,  is wrong with this picture.

I may not know insurance, but I do know crazy-talk.

UPDATE: Said insurance company has apparently reviewed the aforementioned case and has changed their tune

_Of course there are things that we as people do to make ourselves feel better. Since I am not a girl and since I don’t care too much about my hair until it gets too tangled, my run-out-and-do-it type of feel good activity is not the hair dye/trim or the mani/pedi, but the full on body mod. Piercings lately, since I can’t afford tattoos.

_And since today was a failure of a morning, I decided to lighten it up by getting my ears expanded from a 10 gauge to a 6 gauge. Word to the wise: it hurts.

_Now I am a firm believer that anything like that should have its own ritual and its own procedures. Specifically, it should have its own play list. I know you know what I’m talking about, because we all have them. There’s the getting-ready-for-tonight play list, the power-hour play list, the in-the-car-on-the-way-out play list. You know the drill.

_So this is my Body Mod play list:
_ Pre Body Mod:
_ _ Eyes Set to Kill – “Reach”
_ _ Eyes Set to Kill – “Violent Kiss”
_ _ Placebo – “Pure Morning”
_ _ Cursive – “Shallow Means, Deep Ends”
_ Post Body Mod:
_ _ Deathcab for Cutie – “We Looked Like Giants”
_ _ Placebo – “Without You I’m Nothing” (Repeat at least seven times)

_Sure it’s short, but it doesn’t take long to get from my house to the Baltimore Tattoo Museum. If I go to get any ink done at a place further away, I will have to expand that play list.

_So that’s my Body Mod play list. What are your play lists or your songs? You know you have them, and you know we’d love to see them. What do you listen to to accompany your quirks?

_Keep listening, and we’ll see you next week.

- Kid

_It’s a dream of all serious writers to be, in some ways, famous. It’s a nice level of fame, because people tend to know your name, but not your face, so you can still go out to your favorite restaurants without being swamped. Still, there’s a hankering in a lot of us to attain the same level of panties-being-thrown-on-stage fame as rockstars.

_So when my brother, Lee Future of Literature Is Not Deadheaded out to the Left Coast for San Fransisco’s Lit Quake, I did not know that I would end up as an accomplice to the idea that writers can be as cool as rockstars.

_It started around 2:30 in the morning when Lee called me. I was still awake, even though I had to work at 7:15 AM, and I was very confused as to why my brother was on the other end. It turns out that he was out in a bar in San Francisco getting drunk with none other than Craig Cleveneger, author of The Contortionist’s Handbook and Dermaphoria. I was instantly jealous. Which is why I probably hung up on my brother, but honestly, I wanted to be out at cool bars in sunny San Fransisco drinking with my favorite underground(ish) authors. How rockstar is that? And I know they’re weren’t sitting around some stuffy parlor talking droll about literature. Why? Because Lee told me the next day (when I attempted to call him while he was destroyed hungover to make up for calling me at 2:30 in the morning) that they were talking about kittens and bacon.

_Yes, Craig Clevenger loves kittens. He also loves bacon. At some point during the night that he and my brother got drunk together, and after an undisclosed amount of alcohol, he was reported saying that the best thing in the world would be a bacon-wrapped kitten. Not necessarily to eat, but just to have.

_So, if any of you out there are going to do as I’m doing and start hording facts about Craig Clevenger the same way that teenage girls horde facts about the Jonas brothers, start with these two intense loves of his:
_ _ Kittens
_ _ Bacon
And work from there.

- Kid

_Last night we went to see Senses Fail and A Skylit Drive rock the Recher in Towson. Of course both bands put on a great show, even if Senses Fail is starting to sound a little dated.

_But last night reminded us of one of the greatest joys of concert-going: the out of nowhere amazing opening band. The band we saw last night that blew us away was Japan’s Fact. There were two things that made Fact a great band. First, their music is really good. Second, they were incredibly fun. One of the usual downfalls of an opening band is they try and get the crowd worked up when no one really cares about them. But Fact was so much fun that the crowd couldn’t help but get excited. Of course, that might have been due to their accents, but hey, whatever works.

Fact:
www.myspace.com/factjapan

_Keep listening, and we’ll see you next week.

- Kid

_Last Sunday, in a fit of brilliance (sponsored by Bitburger), while talking to a patron at one of our favorite bars, this quote came out: “It’s not that most books are too long, it’s just that most books exceed the ability of their authors.”

_Brilliant! It sounds smart! And we didn’t even need to practice!

_But do you agree? Do you think that most writers aren’t bad writers, but that they simply don’t know how to be concise? However, the short story form of writing is also one of the most difficult to master, so inspiring writers to write smaller pieces might be a bad idea, since very few people are good at writing that short stories. Such a dilemma! Either we write long and it turns out over-extended, or we write short and it turns out shitty.

_Anyone have a solution to this problem? And maybe more brilliant, beer-inspired quotes?

- Kid