March 28th, 2002. Thursday
 

    The last few days haven't exactly been the best of my life. They haven't been the worse, but my recent stability has been disrupted. I was gliding along just fine, and then the hammer fell. What was most responsible was learning that I didn't get the job I'd recently applied for. I'd tried to not get my hopes up, but I was still terribly disappointed anyway. It'd have been better if I didn't get to the second stage, or if they'd never even responded to my resume. But it just sucks that I spent all this time on their writing test, and they never even called to tell me I didn't get the job, or bothered to even send that form letter of which I am overly accustomed to seeing. I had to find out from Caryn. Bitches.

    On top of that, I was going crazy trying to get Wilco tickets yesterday.  New York concerts are weird. Last time Wilco played, I saw tickets were on sale for weeks.  Yesterday they went onsale online a little after noon.  By the time I had completed my order and hit "buy," Friday's show had already sold out.  That was about 5 minutes.  So I had to sprint, literally, down to the Mercury Lounge to see if there were any tickets left.  I felt a little silly sprinting across the Village, but when I got there I was glad I did.  There are two shows. The friday sold out as I was in line, which was the show I wanted to go to.  I got four of the last 15 tickets, about 40 minutes after they went on sale. The whole time in line, I kept thinking about how awful the not-getting-thejob and not-getting-the-tickets 1-2 punch was going to feel.  Total dejection.  So luckily, I got the 1-1.5 punch. I didn't get tix to both shows, but I'm going. And I'm glad I sprinted.
And since then, I'm feeling better and worse about not getting that fucking job.  I didn't really see it as a dream job, though I love the magazine and would've been elated had I gotten the job, but ultimately I know it's not the kind of writing I really want to do.  I don't really know what that is, exactly, but I know it's not little blurbs about the entertainment industry.

Of course, before completing the writing test they gave me, as cautious as I was being about getting my hopes up, I did say "I have a goddam Master's degree in journalism. If I can't at least get to the interview stage, I might as well pack it in." Well, I didn't get to the interview stage. Hence, what we like to call, "The Crisis."
 

But instead of dwelling on that, here's a little song I wrote the other night, shortly after finding out I didn't get the job. It's the second song I attempted to write that night, after a particularly forced and fruitless endeavor to vent my frustrations and depression in a profound musical expression. I'm postively terrible at writing songs, and usually mentally defeat myself before even starting.  So this is actually the first one I've started and finished.  If nothing else, it did put me in a better mood.  This one is called, tentatively, "My Favorite Brown Person," and is about my childhood chum Becky Thomas. She's Indian (not Native American), and I always like to make note of it when I see her. One of my fondest memories of 12th grade English is sitting behind her and throwing little pieces of paper and other items of trash in her hair. It was thick and kind of frizzy, and could hold an astonishing amount of refuse. Even little pencil stubs. After 40 minutes, I'd usually have a pretty good collage going. Then after class, she'd stand up, and about half the stuff would fall out, and she'd look down at the chair, look at me, and sigh heavily. Sometimes I think she hit me. I was a big, big dork. Other titles I'm considering are "Native American Indian," and "Brown Says," which I got from the new ad campaign for UPS. It's a pretty simple tune, but I'm almost happy with it.  I don't know if it's too "Weird Al." Here's a sampling of the lyrics:

You're family isn't from
The British West Indies
You're the kind of Indian,
That usually speaks Hindi

Becky Thomas...
You're my favorite brown person.
I think of you, then others,
And my feelings 'bout them worsen.

(chorus part)
When we were living there
I threw garbage in your hair,
trying to see just what might stick.

small, rolled up bits of goo,
and maybe a pencil or two.
All up in your thick, frizzy black hair

(verse)
Your name doesn't sound
At all like you look.
Because you're an Indian
(but not like Chingachgook)

And though you've got no allegiance
To Siva or Ganesh
Everytime I tell you,
You punch me in the chest.

(chorus)
Though I mock your funny language,
And your sell-out Christian heritage,
I think my feelings are clearly shown

Though I don't see you hear,
You know my thoughts are clear:
You're the nicest Indian, I've ever known.

(verse)
Sometimes you seem
So sad and full of gloom
And I swear last night I saw you,
In the Temple of Doom?

Becky Thomas!
Oh, Beeeecky Thomas.
Becky Thomas...
You sure don't look like a "Becky Thomas."

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