Guess what. You’re not going to believe this. I don’t believe this. After so many years of toil, things are finally moving forward with the publishing process for the book. This week has been absolutely insane since, in addition to the usual chaos, I spent hours on the phone with my agent and publishers, then going over everything with Joe. I mean, hours. There was one day where I ended up with a bad sore throat, which I realized was because I had been talking so much. I can’t give any details yet, but let’s just say that there will probably be a final decision sooner rather than later.
I probably seem surprisingly subdued in the way I’m announcing that. I mean, with all the drama I normally bring to this subject, you would think that I would have broken my caps lock key when I wrote that paragraph. It’s shocking to me that there is nary an exclamation mark to be found. The problem is just that I am really, really, really, really tired. To be perfectly blunt, at this particular moment I am more excited about the prospect of getting a full night’s sleep than I am about finally having a publishing deal. (Though I know that that will change, probably by tomorrow. Caps lock key, get ready!)
As embarrassing as this is to admit, I only knew that it’s SXSW this week because I saw it trending on Twitter. I would love to blame my lack of hipness on the fact that I am in the tenth trimester of pregnancy and living in the ‘burbs, but, amazingly, I was actually this lame when we lived downtown. Joe and I used to have a loft that was right in the heart of Austin’s entertainment district, where we could look out on the lines to get into some of the big venues, and open the windows to hear the echoes of drums and guitars floating through the air. Friends from other states would often fly in for the week, having booked their enormously expensive hotel rooms a year in advance. Sometimes Joe would go with them to some of the big shows, and he said that they would almost cry in bewilderment and frustration when they found out that I was sitting in our loft in the center of downtown, happily surfing the web and watching bad reality television while SXSW was in full swing all around me.
It was a surprisingly big moment in my life when I realized that I hate live music. You see, here in Austin, it’s just assumed that we all love to go out and see bands. Also, since I absolutely love music, it seemed like the next logical step that I must therefore love to be in the same room where music is being performed. So for years I would spend weekend after weekend going to see live shows and telling myself I was having fun. The thought process was something like:
Man, that show was great! What FUN! I mean, I couldn’t actually hear the band because it was so loud that my eardrums started to make this crackling sound that blocked out other noises, and I missed everything after the second song since I was in line for that one-stall bathroom where the toilet overflowed. I’m sure the muscles in my legs will stop hurting by next week at the latest — and, really, I shouldn’t complain about having to stand so much when we only had to wait for forty-five minutes to get inside, and even though there was nowhere to sit I did get to lean against a pole for a second before the drunk guy threw up on my shoe. I’ll have to ask my friends what they thought tomorrow, since we could only communicate through rudimentary sign language. On the plus side, though, I only had to wait two hours to get a drink, and the bartender made a great guess as to what I wanted when she couldn’t hear my order! Yeah, it was awesome.
The moment of truth came for me when I was at the first Austin City Limits music festival. I was sitting on the ground, listening to Patty Griffin, trying to block out a Spoon set that had just started behind us, when she began to play Rain, one of my favorite songs. I closed my eyes to lose myself in this beautiful tune, only to realize that I was being bitten by fire ants. I jumped up and continued to soak in the experience, until that second $8 beer meant that I had to go to the bathroom.
By the time I got over to the porta-potties it sounded like a bad Youtube mashup of her song with some Kings of Leon tune. I walked into the porta potty, which was about 150 degrees inside, Kings of Patty playing in the background, and when I went to shut the door I felt something wet. I discovered to my horror: someone had urinated all over it. And there was nowhere to wash my hands. It was at that moment that I was overcome with a profound sense of zen-like peace as I realized that live music shows are not for me, and that we would all be better off if I never, ever went to one again.
I got to talk to Grace on the phone earlier this week! When I told Joe about this exciting turn of events he was obviously jealous, and so started telling me this blah-blah-blah story about how he got to hang out with Rick Santorum at a friend’s office that day:
Sad to see him grasping at straws to make his life sound as cool as mine.
Reading anything good? I’m almost finished with my current read, and am looking for some new titles. Hit me!
I opened up the blog images folder on my computer just now, and was perplexed to see this:
Why on earth would I have a picture of a can of malt liquor on my blog?! I looked up its location, and was blessed to rediscover this story about Joe and the fateful can of Tilt from back in 2011. I haven’t stopped laughing since.
It has been suggested that, as an act of solidarity for my fellow procrastinators, one week we should do the 7 Quick Takes participant list in reverse chronological order, so that the most recent entries would be at the top. What do you think?
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