:: Quiche of the Day ::

:: 08.05.2004::

*For some reason punctuation is now broken on my blog.
*Nothing really exciting happens in this San Francisco story, but it is taking ages to tell.
*I had a McVeggie Burger at McDonalds today.
This just in: wonders never cease!

So, while I’m sure you all are salivating at the idea that I might possibly describe what it was like waiting at the crosswalk in downtown S.F. while a local man and a woman chatted and I vaguely wondered if they were husband and wife, and I know that the prospect of a short essay about the architecture (it was red) of the 4th Street Transportation Hub has you on the edge of your seats, I don’t make the money here by being predictable or giving my audience what they want.
In lieu of the ponderously uneventful bits of prose that have made up the story so far, I’ll be presenting part four in the form of drawings done in MS Paint. Enjoy!



I waited on the curb, waited for the bus that would take me deep into the city, into the heart of my journey, my destination.



As I continued to wait, I wondered about the people around me. Would they get on the bus, too? What did they have for breakfast? What did it all mean? Waiting in the city. Waiting for deliverance.



The bus arrives, looking less like a hippo than it does in this picture! My thoughts are torn from me. I must board and provide the city transportation system with exact change. Fortunately, I have counted out quarters beforehand.



The world rattles and shakes, everything gets hot and panicked. Could it be? A dragon, fierce and green, all teeth and rage, fangs and disaster? Yes it is, and he has picked a fight with our bus in the street!



As a fire blazes in the background, I face down the dragon and tell him that he is not as cool as he thinks he is!



The dragon sheds a slow, silent tear.



The ultimate battle!



TO BE CONTINUED!!!


:: Aaron Humphrey 5:56 PM ::
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:: 08.03.2004::

So it turns out that the quotation problem was due to an errant enyay (aka the Spanish N with a little ~ above it), which I have since deleted. I’ve also finally archived all the entries from the past year. This blog will be three years old in about a month, so I’ll soon make a fancy new archive page, but for now, the index on the side will just be really huge.

:: Aaron Humphrey 4:50 PM ::
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:: 08.03.2004::

So I just realized that for some reason all my quotations marks and apostraphies were being converted to question-marks, making the page a bit difficult to read. I've fixed the most recent handful of entries and will clean up the rest of the page soon, although I'd rather not go through and tag each little quotation mark one at a time. Does anyone know a better way to fix this? Find and Replace doesn't seem to work.

:: Aaron Humphrey 2:54 PM ::
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:: 08.2.2004::

San Francisco Adventure Part 3: Hostel or Hostile??
Getting to my hostel was just a matter of walking a few blocks down a dark, breezy street at eleven PM. When I'd run over the trip in my head pre-departure, this was always the mostly likely place for me to be mugged, but as it turned out, the sidewalk was virtually deserted and I never felt a reason to worry, although I did check the address about fifteen times before I arrived at the hostel's doorstep.
There's something quite pleasant about traipsing hundreds of miles up the coast and finding that your destination ends up being tucked away on a gloomy, wind-swept street, a small wooden door, almost invisible, with the words "Traveler's Inn" hand-painted on it, along with an address that matches the one you hold in your hand.
This was the door I opened, feeling I'd unlocked a secret passage in the heart of San Francisco, and I was greeted by a simple flight of stairs not four feet wide and the comforting hum of vending machines that awaited me from the top. The hostel was well lit and about as clean as most well-worm dorms I've been in.
The reception desk was just around the corner from the stairs and I ran the little bell for service. A short, dark haired man with an accent that seemed to be Eastern European, perhaps ten years old than me, welcomed me and we haggled for a while about the price of my room before settling on twenty dollars, five of which I'd get back when I returned the key.
I had planned on sharing a room with at least four other people, so I was surprised when he told me I'd have a semi-private room - which ended up being almost entirely private. I had four walls, two bunk beds, a dresser and a television all to myself! The only thing that wasn't private about the room was that my window overlooked an identical window about five feet across the roof. There was a woman, probably about forty, in there sitting next to the window and watching television. We caught each other's eyes as I was putting sheets on the bed and I said, "hi!" figuring it would be less weird than pretending the portal didn't exist. We talked for a little bit and she assured me that no one over there was spying on me and they were just going to bed. I didn't even think to assure them that I wouldn't be spying on them.
Because it was already after midnight and I had to be up before eight in the morning, as rested as possible. I picked the bottom bunk as the top one seemed rather unstable, read a couple of chapters from the Book of Romans and went to sleep.
The first time I woke up I stumbled out into the brightly lit hallways on my way to the bathroom, wondering what time it was. Because although I was on a time-critical mission, I haven't worn a watch regularly in years. I asked a hurried dude in the hallway what time it was and he just said, "it's really late," in a tone that was more than a little, "past your bedtime, young man!" But the clock in the hallway only said 1:30, which was NOT past my bedtime, thank you very much, so I asked a couple of guys who were hanging out in the office if the clock was right.
"Huh? Oh yeah, I think so." Then he actually looked at the clock. "Oh wait, maybe not."
Somehow I managed to get the rough estimate of 4:30, at which point I went back to bed. The second time I woke up it was because my eyelid was itching. I worried that I had caught some sort of infection from the used (but washed!) bed sheets, and got up to get some water. (I'll never mention this again, so you should know: my eye was fine about fifteen minutes later and has remained that way. But you can still send care packages if you want!)
The clock on the microwave said it was already a little after eight, and though I had fancied returning to my slumbers, as I washed my eye out I shifted my mind to AWAKE! mode and went to go find a shower.
The showers in the hostel were interesting, essentially just rooms not much smaller than the one I was staying in, with a drain in the middle of the floor and one shower head on the wall. They opened up right into the hallway. And the water temperature was absolutely perfect.
I returned my borrowed towel and bedsheets to the office, which was no being manned by an old hippie guy with a long gray beard and matted hair. In another context I would have thought he was homeless. In this context I was asking him to use the office computer to get on the Internet.
I needed to get directions to the closest post office as I had managed to leave at home the special, 15+ dollar US Postal Service envelope I needed so that the consulate could send me my visa back (provided they would be sending me one at all).
I also figured I should check my e-mail. I mean, wouldn't you?
And then I was ready to go. Except for one thing: the website I had found the hostel on had mentioned that this one had free donuts and muffins for breakfast! So I asked the (quite nice, by the way) bearded guy about breakfast. He said, "um, we got some bread." Sure enough, they did have a bag of sliced, white bread. "The boss don’t order the good stuff any more," he shrugged.
I convinced him to hook me up with a few pieces (made more edible with the help of a toaster and some grape jelly Beard Guy provided), even though it wasn't quite yet the official breakfast time. Because of course the microwave clock in the kitchen had ALSO been wrong, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock until I was on my way out the door, seeing the sunny side of San Francisco for the first time, and trying to catch yet another bus.

NEXT TIME: HE CATCHES A BUS!


:: Aaron Humphrey 7:30 PM ::
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:: 07.31.2004::

San Francisco part two

Deep underneath the San Francisco airport cars stream by with a certain fluidity, their headlights obscuring specifics of make and model in the weary bluish light. The air is cool and moist, but I'm comfortable sitting at this bus stop in just a tee-shirt and jeans. Nearby a worn-out Asian man reads a newspaper in a language I don't understand but I suspect is Chinese. I read the back of a fast food bag found that was laying on the ground. A two color Spider-Man tells me to swing into Burger King.
A few taxis rumble past, their topfins peeking out between the glare of their own headlights. I hold out on my faith that this bus is coming. With no watch and no concrete knowledge of the transportation system around here, all I can do is wait and be prepared, for I shall not know the hour of my deliverance.
I scrounge around in my backpack for my homemade chocolate chip cookies –comfort food. Although this is a strange comfort; homemade to me has always meant made by another, usually a girl or relative, mostly my mother, with care and love and nice thoughts to think. But I made these cookies myself (Ed helped mix the batter) and they’re cold and burnt on the bottom. I eat one slowly, holding it with both hands. I think about sharing with the man next to me, but he might think I'm trying to poison him. I don't know why. But that might be what I'd think. Maybe.

On the bus ($1.25)
It's just crowded enough that I can’t find a seat to myself facing forward, so I sit in one of the sideways rows in the middle of the bus. These are the people I notice: a sad blonde girl wearing mascara and a fleece parka who later on will talk into her cell phone with a tired southwest accent, and a young looking black kid who listening to rap music everyone on the bus without headphones can hear. He only sings along to the parts with profanity, a slurred out "beeyitch!" every few seconds. It sounds like Busta Rhymes, but really, who am I to know?
I wonder what makes this kid think he can play his music as loud as he wants and impose on all the people around him. What right does he have to force us to listen to his music? Maybe no one’s ever stood up to him before. I consider going up and asking him to turn the music down rather than be submissive and let this kid control what I hear. But maybe he’s a drug dealer or someone tough. Otherwise, wouldn’t someone else have said something? I can’t imagine all the other people on this bus are happy with the music, and chalk no one saying anything up to the lack of kinship and open communication in today’s fragmented society. I resolve to talk to the kid before the music gets too annoying. At this point I realize I've spent half and hour debating back and forth with myself.
I make my way to the back of the bus and stand next to the kid’s seat. I had earlier thought that maybe he could just use a friend, but he looks at me with a closed-off glare of indifference and I realize my sunny assessment was no where near the mark. I ask, "Hey man, do you think you could turn your music down?" and he says "what?" in a way that’s less confrontational than it is simply blank. Like I’m speaking another language. "Do you think you could turn your music down, or put headphones on or something?" "I don’t have any headphones." "Well look, your music is really loud and I can hear it all the way up there – do you think you could turn it down, just a little bit?" I make a pathetic gesture with my hands for "just a little bit."
"I’m just about to get off," he says, and I don’t want to push the subject so I just say, "Ok, thanks, man," and grasp at the handrails that lead me back to my seat. The kid stays on the bus for another ten to fifteen minutes. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel. After he gets off I try to watch the scenery and enjoy the ride, but through the thick window I can’t see much past half of my reflection.

more coming . . .


:: Aaron Humphrey 4:26 PM ::
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:: 07.31.2004::

For some reason it always takes me a while to get back into the writing groove when I come back from traveling. So it's take me a while, but here finally is the first part of my journey to San Francisco to apply for a Spanish visa.

You need an insane amount of documentation to apply for a Spanish student visa. Aside from your passport you need to have four extra passport-sized photos, plus a signed doctor's letter on official doctor's stationary, a letter from the school you'll be attending on official school stationary, proof of health insurance, verified flight arrangements, proof that your parents will be providing money for you if you need it, proof that you have a place to stay, a special envelope from the post office that they can send you your visa in, one hundred dollars cash, plus half a dozen forms to fill out and photocopies of EVERYTHING (well, everything except the money). None of this is really unreasonable (what’s unreasonable is having to apply at the consulate in PERSON) but for someone as disorganized as myself, it is incredibly difficult.
Still, I gave it my best shot, and packed a bag the night before my trip to San Francisco with everything I needed so that I could leave for work early, make the necessary photocopies and then leave for the airport straight from work. I packed a few books, a change of clothes, and food to last me for the trip (two PBJ sandwiches, six homemade cookies, half a bag of pretzels, one candybar and four Airheads). What I forgot to pack were all the forms and letters I needed to photocopy. Fortunately I was able to take a long lunch so I could run back to my apartment, grab the papers, make the copies and carefully run down the checklist and make sure I had everything FOR SURE.
I also made up a list of all the information I would need to know – my flight times, bus schedules, the address of the hostel I would be staying at, and a few emergency contact numbers. I did, however, forget to write down both my flight number and the actual airline I was flying on. This wasn't really a problem, though, as all you need to get through an airport these days is a credit card, a driver's license and a willingness to be strip-searched if necessary. Fortunately, though, I didn't even have to take off my shoes. I ate a sandwich, a few cookies and some pretzels for dinner waiting for my flight, a brief stopover in Las Vegas. Since we wouldn't be in the air long I decided to forego my usual dose of Dramamine. If I got sick, it at least wouldn't be for very long.
Take-off was exhilarating -- and my stomach felt quite buoyant and alive, although not uncomfortable or rebellious. "So this," I thought, "is what flying is truly like!" However, I suspect it was really some sort of reverse placebo-effect, since I didn't experience the same excitement on subsequent un-medicated flights.
Watching the sky and desert outside my window, I knew we were approaching Las Vegas when the horizon began to become indistinct, smeared with smog. It was literally impossible to tell where the grey-brown tierra ended and the grey-brown cielo began. As we got closer I could see a thick black haze just hanging over Sin City, like someone had tried to smudge out the sky with an old eraser. Worse than anything I've seen in L.A. It was my first time to Vegas and I already couldn't stand it. It was also hot there – eight o'clock at night and it must have been 90 degrees as we deplaned. Of course there are slot machines and air conditioning to greet us, and the place is humming with people and tourists. I find the quietest place to sit and open up my book on the American Revolution. It's not hard to feel like the only sane person in the airport. But then, I never thought I'd like Vegas.
I can't remember most of the flight to San Francisco – I think I spent most of it sleeping. But when I got there I was very awake – and very aware that I was all alone in this city surrounded on three sides by water. I've flown alone plenty of times. I've traipsed across the country to work or go to school in a state where I know no one. But here, for the first time, no one else was responsible for me. No one in this city owed me anything – I had a plane to catch the next day and an address of a hostel somewhere downtown, but other than that I was completely on my own.
Like not taking Dramamine on the flight to Las Vegas, this was a not a major risk. I would be in the city less than a day and I really only had to get to the consulate and get back to the airport. But still I couldn't quite get rid of the voice that kept reminding me that I was all alone.
My first instinct was actually to get lost, to explore the airport book store, miss the bus and end up wandering the streets trying to find a place to stay. Well, it was my firs instinct until I followed it to its logical conclusion. But I was shocked at how easy it would be to get sidetracked and be irresponsible since there was no one besides myself that I was accountable to.
But I did in fact have a bus to catch.
. . .
To be continued!


:: Aaron Humphrey 1:04 PM ::
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:: 07.24.2004::

Restored thoughts from Monday
Walking back from the post office today, package un-mailed under my arm (I forgot to bring the address) I felt the sun setting on my skin, dissolving sticky and moist. It's still high in the sky and nothing is orange yet, but I feel like a popsicle, melting and setting, sunset colored.
Today is not the best day for fruitless errands, for beurocracy or forgetting the address you should be addressing a package to. So here's me with a Priority Mail envelope (which I had to pay for) with only a first name and my return address written on it. And I'm hot and tired and feel like I could cry.
So I stretch out on the grass in the shade of a palm tree. Song stuck in my head again today - probably it was playing over the radio - and I grit my teeth against it. 'Think for yourself!' I scold my brain, 'be present here, don't escape in some silly pop song - how do you feel?"
I feel . . . like an Indian yogi lying on a bed of nails, except instead of nails these are only blades of grass. People who pass by are less than amazed. And the question is not how long can I stay miraculously lying here, but if, despite the grass itching my neck, I will ever arise.
***
Later that night I realized I am afraid of my bellybutton. And I belly-button phobic? Either way, I feel that if I poke far enough my finger will disappear completely into my stomach. Does anyone else have this problem? I think I would rather touch my eyeball than my bellybutton. Except that I haven't actually touched my eyeball. But the thought it doesn't make my skin crawl as much.

:: Aaron Humphrey 9:36 PM ::
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:: 07.24.2004::

Thursday afternoon

All of the visa hoops still left to jump through were stressing me out.
Christina’s car broke down the day before and she had an appointment that afternoon for a root canal.
"This hasn’t been a very good week," she said, slouching at the computer help desk where we both work.
I leaned against the counter and agreed with her.
Waiting for Josh for a ride, are both hungry and have a lot on our minds.
He shows up at the end of our shift and drives us to her house so she can recharge her cell phone, then drives off to his own job.
I browse Nietzsche (Beyond Good and Evil) as we wait for another ride, Ed, to pick us up. I need to go to rite-aide, she needs to go to the dentist.
But he is busy and can't make it in time.
So Christina asks Suzanne, her houselady if she can drive us.
Suzanne hollers for her daughter, calling "Roxanne!" and it reminds me of The Police. Roxanne finally shows up. She is about seven years old and explains that her knee was hurting.
Suzanne mocks her in a strange voice, "my knee was hurting."
We're all shuffled into a mini van and when Suzanne turns on the car, contemporary Christian music plays on the radio.
I wonder as we drive what its effects are. Does it calm? Does it counsel?
The van is air-conditioned. We drive past Rite-Aide.
We pass underneath a freeway before turning into the strip mall and parking by a small building with a red DENTISTRY sign. It is only a few minutes past Christina’s 2:00 appointment.
Christina and I get out and thank Suzanne before she drives away.
"I can give you money for bus fare if you want," Christina says. I still have to walk to Rite-Aide and then back to school to pick up my shift at the help desk.
No, I say, I was looking forward to walking.
But it was nice of her to offer.
I walk on the sidewalk between storewindows and parkinglot to a Mexican restaurant I'd spotted on the way in and order a chicken taco for a dollar. (I have exact change to pay the eight cents tax.)
It comes to me to-go, wrapped in foil. I ask for a glass of water as well.
Then I set out across the parking lot. I eat my taco as I walk across one free way and under another.
I think about doing a photo book about scenes along the road that you never see while you drive.
I make it to Rite-Aide and I buy some photo paper to print out passport pictures on. I also buy a scoop of ice cream, mango sherbet, for 99 cents. For some reason, they don’t charge me tax.
My first scoop falls on the floor before I even have the chance to taste it, but the attendant gets me another for free. It looks bigger than the first.
I trek down Tustin, the street I used to go skateboarding on. The land marks are familiar: giant car wash, Mexican fast-food, a hotel or two.
I'm finishing up my ice cream as I turn down Chapman, past a few churches, the high school lawn, and shady houses.
I have memories of bike-rides and movie shoots and Sunday mornings all around this area. It is comforting – part of it is mine.
I have to go around the construction when I get back on campus, but it's no longer confusing to me and I stride from the mid-day sun into air-conditioned Beckman Hall without skipping a beat, though the temperature change is a shock.
And I arrive at the help desk right on time to start my shift, exactly one hour after being dropped off at the dentist.
Reassured.

Sometimes it takes finding your way back from a far away to remind you in the end it's all going to be okay.

:: Aaron Humphrey 3:23 PM ::
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:: 07.24.2004::

Altruism!

The Hunger Site - visit and click daily!

Serve Day - a ton of Orange County churches get together for one big day of service and charity. I'll be there -- will you?

There must be more links out there about helping people.

:: Aaron Humphrey 12:14 AM ::
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:: 07.22.2004::

Ran into an old friend yesterday. I met her probably the first week of my sophomore year at college when she was a still-blinking freshman with long hair dyed red and braided down her back. Good Mormon girl with pictures of all the prophets in her dorm room, she told me how her grandfather had been a daring missionary on the high seas and how a Mormon production company made a movie based on the book he wrote about his adventures. Thus inspired, she was determined to come to film school, and as she lived down the hall from me, frequently borrowed my camcorder for assignments.
In many ways she was like the typical freshman girl from a broken home, often stressed out, often sad, but always determined to keep her chin up and fight, dressed in baggy tee-shirts and green flip-flops.
She wrote journal entries for Gabbo last year, filled with descriptions in hushed giggles of a dance in a white gazebo and her very first kiss and malaise-sparked poetry decrying the boredom and heat of her native Arizona. She was a good kid, I always thought, she didn't know what cool was, but she was a good kid.
I hardly recognized her coming down the stairs yesterday, her hair bouncy and short, dyed a dusky blond, her outfit sleek and professional, button-down. Quick hug and "How are you?". "I just got back from New Zealand!" Even her breath seems sing-song. Sunglasses on her forehead. "I'm trying to find a job that will pay me what I'm worth!" I chuckle, "good luck," (she’s still got her naïveté). "I'm looking at a couple of places that are ten dollars, but I won't take less than eight – I'm so tired of working for minimum wage at jobs I don't even like! If I’m going to be paid less than eight dollars an hour it better be doing something fun!” Now I'm not sure if it’s naïveté or Hollywood that's gotten to her. She looks like someone who's just arrived, airbrushed and confident, and as we part I realize she's been chewing bubble gum this whole time, as Valley as you can get.
I feel like she's someone I've never met before, but I've seen a million times. I hope she gets what she wants – it seems she's already over half-way there. But I miss the girl I used to know who did not know she was dorky, and when that, not some outer shell, was what made her cool.

:: Aaron Humphrey 4:31 PM ::
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:: 07.21.2004::

In order to apply for my Spanish visa I have to get a signed doctor’s letter on real doctors' stationary verifying that I'm not a carrying a flesh-eating-zombie disease (FEZ Disease) or am prone to exsanguination or anything else harmful to myself and others, so I went to the Student Health Center to make an appointment this morning. The receptionist instantly knew where I would be going, as apparently Spain is the only country Chapman students are going to that requires such a letter. I wonder if they're the only country that makes you travel hundreds of miles in order to apply in person, too. I was also told yesterday that some of the Spanish consulates don't even send you the visa once they process it – you actually have to go back again in person and pick it up. Are they afraid that a doppelganger might hijack my mailbox, steal my visa, pretend to be me, fly to Spain and replace their trade-mark bulls with cheap mechanical ones as seen in dirty American country-western bars? At this point I won't be surprised if they make me show up in a matador costume to apply.
Anyway. So I made the appointment for the afternoon and had to leave work early to make it. Of course I ended up locking myself out of my apartment and forgetting the papers I needed, so I had to do a bunch of running around before everything was cozy. I was a little late for my appointment, but it didn’t seem to matter too much. The nurse took my blood pressure and printed out a form letter and told me to wait for the doctor.
There are two doctors who work at the Chapman Health Center. One is a wonderfully reassuring, mom-like lady who gives tips like "make sure you drink LOTS of water," and seems to be genuinely interested in knowing how your life is going. The other is a pale-eyed man who seems like he’d be more at home dealing cards in a smoky bar in Vegas than telling me what sorts of things I should be putting in my body. The woman is gone for the summer.
I didn't really think of the man as a bad doctor, just one who made me uneasy when I went to see him, and I didn't really know what this examination was going to entail, so there I am, sitting in a small room with no windows waiting for someone I'm not comfortable around to come in and do any number of things to me that I may not be comfortable with. Would this be a full-on physical? Would I have to take off my shirt? Would I have to take off my pants? (Unlike Grant, I am not at all familiar with that kind of check-up and hope I won't ever have to be, but I coughed a few times just to practice) Would being nervous raise my blood pressure so that all my reading were off and I was diagnosed with something I didn't actually have?
It would have been a good time to break out the meditation techniques, but I had no idea how long I would be sitting there alone. So my eyes darted back and forth between flyers hanging on a rack with titles like "Your Pap Test" and "Male Self-Examination" and a piece of paper someone had taped to the ceiling that said, "I hate this." I tried to imagine what it was that was so hated, and that only made me more jumpy. It was at least fifteen minutes before the nurse came in again and told me that the doctor had been in a car accident, so he was running a bit late.
Finally he did come in, though, making it the first doctor appointment I've been to that starts out with ME asking, "How are you feeling?" He was feeling fine, just worried about getting the insurance paperwork from the accident done he goes on vacation next week. Poor thing. He held up the waiver form I had brought in that had a list of dozens of horrible to semi-terrible diseases and conditions, then turned to me and asked, "you don’t have any of these, right?" I said that I didn’t think so, and he handed me the paper to check all the little "No" boxes. Then he signed it and said, "we're letting you off easy today."
And I felt relieved. But not exactly reassured.
:: Aaron Humphrey 5:28 PM ::
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:: 07.19.2004::

Hablabamos de Espana.
I will be in Granada in six weeks. Seis semanas. I’m clinging to my English more tightly than ever now, like a precipice that will soon crack and send me spiraling, Wile E. Coyote-like into un gran abismo de castillano, taunted by lisping laughter: “Ja ja ja! No conothe ethte lengua! Eth una lathtima!”
(As a testament to my proficiency, I cannot figure out how to type an upside-down exclamation point for the life of me.)
I know its stupid to be intimidated by Spanish, especially when I’ll be swimming in it before you can say “Vaya” but I can’t help it. After all, una lengua (lit. “tongue”) can be an intimidating thing, and the water always seems the coldest right before you jump.
I take that back. The water’s actually the coldest right after you hit the water and come up for air sputtering and flailing. Which bodes no better for me and my impending adventures abroad. (To mix a metaphor or two,) no one likes a cold tongue.
But don’t tell me it’ll be ok because everyone over there speaks English anyway, because phobic or not, I actually do want to entender the language and not fall back on any English-speaking friends I make over there. I’ll be living in an apartment with a Spanish family, so that should help.
So apprehension number one is the language.
Apprehension number two is getting a visa.
Apparently, since we (as in, the United States) have been cracking down on foreigners trying to enter our country, other countries are reciprocating. Which means in order to apply for a Spanish visa I actually have to physically GO to the Spanish consulate. And since the consulate you apply at depends on your home state, I actually have to physically go to the Spanish consulate in SAN FRANCSISCO. Which isn’t actually as bad as it could be - if I lived in Alaska, for example, I’d still have to go to San Francisco to apply. However, seeing as I don’t have a car and never have more than one day off at a time, it’s still pretty bad. And since it’s only a few weeks until I leave, I need to go ASAP. So I’m putting a plea out there: does anyone out there want to help me get to The City of Brotherly Love?
Please, please please?

Hablabamos de Amor.
Today marks one year since I started dating Erin. If my life were a dollar, she would have about a nickel of it. I’m not surprised we’ve made it this far, as she is definitely worth that nickel! She also has her own web page now! Go visit her - she’s my girlfriend!
:: Aaron Humphrey 6:07 PM ::
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:: 07.17.2004::

I'm tired already, maybe I shouldn't start writing.
I've spent my evening working on putting together a DVD for my roommate Sean's Production 1 film. It looks pretty good and I am quite happy with it, except for the fact that is now taking somewhere around three hours to render. It's been going for 45 minutes and it's only 25 percent done. I'm trying to think of a creative way to whine here, but my brain is crumbly and I haven't eatten anything for a while, so I suppose it's another long, long night with the eternal hum of computers and flourscent lights. It's been a while since I've done this. My freshman year I would frequently come home after sunrise because I was at the school so long trying to make things work. And I have to say, I didn't really miss it. Did I already say I'm trying to think of a creative way to whine? Oh, yup, there it is.
Thirty-one percent now.
...
Just made a vending machine run. I had enough change to get peanut butter crackers and Twix. It's a nice night out. I think they should put computer labs outside so I'm not cooped up in a sterile room while I'm watching progress bars slowly fill up with blue (just his forty percent, by the way). On the way back to the film school I thought I heard a small rodent or a snake rustling in the bushes, but it turned out to just be a sprinkler turning on. Good old California, trying to control the outside as much as they control the inside. But whatever, it still is a nice night out, and no one living in any office building flipping any switches was responsible for that.
...
Seventy-two percent and I'm starting to feel dizzy. There's another kid in the lab now, a Japanese student I think, who keeps asking me the proper way to word an e-mail he's writing in English. Except for the janitor down the hall, I'm pretty sure we're the only people in the whole school. Why is it that the presense of a janitor makes things usually seem more lonely rather than less so? I worked as a janitor for three summers and I know it's a solitary position, no one really wants to talk to you about cleaning, and you certinally not anything you're particualry dying to talk about, either. In some ways you just feel like part of the building, like the plummbing of the heating ducts, except that you're actually a person and have to deal with the emberassment of seeing other people get uncomfortable as they do their best to ignore you. ...
Three hours later, the DVD is finished! It looks really good, actually. I put a lot into it and I'm proud of how it turned out. I felt a bit like a robot earlier tonight, just eatting for calories and sitting around waiting for a computer to finish processing. I, robot? But I'm determined to have a Terminator 2 attitude, not a Terminator 3 attitude, which means seeing the future as full of hope instead of out of my control. And really, while I may have been making some bleak comments, I've felt that all along.

:: Aaron Humphrey 3:02 AM ::
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:: 07.15.2004::

Today I had to sort through months and months of staff and faculty newsletters dating back to 1999 looking for articles mentioning the film school. The layout and content of didn’t really change all that much - the newsletters are published once a week; during the school year they’re four pages, during the summer they’re two pages. Somewhere around 2002 they started running regular profiles of staff members every week. At one point in 2000 they tried to start a Mystery Picture feature, but it never really caught on. Flipping through the bound, beige archives that chronicled most major events in my school’s history in the past five years, time seemed to sink around me very very quickly. I started in June 2004 and suddenly I was in my sophomore year, then September 11 hadn’t happened yet, then I was still in high school, then I was a sophomore in high school. It all seemed so far away and yet so not very long ago.
I heard the words “quarter-life crisis” for the second time in my 21 ½ years today, and once again it struck me as a bit indulgent and a sign that our society is eager to diagnose and box up everything - in a few years will fussy ten-year olds be having eight-life crisises? And yet, time always seems to shove you forward at an alarming rate, which was apparent to even before I’d reached the 1/8th mark. But before I had always been able to reassure myself that I was still young and had far more to experience than I could imagine. It’s not much different now, but my idea of “just being a kid” doesn’t hold a lot of weight any more. I’m an adult and I should have something to show for it. Now is the time in my life when I should have at least accomplished something.
So why am I surprised when I talk with people my age and learn that they’re 21? I feel more like 16 than I did when I was 16. If anything I feel a lot less grown up than I can ever remember being before.
Um, so time is strange and I don’t understand it at all. Surprised? Of course not, because YOU don’t understand time either! (if you do, please let me know!)
To help us all cope with this existential crisis, I’m providing this link to www.humanclock.com, which is a marvelous site to keep you company and give each minute some sort of meaning. And the guy who created it is from Oregon, where all good ideas come from.
That’s all for now, I’m going to bed. I have no idea how it got to be so late!

:: Aaron Humphrey 12:37 AM ::
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:: 07.10.2004::

We’re nearing the one-week anniversary of July 4, 2004, a unique day in which I spent most of the afternoon playing Mario Kart 64 and the X-Men for Super Nintendo then climbed to the top of the parking structure with some friends and watched the slightly disappointing Disneyland fireworks through a smoggy red haze. Actually, that wasn’t much to write home about, except for the fireworks they had that I think looked like smiley faces, even though it was nearly impossible to see the eyes, because they were blue and nearly impossible to see though the city-wide veil of smoke. I’m not saying it wasn’t fun.
BUT! July 3 was in fact something to write home about. (My parents read this, so it’s like writing home!) I’m sure that other people did more home-writing-worthy things on that day (keelhauling, pillaging, romancing, etc) but I got to help set up a professional fireworks show and that was pretty neat.
My friend’s Kim’s dad works with a professional troupe (yes, troupe) of fireworkers (not sure about that one) as a hobby, so she asked me and Ed if we’d be interested in helping out. I’ve often wondered about what goes on behind the scenes of a fireworks show and have alternately imagined that it’s either run by people frantically running around with torches and lighting giant cannons or a few guys in trench coats hanging from scaffolding coolly pressing buttons and making everything run like clockwork.
Oh course, it isn’t either one. And most of the work doesn’t happen at night, either. We got there at 10:30 in the morning and were actually a little late. Kim said that for the really big shows sometimes call time has been as early as five in the morning. Fortunately the show we were working was a pretty low-key one so we would have plenty of time to kick back and relax as well as set everything up. Our location was a big grassy field in the middle of a park-like area in the middle of the city. Coming from Oregon, land of air pollution regulations, it seemed strange to be setting off professional-grade fireworks in such a populated area, but as long as we didn’t hit the large tree in the middle of the field or get too close to the fireworks stand across the street, it didn’t look like we would have any problems.
There were probably about a dozen or so of us working on the set-up, with additional friends and family taking care of food, and a good handful just lounging around for reasons never made entirely clear to me. Again, no one was really in a rush. The first thing to do was to assemble the “set pieces,” which we were told are rare to have in a show this size. Basically they’re wooden templates with fireworks on them that have to be assembled like a simple puzzle to make shakes such as “The American Flag!” or “The Liberty Bell!” We had one of each. They were probably the most complicated things we had to set up all day, because even though they came with the fireworks pre-mounted, we still had to connect all the pieces together, fuse everything together with a combination of clear masking tape and gunpowder, and then find a way to stand them up so that they’d be facing the crowd. And for some reason we couldn’t use nails.
Most of the rest of the fireworks, the really dangerous ones, were a lot less complicated. They basically just looked like boring cardboard boxes of varying sizes (none of the fancy “Ultra Dragon’s Flaming Revenge!!” bizzaro fantasy art on the pro stuff, that’s just to lure in the consumers who buy from the stands). A couple of the head-honchos had spent the first part of the morning constructing a choreography for the show, which was written out all nice and proper in bic pen on yellow legal pad. (In this business, “choreography” is just a fancy shop-term for “figuring out what order to blow stuff up in.”) Based on this outline (“there’s only one copy, don’t lose it!”) we set up somewhere around 75 cardboard boxes in precise rows on the field, being careful to not come to close to the tree. There were also a few candles, which came in short, more round boxes, and rockets, long skinny tubes, which had to be placed in launchers (PVC pipe held in a wooden frame).
After the course was set, we got to hook everything up. We attached a starter to one of two fuses on each firework, then twisted the wire from the starter to Zip Line, and ran the Zip Line to a big wooden switcher board that was laid on the ground and hooked up to some form of electricity. The idea was that when it was time for the show, someone would sit at the control panel and flip switches in sequence. Each switch would sent an electrical current to a specific piece Zip Line which would then activate the starter, which would set off the firework, and then BOOM! Not exactly Rube Goldberg, but enough work to be satisfying.
And somehow, lugging large cardboard boxes out to the middle of a field and placing them in a precise order at two o’clock in the afternoon felt so much like early July that I kept wracking my brain for some sort of previous memory or reason for the sensation that I was part of a Norman Rockwell, calendar-captured holiday, but the whole experience had previously been completely foreign to me. Either I tapped into the Collective Unconscious, or there really is something essentially summery about setting up boxes of fireworks on a cloudless mid-day. Maybe both. Or maybe it was the abundance cold watermelon, soft drinks and potato chips provided for us at the food tent, or the fact that the girls we’d come with were sprawled out on a blanket in the shade of that large tree reading and playing cards. Regardless, it all felt like a tradition, even though it was one I’d never known about until that day.
For a while as we set fuses the head fireworks guy reminisced with us about his first show, full of boyish enthusiasm. He’d been invited to join friends setting up a show when he was about our age, and was delighted: “they let you do this for free?!” He volunteered to light off the show, which back then was done by hand, not wires, and ended up nearly singing his eyebrows off when he lit the first one, “WHOOSH! It was so cool! And my friend said, ‘that was great, but next time light it a little farther back so you have time to jump out of the way!’”
The only thing that I lamented about that day was that it also happened to be the third annual Free Comic Book Day, and being stuck in a park setting up explosives sadly meant missing it for the first year ever. At least, it did, until I was complaining to Ed and he pointed out that there was a comic book store Right Across The Street! Considering I’d previously only been familiar with one comic book store in all of Southern California, this was providence at its finest. We took a break from set-up and got there before it closed. Sadly, it was a small shot and didn’t offer the cornucopia of comics that were being offered this year, but we got to pick up two issues each, and I bought two others, so it ended up being a profitable trip.
Even better: once the fireworks were all set up, we sat out in the sun and shared our comics with the girls we came with. Pyrotechnics aside, I feel there are few finer ways to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon than outside eating watermelon and reading comic books with your friends.
After comics were read, we played cards as the sun set and crowds gathered. I felt cool to be behind the barricades. No one else could come on the field, just us elite fireworkers, even though it felt more like a family picnic than an actual responsibility. Finally the sky was dark enough and someone read a wretched speech about war and people dying in the most cheerful, optimistic voice possible. There’s something quite wrong about talking about “the ultimate sacrifice” the same way you would talk about the wonders of Tupperware. This put me in an odd mood for the actual fireworks, which I now could see only as what they were originally meant to symbolize: bombs and gunfire. And I was close enough to the boxes on the field that I could see the fireworks exploding from them like a shot from a rifle. I wondered if the battlefield can possibly look pretty if you’re preoccupied with killing and dying and I wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.
It’s these sobering thoughts that stuck with me, but there were also a few visceral moments when the sky was all colors and light and I wanted to laugh like a little kid. So the war-time speech didn’t drain the event of all of its magic.
It was also neat to think that I had set down and arranged some of those explosives, but more interesting trying to figure out what went wrong. The show didn’t exactly go off without a hitch, although except for the Liberty Bell set-piece failing to even light a spark, I doubt that the crowd noticed much. But standing closer to the display, the mistakes were painfully obvious and we all cringed when we watched bits of debris fly into the street and get run over by a car or land five feet away from us. This only happened once, but it certainly upped the thrill factor for those of us in the know. Other may have noticed that some of the cardboard boxes in the field had caught on fire as they left for the night, but they probably thought it was routine. Only we knew that we would have to pay a fee for scorching the grass.
Still, it was a pretty great day. We got free tee-shirts out of the whole deal and when the fireworks subsided a couple of car alarms were going off in the parking lot. “Alright,” said the Head Fireworks Guy, “that’s always something to be proud of.”

:: Aaron Humphrey 1:49 AM ::
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:: 07.07.2004::

Just want to share some music today. As anyone who’s stood next to me for a chorus of Happy Birthday can attest, musicology is not my strong point. But I know some people who do it quite well, which is worth pointing out.

-I spent two years (minus summers) living with guitars on the walls and drum kits on the floor, mostly due to Ed and the band he’s shared with half of my good friends in California. He’s doing his own sort of thing now as summers have a way of leaving bands in limbo, but he keeps posting bits of what he’s working on, including lyrics a couple of pretty solid tunes at his "Notebook." I wish the music was a bit easier to find on the page, but it’s definitely worth scrolling down for. It reminds me of my own notebooks where I store all sorts thoughts and projects in various states of completion and I think it’s cool.

-One of the first things I did when I came back to the Northwest last August was see Hubcap Annie play live in some small Oregon town with streets made of brick. They tore up the place spectacularly and when their first full length CD got pressed a few months ago I sent them a few bucks and a drawing of Wolverine in the mail. Last week I got back the CD in return and it comes highly recommended. Somehow I’m a sucker for earnest, low-fi keyboard riffs and coffee shop vocals. I’d say I know a couple of guys in the band, but I’d rather you take them on their own terms. But, ah . . . I do know a couple of them. I guess they’re big in Salem, Oregon, but I never really thought that would be saying much. They sound a bit like Watashi Wa for those of you familiar with that excellently optimistic group.

Others out there deserve shout-outs, but I feel like I haven’t even done these fine kids justice as I’m tired and a bit too warm to think clearly. Truly, they are better than I say and you should listen to all their music over and over again.

:: Aaron Humphrey 11:37 PM ::
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:: 07.06.2004::

Hi everybody! I know it’s been a while, but I’ve had a couple of people recently mention that although I’ve been neglecting this journal lately, they haven’t been, and still check regularly for updates. So far no one’s guilt-tripped me though, probably because checking a webpage takes five seconds and writing for it takes at least five minutes. But I will do my best to give y’all at least five minutes a day. Because, hey, you deserve it, right?
Anyway, let’s see how long this lasts. I’m taking bets, by the way.
Today I finished my first comic book script. Well, the first draft anyway. I spent a long time on this one, doing a lot of research, most of which I ended up disregarding, and outlining both the full series and the first issue before I started writing pages. Getting used to a new format of writing is always interesting, and comic book scripts are weird because unlike screenplays, there’s no pre-determined structure to them. Like screenplays, though, you are just basically laying down dialogue and a blueprint for action and editing, so it takes a lot of visualization, and I’m still not sure if I got the narrative flow right, but that’s what second drafts are for.
I also did dishes, laundry and cleaned my room today. I am SO domesticated! I even made dinner for myself (Sponge-Bob Macaroni and Cheese). So I may be a poor, slightly starving writer, but at least I won’t have to hire a maid.
Much love to all,

:: Aaron Humphrey 11:04 PM ::
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