Santaland Motive

As much as I have been ranting playfully about my Santaland tryouts, there was a very important point that drove the entire mission. It was a simple idea that I hoped would be true. Having just navigated one of the worst years of my life, I decided to give every ounce of hope, compassion and joy to a group of strangers. Maybe by focusing wholeheartedly on bettering the human condition, I would also better my own condition. I needed to remind myself and all those around me that it was ok to dream. I needed to remind myself that even when I felt like I had nothing, I held the ultimate gift, the ability to inspire.

So I used that inspiration in every way possible. I encourged stressed Fathers to join their families, I sweet talked jaded school kids into being a better friend. I asked eight year old girls to cut themselves some slack and to be happy about what they look like rather than wishing desperately for blue eyes. More important than the inspired talks was the listening part. I managed to share enough of myself to allow people to let their own guard down and talk. So I listened and listened like the big man himself.

Today I poked my head in my favorite thrift store to continue my mission of outfitting myself for the city workforce. On the wall were three things of note. First a print of Mr Luther King Jr where he noted to live up to your calling no matter what that calling is. He referenced that if you are called to be a streetsweeper, be the best one you can be. Next to it was a needlepoint noting that sometimes in persuit of a dream, another dream takes flight. And lastly there was a linen angel that was stained and simply marked "as is." There was a poetry there for me to see.

I like to think that I gave it my all this holiday season. I dug deep and gave of myself, trusting the world even after a year of loss. I walked away with the ultimate gift, a co-worker turned friend. That was my gift from Santa, a friend that accepts you for who you are. Thanks Santa.

Santaland part 3

So Jingle Jangle boy seemed to get us all threatened, including a miniature trio of Latininis who flaunted their lack of stature. "I am soooo ashamed to have to like write 4foot eight for height." Show off. I was monsterous compared to them. I felt like I was back on the public bus in Padangsedimpuan, Indonesia with a chicken on my lap. Rolling around on a pile of coconuts because I was deemed "Basar." Which I believe transates to 'grace of an elephant.' I wanted to be svelt and elfinlike but not around these three whose giagantic earrings made them appear even smaller. They pushed their way to the front of the Santaland line up stating loudly and repeatidly, "I can't see. I can't see anything." Yeah we got it the first time.

A drill sargent of a manager yelled at us, "who believes in Santa!" She scared the heck out of me but I managed a hand up. She obviously didn't see it or maybe just wanted to show the torture she could let loose on a non believer. I noted that I did in fact raise my hand, so she retorted by making fun of how I raised my hand. Wasn't merry enough, I guess. Should have poked out my neighbor's eye in the name of Claus. I gave thought to jumping at her feet and yelling "I believe! I believe! Amen!" But then I pictured her tying me to the creepy talking tree and leaving me there for the season as Jingle Jangle and the three amigas threw candy canes at my head. Better let her have this one.

I skated through the tag team interview, speaking as loudly as I could. I was judged elfin enough and put into a top secret survey room. Jingle Jangles was nowhere to be seen. Did he get lost in the maze? I mean it is a one way system, but his earlier panic had me concerned that he might have accidently got his head stuck in a dry cleaning bag or something.

to be continued...

Santaland Part 2

Upon my arrival in NYC a rather sporadic job website search showed Santaland mixed in with other more normal positions at Macy’s. It was short term; seasonal work that called for holiday spirit and wait, that is where David Sedaris worked! Bingo. No other job would suffice. This casual search resulted in a passionate chase to become the next member of the village. I dialed the Santaland Hotline not knowing what to expect. I returned later that day to find a message on my answering machine that sounded as if Santa himself had called. I played and replayed the message certain that this is the voice of Santa. What I did expect? Well, I am not sure but the quality of the voices that lulled you on the messages were enough to make you dream of sugarplums.

What I did not know is that while I left messages on the voicemail all was cutting loose behind the scenes in Santaland. They were just hiring the last positions in the next couple of days. Several hundred had already been deemed not elfin enough. As I rather absently redialed so to listen to the message again in a faint hope that someone would pick up. I did get through to an animated chap who continued to weed out the ranks by asking me a few questions over the phone. I felt as though he picked up the phone by accident, kind of like a reflex reaction that he may have been regretting. He paused momentarily before deciding to plow ahead with the interview.

I tried my best to show my unique humor without sounding overly aggressive or creepy. I could only imagine what they had already heard from other prospects. I made the effort to show my character and sell myself as a cheerful team player who is adept at handling holiday stress and able to babble in many world languages. Sold. Come in for the group interview. He noted to follow the crowds to Human Resources. Crowds? Boy, nothing intimidating about being herded into HR with hundreds maybe thousands of potentially shorter, merrier contenders. I looked for the flattest shoes I owned. I was told to dress Business like. Hmm, what would a career savvy elf dress like? Green and red seemed too obvious, black too stark. So I threw on a pink knit sweater that made me look blushed and huggable to children. Done, now how to elfin-ify my resume?

I tried to downplay all of the solo artist stuff that could look like too much of maverick in what I naively believed to be an otherwise egoless environment. Santa was the show elves were the sideshow and I needed to make my resume look like I was a teammate not a soloist. I squashed out as much as I could and highlighted my costumed parade appearances and teaching experience both of which showed that I was used to humiliating myself. I saved it under “Elfin Resume” and put it on the jump drive. When the Staples employee pulled up the file I caught her rolling her eyes as she read the file name. Jealous, I thought to myself. If I get the job I may even report her to the big man like an elfin snitch.

I did follow the crowds to the Human resource department where I faced off with the competition. One gangly curly haired boy with a striped scarf was a shoe in I feared. He looked like a Claymation figure come to life straight out of Rudolph’s Shining New Year. Was it Jingles or Jangles I pondered as the voice on my answering machine boomed in front of me? Oh my, it’s him. I meekly responded and felt like the lion before the wizard as his voice rang out again asking me to speak louder. I have never been known for a loud voice, except for screaming on roller coasters. This was my weakness and Santa had already zoned in on it. No hiding anything in this HR department considering we are under scrutiny by a boss with special powers.

The Jingle Jangle boy was now spinning out of control even though the voice of Santa had already acknowledged that he was perfect. Fortunately for me the Claymation model was unable to fill out an application. Panicked and now calling home for assistance. Ha! Amateur. He was in turmoil like the Toll House elves when the cookies go flying all over the place and they are left covered in chocolate. We were funnelled into the next room of chaos where giant ornaments swung dangerously above our heads. I thought they were going to have us compete in a sort of Survivor Santaland where we pushed each other over in the maze as giant ornaments crashed down and we slipped on fake snow as we rushed to get to Santa's lap. But the following game was just as scarry as we were grilled about our alliances to the tribe of Santa...


…to be continued

Secret Santaland Thank You

It would have been far easier to just write David Sedaris a thank you note, but that isn’t my style. Instead, I decided to do a silent act of solidarity by walking in his shoes through Santaland. I am not, by all means the first to do this. I was in fact at times up to my elbows with elf hopefuls clutching copies of ‘Holiday’s On Ice,’ and mugging in front of Envy’s or I-phones. Anyone doing a solitary pilgrimage that seems like martyrdom would hope that his or her reasoning is unique, and I am no different. My reason goes back many years to my graduation from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Mr. Sedaris was our commencement speaker and an alumnus of our school. Only an alumnus of our exceptionally conceptual school would be able to see the humor in our present situation: we are being sent into the world with very few real world skills, but an amazing ability to not only notice, but also to discuss the quality of ambient light. His examples brought us through stories of all of his dead end jobs that he did to make ends meet while he kept making his art. He made us belly laugh at our nonconformist ways. We were a unique group, and we should not change now that we are entering “the world after art school.” We laughed and cheered as he made us all feel like we had made the right decision to follow our hearts. Our parents shifted uneasily as he spoke of economic hardships and looming student debt, but in the end he functioned as a catalyst as only a humorist like he can. He was a hero to all.

You see many of us were nearly or completely disowned upon entering the ranks of art school. It does not matter that it is a well-recognized school with famous graduates. It is a sizable thorn on many a family tree and mine is no exception. I made the move from an otherwise stable double major in business to skidding out of control to the most conceptual art school in the nation. How does one shift from economics to art? Well, you could point the finger at many of my observant professors who encouraged my studies in the areas of philosophy and art history, but it was that damned art appreciation teacher who was the straw that broke the camels back, or in this case broke the piggy bank on my Wall Street career. I was well on my way to being a business suit wearing wonder woman before that teacher came along.

I used to play banker as a child, raiding the monopoly money for the vault. I would give advise to our family lawyer about money market accounts by age 12. While in high school, I predicted that the stock market would crash due to insider trading. The week I turned in my term paper a sobering headline said it all, my prediction had come true. My AP Composition teacher didn’t know whether I was a prophet or an inside trader, but regardless she made me sit down and write a disclaimer. I was expecting a hero’s welcome as I sauntered into class Wall Street Journal in hand, but instead I was made to write an excuse letter. I was supposed to play dumb. Had I missed the point? No, I think I got it loud and clear.

The question of ethics reared its head again after I had put in a couple years in University. I sat through my Business Ethics final watching “our best and brightest” cheat their way through the exam. That pretty much told me all I needed to hear. When that art appreciation teacher made note of my passionate words about art and coaxed a painting out of me, she then turned to me and asked the fatal question, “What are you doing in business school?” I know that is the question she asked, but what I heard was “run for your life! If they are cheating in an ethics class you are screwed!” So that took me merrily down Michigan Avenue to SAIC.

I think you can guess what came out of my Mom’s mouth, a few things that I would rather not share on this otherwise festive night. Next came the deathly guilt ridden silence that seems to run in our Irish veins. The silent guilt lasted me through art school up to the graduation that she nearly boycotted. That is where our dear friend Mr. Sedaris comes in again. Most of us in the graduating class had worked our tails off and our families were mad at us. There is no hoopla to go along with art school, and especially not this one. You either understand why you make this life choice or you don’t. It is as simple as that. Mr. Sedaris got it and was making something of it. He was a bridge between our families and us as fledgling artists.

So this 36-day act of martyrdom is a small price to pay for the help he gave us on graduation day. I will save my Santaland saga for Christmas day, as tonight I am still nursing a cold that doesn’t quit. Merry Christmas to all and to all…

Santaland

I have been thinking about friends in far away places and Christmas in Hawaii. I am working away on my Hawaiian banana bread and hoping that this balmy weather will turn into a blizzard. I love snow. Sorry, but I do. At work, I have been living Christmas for the last thirty something days where fake snow abounds. I have been plucking fake snow out of my hair and out of my lunch.

This season I have been hugged and kissed by half of the kindergartners in New York city. I sung Jingle Bells until I lost my voice. I have witnessed many acts of holiday insanity and gushing bouts of cheer. Last Friday, I was caught in the warmth of a strangers smile who then offered me a Christmas cookie. Today, I was given a bag containing three containers of homemade chicken soup with strict orders to take care of myself.

I have seen Santa every day for the past month, and every day he brought a smile to my face. Half of Santaland is down with a head cold or the flu, including me. So that is all for tonight. I must rest. Our grand finale is tomorrow and I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Melekalekemaka Hawaii

Ghosts of Travel Past

I promised a certian brain researcher that I would post some of my photography from the archives.

Top and bottom, Lembata, Indonesia, Middle, Inis Mein, Aran Islands, Ireland

Neuroimaging for the Holidays

Nothing says the Holidays like thoughts of family, and nothing sums up my family quite as well as a trip down neuroimaging lane. For those who know me, they know full well that I have spent most of my twenties in the waiting rooms of trauma units and ICU's. It was my Brother's brain that was under scrutiny, and often times he and his brain left many specialists speechless. He and his brain defied the billion to one odds, but no one could explain why. That lack of explanation made many loose faith in their science, while having the opposite effect on me. The brain and all of its mysteries became my muse.

So in my mind, it is not so far fetched that I would allow myself to be wrapped in a blanket and slid into a MRI when holiday homesickness hits. If it helps us understand how our brains respond to emotions and memory, all the better. That is after all the reason why I made myself a guinea pig first thing this morning. After donning scrubs, peeing in a cup and freeing myself of all metallic objects, I sat clicking away at memory tests. I had grown and inch and lost ten pounds since Tuesday the new scale reported. Not being allowed any coffee or food beforehand seemed like the likely cause of my initial lack of focus, but now news of my McNugget induced weight loss gave me a new distraction.

My right hand practiced my click right, click left at the memory game from hell. If I would name this game it would be "Hell on Earth the Memory Game. " This was a far cry from the memory game I selected for my niece where we spent lunchtime chatting in German and flipping cards of 50 horses that all looked the same to me. No, this memory game was a world away with images from every war zone on the planet. The horsey game was looking pretty good right about now. Of course there was a reason for the gore, that being the need for the sensation of fear/anxiety. No problem there, I thought to myself as I viewed every atrocity the human body could endure. I hoped my fear made my neurons light up like a Christmas tree.

Needless to say they stepped up their atrocity images for the main event in the MRI. No flinching, no squirming, no head moving of any kind for my brain had already endured a seven minute hi-res scan that probably cost them a pretty penny and I was not going to botch my calibration by being wimpy. I tried to simply focus on deep breathing the Oxygen through my nose to calm me. If you think I am overstating the point, try to keep your head completely still while being slid into a clicking, thumping, humming tunnel, that is so fully booked that the researchers get one shot a week. Then hold your head still for an hour as saliva tickles and the horror show from hell flashes before your eyes. Then keep in mind that your eyes are behind the grill of a cage that covers your face. No pressure. Getting in touch with my inner fear wasn't much of a stretch.

The communication with the Dr is done through an intercom when a thumb button press means plow ahead, and a squeeze of a balloon signaled the machine operator to halt. I was told to get "comfortable." I found myself daydreaming about what kind of signal the balloon would emit. It was like the inflation bag on the old school blood pressure cuff. Does it squeak, I thought, but was interrupted by what felt like a boa constrictor on my calf. They had snuck a cuff around my leg. Can they read my sarcastic thoughts, I pondered as the boa eased and the operator mumbled something I was supposed to respond to. He had done such an extensive job of teaching me the ins and outs of earplug placement that he sounded like Charley Brown's teacher.

I mumbled a made up word that was something between a yes and a no and off we went. As the bed slid into the tunnel, a small mirror reflected the researchers in the next room. They seemed to be discussing something very different as smiles were all around. Meanwhile the MRI operator tucked a white blanket so tight that it felt like a straight jacket. I had a momentary flash of Hanibal Lector straight jacket clad, strapped to an upright dolly with a cage on his face. Never thought that I would resemble that scene, but here I was bright and early wrapped, strapped and caged. I think my Brother owes me some McNuggets.

I clicked and clicked and periodically was asked to respond with a thumb click to let the Dr know that I was not freaking out. Or at least not freaking out so much as to botch his study. Low res scans of my neurons were created to see how my brain was lighting up. They would later have a hi tech cut and paste session where my results would be layered on top of each other so show how I responded. When I was pulled from the tunnel and the heart monitor, blood pressure and oxygen tubes were removed, the Dr. looked amazingly serious. The otherwise jovial man suddenly was stone faced. Thinking of course that he had seen something terribly wrong with the looks of my brain, or maybe even worse I had botched the scans? Nope that was just his research "game face" so to give me no feed back. I was asked to slowly sit up and then step down. I seemed to catch the IV tube on every possible surface which left me wincing at the needle that poked the back of my left hand. The IV tube lassoed over and under four machines before I managed to shove the wheeled stand to the ladies room.

Then we ate, hydrated and later clicked away to more gore before I learned the purpose of the research. I also was told that I was a high functioning placebo and that I had great veins. I blushed. I had managed a perfect memory recall on "Hell on Earth the Memory Game." Wow, I managed to remember 100% of the horror that I witnessed. Lucky me. But the charming nature of the entire research staff was so infectious that I was happy to have been a high functioning placebo for them. If I could have recalled more horror for them, I would have. Lets just hope that for my sake that my memory fails me tonight as I sleep.

News from the creative front

Anyone who knows me knows that I have developed a strange attraction to parades. I used to be terrified of clowns, and still do not have any great love of them. Most of my childhood memories are of hiding behind my Mom's legs and only being pried out when the balloon vendor came near. That hasn't really changed. But I had decided upon my arrival in New York, that I would try to take as many creative, and possibly strange jobs as I could. I wanted to take in the full girth of the oddities of the NYC creative world. Needless to say it was impossible to over look the greatest of all parades that was drawing close.

Through a few twists and turns, I was able to secure a inside view of the inflation night. I was hired as a character guide, which basically means someone to hold the hand of the giant fuzzy characters as they try to navigate a crowd. Was I the only person who was unaware that this job even existed? I have wandered many a crowded street, hyperventilating in a furnace of a costume in the Hawaiian islands...all alone. Stumbling with limited visibility trying to dehydrate enough so to forgo a bathroom break. I thought that was the name of the game. If you want to be the cute photographed mascot of the parade, you have to suffer.

So to become the personal assistant to a costumed lad seemed like I had awoken from a long slumber. This Winnebago was stuffed with deli sandwiches, hot coffee and a quad of characters who when unmasked spoke of workers rights and agency relations. They received timed breaks to rest and hydrate, and some even had exclusive costume rights to certain characters. I felt so naive to all of this, me with my Eco friendly homemade costumes of recycled things. Here I was in the mix with an Italian sub munching posse of of savvy players. They were not going to suit up until they were good and ready. The public was lucky to have them.

Out into the streets we went past Scooby-Doo and Shrek, Hello Kitty and Dora the Explorer. My gentle hold on the Carebear's hand was soon returned by a death grip from within the felt as we faced the mob. Soon, I was using a swing of my leg to discretely push the hoard of strollers aside. I kept smiling and greeting, smile and greet, smile and shove, smile, nudge, push, smile, etc. Then finally plant the Carebear in place in front of a photo backdrop. Then my duties shifted to pushing blowing garbage out of the frame and trying to get as many kids photographed as possible before the even more desperate escape to the sandwich laden trailer with my heat exhausted Sharebear. The people knew that we were not going to budge from the climate controlled splendor for thirty minutes, so they were proactive in their pushing of children into our path. Anything and everything was used to block our way. Some children were sent on missions to grab the Carebear's leg and hold on for dear life. But nothing would stand in the way of this highly trained costumed commando. Double time we walked, and the crowd soon began to jump aside upon realizing that we were not stopping for anything.