had I written an entry

10-5-99

Last night's plan was to watch Ally McBeal and then write my entry., The phone rang in the middle of the show and Becky informed me that she'd be right over with still-warm chocolate chip cookies. She watched the rest of Ally McBeal with my cat snuggled on her lap. Julie really knows how to make my guests feel welcome.

After Becky left, John looked at me and said, "Tetrisphere!" So I spent 30 minutes getting my ass kicked on the Nintendo, and then I went to bed.

Had I written an entry, I'd have written about driving to Macon to see the community art school where I'll be teaching. I'd have written about the dead end street and the beige cat who greeted us at the step. The homey, second-grade-classroom-on-a-rainy-day feeling. The ancient candy dispenser inside the door, filled with student-designed greeting cards, 25 cents apiece. The miniature dachshund named Dolly who sniffed my fingers and wagged her tail.

The pretty, do-ragged, braless college student who showed us around, who seemed to have been recently transplanted from Ann Arbor but who's really from Marietta.

The clutter of papers, art supplies, half-finished clay doodads, postcards, photos, and kids. Kids waiting for rides, kids painting, kids warming up for classical guitar lessons.

John and I talked to the owner, a visual artist with a lazy eye whose body seemed designed for hugs, and she explained how I could use the studio and how she could help me, and about the fees. She introduced me to the guitar teacher, who told me which music stores to look out for and who to talk to at the universities. He told me—agh!—that the store where I've applied is maybe not the greatest place, but I'd suspected that already.

They called us the Joneses. I smirked.

I can do whatever I want at this place. The owner was on her way to a band boosters' meeting at the fine arts magnet, and she took my resume to give to the band director. She's assumed the responsibility of "getting my name out there." With her help I'll build a studio of private kids, whom I'll teach in her school. In exchange for her space and her reputation, I'll give her one third of what I charge.

The percentage is slightly higher if I teach classes or workshops. The cogs of my brain started working the minute she mentioned workshops. Poetry, fiction, music appreciation, history, brass quintets, popular music, composition, god, I went crazy thinking of all the stuff I could do. And with the university and school connections I should be able to set up recitals for groups of my students , and fundraisers, and small ensemble recitals.

One thing Brooks (the owner) mentioned was "an ensemble." I believe she meant a community band. I'd love to organize a youth wind ensemble or an adult community band. She mentioned it more than once, so she must have a small idea of the time, space and money involved in such a thing.

Good thing: as I was leaving the house, I grabbed one of the draft copies of my resume from the desk. Brooks hadn't asked me to bring it, but it turned out to be a hard score. Almost a test. She said she never asks until the candidate shows up, and if she asks then they either say they "forgot" and write one overnight, or they never come back. I was the shit for bringing it without being asked.

Though I was horrified when John pointed out a spelling error, right at the top. Under my Bachelor's Degree heading I'd listed Fritz Kaenzig as my "Principle Teacher." That's right, the teacher who taught me principles. I expressed my embarrassment to Brooks when I handed it over, and I'm sure she spent half of that boosters' meeting scouring the resume for that mistake. I can't believe I did that.

I had another meltdown at work today. I just got a bug up my ass about something and ended up in the bathroom again. John attributes it to the fact that I'm excited to be out of there. I just don't know anymore.

And of course the rest of the day was fine. At the end, when we were all sitting around killing time before 5:30, the planners were picking on one of the guys who gets on the Internet a lot. I usually ignore that. Today there were four people trying to spell the word 'bestiality.' It was a joke, I'm sure, but after listening to them "B-E-A-S-T----" for a few minutes I piped up and spelled it for them. After a few minutes of incredulous laughter, they started asking me if I knew of any good porn sites.

I'm earning myself a little reputation around the place. Just think, two weeks ago they were afraid to use the word "hell" in my presence.

Went over to Becky's for dinner and TV. Tried to convince John to go swimming with me, but the bastard wanted to get home and watch the premiere of Angel. I swear, sometimes it's like being married to an adolescent girl.