experiment: shilling

Adrienne here, slicing the ham n cheese extra thick. Now listen up, you.

I joke that Jared is cheating on me with one of his latest projects, Jer3miah, but the truth is it's making me seriously reconsider an open relationship. It's that cool. Here's the trailer.

The Book of Jer3miah - Trailer from The Book of Jer3miah on Vimeo.

It's a webseries he and his students are creating that also has interactive elements. Sort of a mystery/conspiracy/thriller show in the vein of Lost or Da Vinci Code.

You can watch short webisodes online. And then there’s also an alternate reality aspect to it, like an online, interactive scavenger hunt. And real-life clue hunting in Utah. The characters all have their own facebook pages and part of the story takes place online and other mobile platforms. And people who search for clues can impact the story. Aka "user generated collaborative fiction," not to the layman. Casey Thornburgh of the Hyde Park Uglies called it "well done . . .entertaining . . . like Lost meets Eli Stone meets LDS meets Choose Your Own Adventure!" And what has she been ever wrong about? Besides John McGuire.

Go. Watch. Enjoy. Feel lucky that your significant other has time to see you.

And in the world of things with much lower production value . . .
I saw an ad for an "Ultimate PB&J" contest. Who better to enter a contest about peanut butter? Also, I already had a great, true family story, so I took a few hours and filmed it. If I get enough votes, I'll win a trip to the old country.

Watch. Then please go here and rate. Rate high, young man, rate high. Momma needs a new pair of matchstick jeans.

what I have learned:

I will never be famous. I despise self-promotion. It feels as worse and as desperate as asking people for money or kisses. How is it that I work in advertising?

And who wants fame anyway? Haven't you seen The Wrestler?
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experiment: emotionality

It was on Valentine's Day that Jared told me my blog has no "heart."

Was I offended? No, not particularly. I write about experiments, so naturally I adopt the cold, strictly observant front of a scientist and intentionally keep a lot of personal details and feelings out of it and off the internet. We all very deliberately craft our online personas, and what do you want, this is mine; striving for objective truth (and hilarity!), and not wanting to cloud things with actual feelings or divulge any private information. After all, I'm an INTP. I know many consider these Jungian assignments as quackish as zodiac signs in terms of correctly identifying personality types, but to that I say, "Have you ever met me? of COURSE I'm a Scorpio."

So in rebuttal, I used these defenses and said this was the style of blog I wanted. That nature had made me this way. He said it was like reading "a journal for very limited peer review." I think he meant this as an insult, but what can I say, I was flattered. Anyway, maybe these preferences of mine do account for my blog being,"heartless and emotionally unengaging" -JC. I would have just said "private," but okay.

To prove that I am capable of emotional depth, I will now compose a heartwarming story about the day of hearts that will warm your heart till it gets so hot that it splits in two, and a confetti of little, smaller hearts pour out all over the place. Like a Pound Puppy. <3

We spent the entire day together. That in itself is enough of a V-day treat for me. Jared's been busy this semester teaching two, production-heavy classes
(post to follow later), so getting to see him for consecutive hours (plural!) in daylight, is exciting.

This is our third Valentine's day together, and neither of us really care that much about the day's "significance" so we just treat it like a normal Saturday. We got pancakes for breakfast. We went to the post office. We went to Home Depot to get soil for my dying plant. I don't know the name of it but all you need to know is that it looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss book. We went back to his house and jammed in the basement with Josh Fronk (a man who I'm pretty sure does have a heart and a very generous one at that). He taught me the pentatonic blues scale on the bass and guitar. I played with the drum machine for twenty minutes. We took a nap.

We laid around and did voices (I'm getting good at Bill Cosby, Jared's nailed Chilly Willy and Wall-e). We danced around to Van Morrison. Jared made fun of Van Morrison. I punched him in the stomach. We danced around to my ever-popular itunes playlist, "Seduce Jared With Black People Music." We sang in two-part harmony to Al Green. I got an "I just got engaged" text from Christina Kim.We watched the Valentine's Day episode of 30 Rock on his laptop and came to the mutual agreement that Salma Hayek is hot. I laughed more than I thought I would. I wanted a McFlurry. Instead I ate some Nutella straight off a spoon.

We split an omelette. He gave me the good half with all the crispy cheese bits. He took another nap. I laid next to him and read Tobias Wolff's "The Night in Question" and woke him up a few times because it was making me laugh out loud. He started speaking to me in tongues.

We exchanged gifts. I got him "Atonement" from the 10 dollar bin at Target, even though I didn't really like it all that much, because he loved it and cried his pretty blue eyes out.

He drew me a picture:

I laughed. I used to have literal dreams about marrying John Lennon in grade school. Kind of obsessed with the dead Beatle. In middle school, I used to fantasize about Conan O'Brien proposing to me while Andy and Pimpbot 5000 showered us with rose petals and Max Weinberg broke a romantic beat on his drums. It was a cool gift, and probably at the uncool end of things he's made for me, so let that speak for itself. Maybe when I learn how to use my heart to its full extent I can share more of the amazing but private things he's said or done or made.

We were hungry for dinner. We brainstormed somewhere funny to go on Valentine's day. He suggested Chuck-a-rama. I suggested the Harley Davidson restaurant. We decided my suggestion was funnier but found out they closed at 5pm on Saturday. I guess the hardcore bikers like to have their dinner at 4. ? I vetoed Chuck-a-rama but it didn't matter because they were closed anyway. Sizzler? Olive Garden? Where else would be funny but wouldn't have a 2 hour wait? Sometimes I think we are too obsessed with irony for our own good.

I finally decided I wanted pizza. Jared doesn't like pizza much, but reluctantly agreed. This is because he loves me. It was at dinner where we had our lengthy discussion about new media and our role and responsibilities as contributors and what kind of content we want to create for an online audience. A very interesting conversation. An enlightening one, too, as I learned my blog, like my heart, is cold and impersonal. And that I have "Facebook elitism". Hmmm.

We ate all our pizza and left. We'd talked about watching our Netflix movie, but neither of us really felt in the mood for The Last Temptation of Christ. Odd. Instead we went to Blockbuster and stared aghast at the offerings in the new release section. We decided we'd just leave and go watch Cold Mountain. Nothing wrong with a little Jude Law, eh? (If there were another visage immediately after the Conan one it would no question be Jude.) We made it about halfway through and fell asleep at 2am. There you have it. The day of love.

What I have learned:

This is still just a laundry list of what we did, isn't it? Damn, it. How does one write about emotion! How does it work? How do you, collective internet users, muster enough (courage?/honesty?/ vulnerability?) to talk about your feelings openly and broadly on the internet? Am I just heartless? Help me!


an emotional infant

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experiment: going on a blind date

he bucked into the house half an hour early, forgetting the knock. a sweaty triangle of forehead limned by two licks of matte brown. frightful eyes, opening and closing with the regularity of a pulse. solid arms, encased in grey sleeves, starched, solid. the usual wireframed westernwear. for all i knew he was skeletal underneath.

he spotted me exiting the kitchen and let the door free behind him. he jumped a bit to hear the heavy crack as it clasped the frame. He said hello and his name.

"We," (oh hell, are we a We?) "are going to do something fun. Ya'll never think to guess it."

"Stomping divots?"

He swept to the side suddenly, like he'd stepped on a snake whose acquaintance he'd once made. He lifted the cotton arms attached to his grub hands and clapped them once over his head, firm. Grunted.

No idea. Maybe he's dancing. It occurs to me yes, in all awful reality, he is attempting a dance. A stomp. A misfired missile of a joke that came back and knocked me square.

"Well, what is it?" I submitted.

At this mark, he took determined dancesteps over to the couch wherewhich I had docked to play observant and bemused. As he did, the clunk of his chip boots clawed at the floor that I had spent half a day and half a can of wood oil polishing. His cheek creased in its pleasure.

"You're good."

The moment I flattered this out and saw his eyes dilate in responsive lust (or possibility) I regretted it. So rotten at sarcasm.

"We," he said in an unbefitting lilt, "are going to Flagstaff."

Flagstaff. Fairly close. Fair enough.

He smiled. I mirrored.

This dance of a conversation was one I knew, and it was my turn to dip or be dipped, but I quickly filled out my mental dancecard and kept mum.

He shifted antsy back and forth on his heels. Looking down, one boot was black and one was navy. He was so excited it broke my unbreakable heart.

"Flagstaff?" He repeated this, as if I hadn't heard him the first time.

I waited. I saw the bait, that old soggy worm being dangled and gutted clean through the throat, but I wouldn't take it. Not for all the tea in China. Not for all the peyote in Flagstaff.

"You want to know what it is we're gonna do?"

I answered with a slow lift of shoulders and smiled with a toothless elegance I'd perfected in Sunday School when asked a question about chastity.

He slid closer, rubbing his dirty blue legs against the silk fall of my one and only real dress. The kind that had been bought on credit at the insistence of a pesky aunt and a peskier commission shrill. A wasted polish.

With delicate cupped hands, he bent over my top six inches, his bolo tie dangling its thready sway across my face as if to hypnotize. He whispered.

"Wine tasting."

Then he stuck his tongue down my throat.

what i have learned:

i love lying. i lie all the time. this is one of those lies. sometimes i write lies. a lot of times i write lies. i actually write lies on another blog. i've been doing it for some time now. a whole, succulent blog of lies. short lies, most. sad lies, most. if you'd like an invitation to it, let me know.
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experiment: yoga

I'm good at sports. Doesn't matter if I've never played the game before, I pick it up instantly, adroitly. Football, bocce, swimming, competitive eating, whatever. Soccer's my true love, but I can do it all. I'm like a modern day Bo Jackson.

So yoga? Not even worried. Bo Knows Yoga.

Being the cocky athlete that I profess to be, and when faced with 900+ netflix titles that included the keyword "yoga," I took a brief skim before settling on Rodney Yee's Intermediate Yoga. I can't be bothered with any "beginner" business. Don't insult me. I can come in and compete on a more intense level. Maybe you don't think of yoga as a competitive sport, but maybe yoga just hasn't had the right grade of competitor. EH? EH?

So even though I'm 10 years late to the yoga game (and ignoring the advice of more wizened exercisers) I put on my running tights and sports bra and showed those hamstrings who's boss.

Trying to ignore the soft, meditative gobbledygook (which I suppose is useful to some, lesser yogathletes), I followed his poses without breaking a sweat. Mountain pose, warrior 1, triangle pose, upward dog, downward dog, camel, warrior 3, inverted triangle. They all sounded more fierce than they were. They also kind of sounded like VanDamme movies. Section one, I own you.

Section Two.

Oh you terrible, terrible section two. You evil inverted poses, you headstands, you twisty backbends. You've worked your Eastern mysticism on me and have hypnotized my forearms and hamstrings to work against me.

what i have learned:

my hamstrings are boss.
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