Go For Guillermo

There's nothing that I could really write that would do Guillermo justice. The fact is that he is an amazing man. He always managed to make me feel loved and taken care of. He made me laugh all the time. Just knowing that he was around comforted me.

I am stuck in Minneapolis, exhausted, with salt-soaked eyes, and have nothing inside of me to write with. So bear with me, Memo, because this is going to be one messy love letter. It all sounds so stupid, written in some blog on the internet. There's no poetry to it. But it's still how I feel, so that's something...

Remember when we filmed a video down in theater 7? You had a million other things to do, but instead made sure we had the right power cords, clip lights, and angle. You watched me setup the camera and asked me about filmmaking while you were eating all of our summer sausage and cheese, which was our only prop.

There was the time that we were discussing King Kong in the lobby...and you were saying that "it looks long, but I like the idea of a big monkey." It made perfect sense to me.

I remember discussing your concerns with your children and their safety while you were working. You said that your schedule stressed you out, but that you were going to make it work. Then you went on and on about your great kids, to the point where you were beaming. You made us all smile with you, even the people who had been at Guest Services for hours and wanted to kill themselves.

Every time I would come into the lobby, even if you were in the middle of business, you would excuse yourself, come over to me, give me a kiss and hug, and then walk back. You always managed to make me feel like I had a place in this world, somehow. If you weren't busy you would come back over and I would always ask, "Are they taking care of you at this place, Memo?" and you would wave your hand and say, "Oh, you know how they are sweetie. But it's always getting better."

When you would glide past the concession stand, you would always say something like, "Nice work, kids! Keep it up. Let's make ArcLight some more money! Mush, mush!" and then you would laugh all the way down the hallway.

You loved elbow milkings.

Remember when we drank beers on the ARC patio together that one summer night? I sighed happily and leaned back in my chair. "Good conversation, good friends," I said, and you added, "and free parking, my lovely."

I love you. I miss you already. And I won't forget you.

So Long, F*ckers

I am sitting in the Fargo airport. I feel like, even though there are only four gates, that I have fought a battle to get here, into this weirdly bendable seat. My back is tired from carrying this laptop. My face is frowny. I am slightly chilled. And also, I have nothing to eat.

I just found out that our plane is late. I have a Mall of America to go to, goddamnit. Doesn't anyone in the north care about my feelings?!

I have never once complained about this "heightened security" farce that goes on in our airports. "As long as it keeps us safe," I always said. But today, TODAY, when I have a bag packed to the brim carefully and strategically placed dirty underwear, they want to go through my bags. They don't have an X-Ray here, since they live in Nowheresville, USA, and so they just unpack our bags, go through our stuff, and then send us on our merry way to their one of four gates.

They are going through my bags. They are moving the tripod that I had to shove between my Coca-Cola shirt and mint green sweater so it wouldn't disturb the hard drive that sat two layers of clothes beneath it.

There are DV tapes jammed in the corners lengthwise. My swimsuit is cradling all of my cables, lovingly and with a spandex 'tude. These people have no idea the level of intricacy that went into packing these bags. Plus, they're touching my unmentionables. Touching them. The cute little boyshorts and sheer hipsters that I bring so I won't feel so far away from home. Some gross guy with grease under his fingernails saying things like "Uff'da" and "You bet'cha" knows me almost as well as my boyfriend.

I am super cranky. These people are setting off my OCD. I just want to get to the mall and stress-shop.

I have been told that I must go to the General Mills Experience. Apparently at this magical place they mix any kinds of GM cereal that one desires. This intrigues me. But I am having trouble picking my cereals right now.

frankenberry? g

Weider than Woodchippers

There's something weird about Fargo.

I'm not talking about the abundant woodchippers in everyone's yards. It's something else.

None of the doors open right.

Fargo, North Dakota apparently exists on some particular latitude and longitude where every businesses' exterior door refuses to open without a fight. Perhaps Fargo is tilted just so it is at a perfect 45-degree angle to the Earth's axis, and therefore it nearly takes the jaws of life to get through every single goddamn door in the town.

When you are finally able to wrench a door open using two hands and a lot of hope, it closes so fast that it usually catches your foot in its ruthless grip.

This is every door here, people. The hotel, the stores, the bars, the Dairy Queen, the bingo parlour, and even the Kinkos.

Every door.

I can feel the Grim Reaper hovering over my shoulder. He waits as I approach a business and starts to giggle softly, so that it is but a whisper in the wind. Then, it gets louder as I pull and yank and groan. One of these days, he's going to swing his sickle as I attempt to enter an Applebees and that will be it for me. You can have the new skirt I bought at Target if you want...

it's super cute. g

Northern Lights and Aggressive Little Girls

I spent today traveling to see our neighbors in the northern part of the country...yes, the place you wish YOU were right now, North Dakota. Bismarck, to be exact, where men are men and women look generally disdainful with their Aqua-Netted bangs.

I am flying Northwest, whose airline abbreviation is NWA. The same moniker as Niggaz With Attitude. Coincidence? No. As I realized this, the little tiny blonde girl in front of me (one of two, actually) turns around and says, "Hello. I am very excited to be going to summer camp." Her sister turned around and stuck her head above the seat, too. "So am I!" she squealed. "We get to drink water flavored with LIME." She and her sister slap five and she sat back down. The first girl was still looking at me.

I got suspicious. The older gentleman next to me couldn't take the sharp, piercing scrutiny of hber tiny blue eyes and actually moved back two rows. I'm a closer, though, baby, so bring it on.

She looked at me, licked her lips, and said, "Knock knock."

I looked at her, incredulous. Really? A knock-knock joke? Aren't those a little passe? Like, aren't 7-year-olds snorting coke and fucking people without protection these days?

Instead of sharing this line of thought with her I said "Who's there?"

"Lemon."

"Lemon who?"

She sighed, disgusted over how clueless I was that I didn't already know the punchline.

"Lemon ORANGE." Then she burst into maniacal laughter for a solid 60 seconds. I just sat and stared, not wanting to make any movements that might upset her.

She stopped abruptly and looked at me again. "This is my lamb. This is only the second flight she's ever been on, and I've had her at least 10 years." Once again, this girl is seven. Eight, max.

"No kidding? Does she like to fly?"

"It's hard to say," she said, "But I know for sure that she likes iced tea."

Well whaddya know. You learn something new every day.

"Iced tea, huh? I like Diet Coke."

"That's nice. Shake her hand." She thrust the stuffed lamb over the seat into my face, little lamb leg outstretched and waiting. I raised an eyebrow and thought about this. Was I going to be punished for not obeying? Probably. This girl has strong legs to kick with and strong vocal cords to express anger...

I shook the lamb's hand/paw/hoof.

"That's all." She turned and sat down, immediately launching into a hand-slapping game with her sister. I had been tossed aside like the original Becky on Roseanne.

Not one more word was spoken to me for the rest of the flight. I was half relieved, half hurt.

This is going to be a weird trip. g

Northern Life and Annoying Indians

"Life is different there in the Dakotas. Normal rules do not apply."

This was an ominous outburst from a co-worker of mine, while we were discussing my approaching trip to the lovely northern US. I asked her what she meant exactly, and she heaved a sigh that came from years of being burdened with this knowledge. Then she continued...

"Years ago, I was working as a producer for a TV show that was filming up in North Dakota. They hired a couple of local PAs to work with us. At least, I figured that someone told them to be there, because I certainly didn't hire them but there they were, ready to NOT work.

One of them was a Native American woman who was literally about 50 years old. Every time I asked her to do something, she would ruminate on it for about 15 minutes instead of actually doing it. It was like she was busy writing the next great American novel in her head and only stopped occasionally to mosey around the set. I've never seen someone try to look so spiritually aware while distributing Lays potato chips to extras on-set.

One day, I was trying to convey how important it was that she be faster in completing tasks. I felt bad, but this was just the way it needed to be and I was trying to get that across in a professional way. My message was not getting through to her, and I got more and more frustrated.

Then, without warning, this woman starts digging through her deerskin bag. She brings out some sage, sets it on fire, and blesses the room. Then she waves it in my general direction and tells me it's supposed to calm me down. This only succeeded in making me irate and I started to yell.

She wouldn't stop burning that sage and chanting. So, I finally just took a deep breath and screamed 'Fuck the sage! Kathie Lee needs her jacket NOW!'"

My co-worker stopped her story for a moment, letting the effect sink in. Then, as she stroked our office chihuahua's head, she muttered, "She had a heart attack at Mount Rushmore. I don't know why. She wasn't even running up the stairs."

Don't leave the reservation next time. g