Performance Anxiety

It's Free Form Friday, kids. And you know what that means? I can go pointless. Woo hoo.

As a preface, the death of Elliott Smith hit me hard, and I've written a long piece about it that I'm not ready to post yet. But my reaction was similar to Shannon's, probably because I will always link Elliott Smith to her and the show he played at the Roxy 1998 and sprawling on my hardwood floor in Winter Hill in pain and listening to Waltz #2… strange too (yet appropriate) how she, Jenn and I all chose the same subject line when we posted about his death. I've always been aware of the brink of madness/depression that artists seem to experience; as though that state of mental instability is necessary for creation. Sometimes one of us dips over into the other side and never comes back.

Speaking of death, though in a joyful context, the Death Cab for Cutie show is tonight. It should be a pleasant antidote to the heaviness of losing a beloved musician. In that way, I can't sit still. I've got my dancing shoes on. I think I may go down to the Middle East and wait in line for the doors to open. I want to be up front. DCfC is also playing an in-store performance Saturday at Newbury Comics in the Garage in Harvard Sq. at 3:00. This is good news. There's a Ben & Jerry's there as well. Brownie Batter and Ben.

Another excellent in-store performance is on Sunday, when Calla will be playing at Virgin Atlantic on Newbury St. at 2:00 p.m. This helps mollify the fact that I'm missing their show Saturday night at the Paradise.

Speaking of shows on Saturday night, porterdavis is playing at the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge, and everyone should come. Their new material makes me either dance or cry, often at the same time. Daniel says he's heard that one of the three requirements of a successful show is to make a girl's heart ache. And I have never walked away from one of their performances not aching. Go early to get one of those good tables under the red lights by the big 'ol Victorian mirror. You can make out in the dark corners.

It's that time of year where I break out the Happy Lite, and I actually brought it to work this time. My office is pretty liberal, but I was prepared for the looks of "We know she's weird, but we didn't know she's that weird." I haven't gotten so much attention since I accidently died my hair fluorescent pink. The Happy Lite is this big board of ultraviolet bulbs that mimic sunshine. They stabilize your circadian rhythm, boost seratonin levels, and get you high if you leave it on too long. It's good for fending off seasonal depression. I have it on my desk. It's bright -- it looks like the door to another world from across the room. Word spread quickly and people were coming down from the floors upstairs to check out the situation. I didn't think it was that cutting edge. But now everyone's studying my face to see if I'm happy. It's not exactly like I was crying at my desk before. That was at my last job.

Which reminds me -- I've been thinking about my last job at the dot com a lot lately. Half the time I'm cringing, and the rest of the time I'm just seething and I want to go back there with my industrial-strength stapler and have it out with a select few. Granted, I spent the last seven months there doing absolutely nothing and spending eight luxurious hours a day on ICQ, writing an article when the mood struck. I was a good writer -- when I wanted to be. But it was ugly at the end. And I knew they were talking about me. There are few feelings that piss me off more than knowing people are saying shit behind my back and don't have the balls to say it to my face. Duplicity is the worst characteristic of a human being. Duplicity and dishonesty. Plus it felt like high school.

I look back and I realize how obvious it was that I didn't care, how much I was getting away with. I came and went as I pleased, took two and a half hour lunches. The systems admin took one look at my Internet usage and knew. If they had monitored my phone conversations it would have been worse. Why do I care? I quit there. I told them I hated my job. That it was making me physically sick to be there. My manager tried to talk me out of quitting because it made her look bad; she called me into her office to have a word with me about fucking up the Norton Anti-Virus home page and I quit. I cried. And then I quit.

So, what? What is it that makes me want to go back through there and take out The Stacies and the two-faced faux-cheery back stabbing manager? I've tried to let go. Some days I do. But the past two or three weeks it's been driving me mad. The other night I went on a walk and passed the old building, saw my office window. I suddenly felt like I did when I quit, shamed, low, like a fuckup. I had to remind myself that I'm no longer that person. I had my first review at my Harvard job on Tuesday, and my boss had a hard time coming up with anything negative to say about me. He finally admitted that my troublesome weakness is that I'm too hard on myself.

In less bothersome news, my hairdresser called me this morning to find out how long my appointment with her would be because she heard through the grapevine that I shaved my head. She said this in disgust, and I could hear her snarling her lip and stamping her foot over the phone. Ah, Linda. I go to her for my monthly treatment of abuse. Serves her right -- the last time I was in there, in June, I told her I wanted to cut my hair so it was short around but had long pieces in front, pixie-style, and she said, "No. Absolutely not. You'll look like a dyke." She'll just love my at-home clipper head-in-the-sink styling when she sees me tomorrow.

I've been working like mad on my VolumeFreak site. I just got Photoshop 7 and I'm in the process of learning all the new features. It's fun stuff and I highly recommend picking it up if you have the means.

I don't think I have anything else random to roll on about during my Free Form Friday set. I'd say that I was going to post a review of tonight's Death Cab show on Monday, but I probably won't. My heart will sing for joy and that will be the review. Unless I drag Ben Gibbard home and make him breakfast, you probably won't get any details.Have a sparkler of a weekend, people. It's on me.