Blogging Creatively

At the moment, I'm blogging from my phone, killing time before dinner and a show with a friend. Ah, technology...

I attended a panel discussion last night on "Working Creatively," which was originally billed as a session on how to bring creativity into jobs (like mine) which are not generally seen as "artistic." It ended up as a rather impassioned discussion on how to keep and advance the efforts of creative people in cities (like Memphis) which are not generally seen as supportive of such efforts. So I didn't come away with any new perspectives on how to make my work more fresh and exciting, but I did get a lot to think about on how to make the city more fresh and exciting. And some great insights on why people here think it already is.

It always inspires me to be around people who love Memphis for what it is and have great hopes for what it can be. Especially people who are willing to step up, in ways big and small, and do their part to achieve those hopes. I'm hoping that all the excitement that was generated last night can be channeled into something bigger.

For my small part, I am off to support local theater at The Glass Menagerie. The last time I saw a production of it was in college, on the tail end of the meltdown I alluded to several posts earlier. I am sure this one will probably resonate for me in different ways.

Last weekend, I saw 1776 for the first time since I worked on a production 10 years ago. I was struck by the references to tyranny and terror and the tradeoff between liberty and comfortable safety. It sounded so much like a commentary on wiretapping and waterboarding. But, of course, neither of those things existed in 1776.

Requiem for a Saloon

I feel like I need to comment, at least briefly, on the passing of Shooters, which apparently burned to the ground this morning some time before I got out of bed. Although the place hadn't been called Shooters for at least four years, that's how most people I know will remember it. Those that are capable of remembering it at all, that is.

My own recollections are pleasantly vague for the most part, but I did make some friends there whom I still enjoy seeing in other places. It's definitely been a landmark of my time here, and one that I have missed and am sorry to now see gone forever.

A Simple Market Analysis

As all of the conflicting reports and general chaos about the current financial crisis swirl around us, I feel like it is my duty to put my economics degree to work and provide some clear, concise, useful information to those lucky few who are smart enough to read my blog. So here, for your enjoyment (or despair, depending on whether your money is in mutual funds or under the mattress), is a Simple Market Analysis:

One share of Starbucks stock is worth approximately the same as one pound of Starbucks coffee. Or two triple venti vanilla lattes (make mine nonfat, please).

One share of GM stock is worth about as much as a quart of moderately-priced synthetic motor oil. Take heart, though, GM shareholders: you can't even get a quart of cheap motor oil for what Ford is trading at. You can, however, get one of those little pine tree air fresheners to hang from your rearview mirror. Maybe even two if they're on sale.

Last month's cable bill would have bought five shares in Time Warner Cable or seven shares in Comcast.

My cell phone charger cost more than a share of Nokia stock.

One share of Citigroup is worth about 1/3 of the late fee that they charge their credit card holders. And one share of Bank of America wouldn't cover a bounced check fee in most states.

One share of Coach stock will barely buy you a handbag at Target.

For what it costs to check one suitcase on most airlines, you could buy a share in American, United, AND Northwest. Which is why you should diversify your portfolio. And carry your luggage on the plane.

And one share of MGM Mirage costs less than I'm going to lose in poker tonight. Maybe I should try gambling in the stock market instead.

Untitled

When I was 19 and a sophomore in college, I had a meltdown over a guy. Looking back later with the wisdom of many years and self-help articles, I came to realize that I was having a meltdown over a lot of other things. The guy -- who, at the time, I believed was the primary reason for my meltdown -- was, to be honest, probably pretty close to the bottom of a long list of reasons. Like my rapidly-declining academic standing, the fact that I'd gone from being a "really smart" high school student to a worse-than-mediocre college student, and not really having a clue how to fix that problem. Or the problem of being nearly 20, supposedly an adult, and not knowing what I was doing in college in the first place.

Grade school was all about getting into the "right" high school; high school was all about getting into college. All of that made sense, and I had succeeded into getting into a college that was supposed to be good at getting people into other things. I just couldn't figure out what I wanted to get into next. I felt, of course, as if all of my friends were completely focused, driven, and entirely sure of themselves, and would surely find it ridiculous that an almost-20-year-old could be almost half-way through college and not know what she wanted to be when she grew up. Some of my friends, who much later admitted to being equally clueless, will probably laugh when they read this.

When I was 28, I started to have a meltdown over another guy. Armed with the wisdom of several more years and self-help articles, a six-pack of beer, and a pack of cigarettes, I was determined to put a stop to it. This time, I couldn't even pretend that the meltdown had all that much to do with the guy, because we'd only dated for about three weeks. Even I couldn't squeeze that much melodrama out of the demise of a barely-existent relationship. But there was the problem of my rapidly-growing dislike for my brand-new job, my roommate's decision to move out, and my realization that everything that I'd been excited about three weeks earlier -- new job, new guy, newly-cleaned bedroom -- had been turned upside down. I was nearly 30 (though I never would have said that out loud), supposedly an adult, and still didn't have a clue what I was doing.

I flirted briefly with the idea of heading out to stay with Dad in Colorado while I "made a fresh start." My logic: I had made some ridiculously bad job choices out of the need to have an income. Any income. If I crashed with Dad, I could work part-time while I did a real "career" search. Then I'd get my own place, and hopefully get over the shock of living in a place where people exercised more in a week than I did in a year, despite the fact that there might be snow on the ground from Halloween to Memorial Day.

So I called up Dad and pitched my idea to him. He listened in his quiet, attentive, Dad-like way, and then he asked me if I still had "that cat." With a sinking feeling that I knew where the conversation was going, I told him that, yes, I did. "OK," he replied. "As soon as you find him a new home, let me know, and we'll talk about whether you should move out here." I protested, with a growing sense of desperation, that one doesn't just give away an $800 alleycat. Especially when I hadn't even finished paying off his surgery yet. "I know," Dad told me. "You're an adult, and you have a responsibility to provide a good home for that cat. My place isn't a good home."

"You're telling me I can't come," I accused him.

"You're my daughter and you're always welcome," he answered. "I'm just telling you that you can't bring that cat. If you'd like to visit, I'll buy you a plane ticket."

I did fly out, and made a big show of looking at apartment listings and job listings and talking about how it wouldn't be all that bad of a place to start over. My last night in Colorado, there was a frost warning, despite the fact that it was technically still summer. I gave up all pretenses at that point, got back on the plane, and went home to that cat. I found a new roommate, finally got around to that "career search," and paid off the alleycat repair bills. Somewhere along the line, I fell in love. But that's another story.

So why have I chosen to draft this particular chapter of my largely-unwritten memoir right now, when I finally have a clue what I'm doing and absolutely no excuse to be thinking about meltdowns? A random encounter got me reminiscing, and, actually, I did start with a title in mind. Just can't quite make it all make sense just yet, but I'm hoping that I'll have a chance to see where it might go. And then I'll write about that, too.

The Requisite Political Post

Over the past year or so, I've pretty much managed to prove (and mention frequently) that I don't post often, and that my blog pretty much has no coherent theme or apparent purpose. But the people who read it like it, and I guess that's good, especially since I probably read it more than anyone else. It's good for me to like it; if I didn't, I might not post at all.

In one of my rambling commentaries on what I don't write about, I made some vague reference to not being inspired to write about politics beyond the humorous material generated by being a lifelong Democrat surrounded -- at least in my personal life -- by Republicans. When my fiance and I lived together, the comedic potential was, of course, much greater. Especially since we lived together in a decidedly Republican town in a decidedly Republican county. Unfortunately, I moved out before said town and county ended up with a decidedly Democrat Representative in Congress. Giggle.

Still, there's something to be said about the fact that we are quickly approaching the point in each election year when my fiance and I will cease to communicate with each other beyond pointed stares and cold silences. Given that we do a lot of our communicating by phone these days, I can't help but think that there might be trouble right here in River City. Which is yet another reference that my theater-oblivious fiance will not get. The previous one -- "Feed me, Seymour!" -- led to a discussion about why I had just called him by the wrong name. Please. As if I even know any guys named Seymour.

The latest volley in our war of opinion came today from my fiance, courtesy, I'm sure, of one of his decidedly Republican co-workers. I tried very hard to post it here, but I couldn't get it to be legible, so I will translate. In a cartoon strip, two people are walking down the street having the following conversation:

"Shouldn't voters have to pass an intelligence test?"

"You don't have to be intelligent to vote." (As if the results of the last presidential election didn't prove that beyond the shadow of a doubt.)

"What if there are more stupid people than intelligent people?"

"Then the Democrat wins."

Please. As if the party that nominated Sarah Palin has any room to talk about stupid people. Shouldn't vice-presidential candidates have to pass an intelligence test?