Gotta be the eyes.

There is a certain running theme to comments about my appearance/behavior made by new acquaintances. That is this: to the casual observer, I appear to be constantly stoned.

This pictures is far too disgusting to display my whole face.

As irony would have it, I've never been high in my life. I attribute this misconception to what I like to call the Merrill Deadeye. Observe:

Brother Paul

and

Sister Jenn, still managing to look sorta high despite the presence of glasses.

I really can't comment on the behavior aspect of this observation. (At least I seem happy...?)

I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I can make this stoner-chick persona work to my advantage.

Waiting for LaMontagne.

How do you come down from a concert high, once the last note has been sung, and the last bow taken?

You buy your tickets months beforehand. You prep for the concert days in advance, via an increasingly-exclusive Itunes rotation. You try on about two dozen outfits, attempting to perfect the adequate balance of hip-yet-effortless; belonging-yet-separateness; in-the-scene-but-not-OF-the scene. (Other people must do this). And for a few short hours, you are hypnotized--in the Actual Presence of the Actual Person, and all is right with the world.

And then, just like that, it's over. The roadies are dismantling the stage, and Ticketmaster is raising evil eyebrows and malevolently rubbing its hands together for managing to charge you 40% of the actual ticket cost in fees (probably).

One needs a transition from the sanctuary of the concert hall to the profane outside world. Theme parks get this; that's why you go through gift shops after you ride roller coasters.

And that's why I and about two dozen other Ray Lamontagne fans stood vigil for close to two hours outside the stage door of the Fox Theater stage door, unable to let go, hoping against hope for the chance to meet our idol.

Okay, "meet" is too strong of a word. Ray is notoriously shy and awkward with fans, and God help you if you try to take his picture. If not for my brother's goading ("sis, you gotta try"), I would never have had the presumption to wait for his appearance in the first place. But as it was, perhaps against my better judgment, I reversed my steps from the parking lot to the stage door, unarmed with autograph-able memorbilia or flash photography, hoping only, as I put it to my fellow waiters, to "bear witness."

I imagine that other music fans have this dilemma. You want badly to connect with the performer in a direct way; you want to cross their radar if only for one moment in time, even if afterwards you are immediately forgotten. You search for the appropriate words to convey the depth of your appreciation while simultaneously maintaining an unflappable, un-freakfanlike demeanor. Or, if you're a drunk middle-aged woman, you shout "Take if off, Raaaaaaaaaaaaay!" in the lull between songs. Whatever. My point: there's a certain amount of intoxication bred from proximity to a favorite artist or band, and the prospect of narrowing the gap even further can be downright impossible to resist.

But back to the stage door. I planted myself by the brick wall of the theater, slumping down and making myself as small as humanly possible. It was an odd reckoning of conscience--if I was going to make Ray nervous with my presence when he emerged from the door, I was going to do it in the least offensive way possible. I would not speak to him, I would not take my camera from my purse; I would relegate myself happily to his peripheral vision.

And if he happened to look at me, I would arrange my face into the picture of dignified gratitude and steely grace. Think Gordon Bombay in a freeze frame from his immortal "Ducks Fly Together" speech.

Fulton Reed from Stillwater, Minnesota gets it.
Seriously, just watch this video right now. You can get back to the blog.

Eventually a camaraderie formed amongst the Stage Door Crew (which, it must be said, was mostly dudes. With cheap imitation beards. And man-crushes). We relived moments of the concert, learned each others names and Other Favorite Bands, and nervously practiced our opening lines.

"Dude, do you think it would be lame if I said this?" the collegiate-looking guy directly in front of me mused to his friend. " 'I just want you to know that you're my hero. ' Would that be too gay?"

"No man, go for it."

As the night wore on into early morning and the crowd thinned, lines were reworked, and ultimately scratched ("Ah, forget it man. I'm just gonna say 'Thanks.' He'd get that, right?")

The crowd easily fell into two camps: Those Who Had Ray's Best Interests at Heart vs. Those Who Were Holding Cameras. Those of us from Camp A disdainfully cast judging glances at Camp B, which broadly consisted of women with spray-tans, high-heels, and noticeably dyed hair. Obviously, these exploitative opportunists had no right to be there.

"Guys," Camp A ventured to caution, "he reeeaaallly doesn't like cameras. Those will just make him nervous."

Warnings like this made it hard not to feel like we were waiting for the emergence of Punxsutawney Phil. If Ray pokes his head out and sees a camera, he will retreat into the womb of the backstage labyrinth. And there will be six more weeks of winter.

Groundhog Ray
I don't have Photoshop.

I waited with mixed feelings as the night wore on and the crowd dwindled. There was an air of holiness to us who would be found faithful long after the casual fans headed home, yet the narrowing numbers thinned the insulation I was counting on for anonymity if and when he finally materialized.

Around 1 AM, I gave it up for good. Whether or not the stagehand who told us that Ray had pulled a fast one and left through the front door was telling the truth, I'll never know.

But my efforts weren't totally in vain. Twice the opening of the stage door framed Ray Lamontagne in all of his bearded, gaunt-faced glory. Just standing there, existing. Occupying the same block of 50 yards as me.

And that, believe it or not, was worth it.

Because I Can.

Everyone should watch this video. Yes, it's over two years old. No, I don't care. I saw him and his band in concert last night and there's a chance it changed my life. Thus, I'm forcing everyone back through the annals of youtube time. If this isn't one of the most perfect songs you've ever heard, I'll eat my foot.

Networking.

With no foreseeable end to my unemployment, I try to give my life the illusion of meaning by taking small steps in a progressive direction. Examples include daily exercise, cleaning off counter tops, making my bed, and, in the surest sign of the end times, making dinner. So it was in the name of progress that I did something unprecedented in my jobless stint: I woke up at 6:30 AM, left the house at 7, and a attended a Job Seekers meeting at a local church.

I'd heard good things about this great "networking opportunity," so I figured, meh, why not? Upon arrival, I refused to let the fact that I was by far the youngest person there daunt me as I turned in my resumé and filled out a name tag. After a few minutes of small talk and coffee, things got off to a rousing start: a devotional thought by an impassioned, dynamic speaker who, against all odds, followed God's will when He told him to buy a piece of real estate. Not kidding. I don't doubt his sincerity (delusion?), and I know I should have gleaned something more profound from his rapid-fire emotional shifts and homegrown axioms. But what it all amounted to in my estimation is that a) God led him to buy a beach-front property, and then b) courageously emboldened him to sell it for over three times its market value. Who knew God was such a bloodthirsty capitalist?

And on the 8th day, God created Wall Street.

After that altogether cringeworthy start and some roundtable networking introductions ("Hi, I'm Jessica Merrill. I'm a teacher. My background is teaching at an international school in Rwanda. My biggest accomplishment this past week was making a mixed-bean salad"), it was time to get down to the morning's lesson.

Previous weeks' topics have included headers such as "Preparing for an Interview" and "How to Make Your Resume Stand Out"--in short, things I actually want to know more about. Unfortunately for me, I happened to visit on "Evaluating and Negotiating the Job Offer" day. Which might have interested me, if we lived in a world where I got job offers, and tossed around acronyms like "POS" and "CRT" (Position Objective Statement and Comp, Relo, and Travel, if you're interested). Oh yes, phrases like "stock options" and "personal net worth" were bandied about with ease, and I felt, on the whole, very uncomfortable.

In the vein of "Deal or No Deal," we were given a group exercise in which several job offer scenarios were presented, and we were to decide collectively if we would take the job, based on consistent variables. For example:

"Your target annual salary is 72,000, and you want to work on the southside of Atlanta. A company in Buckhead (northside, for out-of-towners) is willing to offer you a job for 66,000. You negotiate the salary to 69,000. For the past two interviews you've been on, you have been one of the top three candidates for the job. Deal or no deal?"

I'm sure this is a real head-splitter for some, but as my table debated this quandary it was all I could do not to shout, "I was an ENGLISH MAJOR." (Okay, English education, but still). As soon as I read "target salary 72k" I officially entered the realm of fantasy. For me, the scenario might as well have read like this:

You are walking in a magical woodland when and old peddler approaches you with a satchet full of magic beans. The beans are very pretty and could be turned for a huge profit (if you're not so into beanstalks). However, your target prize is a pot of gold, given only to sharpwitted passerby cunning enough to solve the cryptic riddles of the mercurial leprechaun who guards the pot. You're pretty good at riddles. Also, gold is cooler than beans. You can't have both. You can take your chances with the leprechaun or grab the beans. Deal or no deal?

What would YOU do?

I hate feeling like my particular brand of skills is utterly worthless in the world of the business bottom line. This job hunt, ultimately, feels like a lot of middle-aged men in suits laughing at me. Or looking...bemused. While smoking giant cigars and drinking scotch. Or, let's be honest, just ignoring my resume altogether.

So the moral of the story is....take the beans? Or...keep truckin', tiger? Something like that, I guess. I, however--always the delusional optimistic--have decided to hold out for a genie.

You Asked For It (or Didn't): My Completely Unsolicited Opinion on "Twilight"

A number of people have recently asked my opinion on the ever-so-broody, glitter-soaked, rabidly-adored phenomenon known as "Twilight," seeing as how I am an expert on all things literary. Okay, fine, by "a number of people," I mean one or two. And by "literary expert," I mean I have an English degree. For whatever that's worth, I am happy to give my thoughts on the series, generally limiting them to two words:

it's horrendous.

Now before you get all "Team Edward" on me, let me assure you that yes, I have read the books--all of them. And no, it wasn't the worst experience of my life. I'll even admit that by book three, I was ostensibly engaged. And, granted, like the Harry Potter books before them, the Twilight series has elicited a fever pitch of insatiable reading and book-swapping amongst teens, as any English teacher can attest. But unlike Harry Potter, however, I have (sub)zero desire to re-read Twilight in all of its melodramatic glory. Because unlike Harry Potter...Twilight is horrendous.

It's difficult to know where to begin in dissecting my distaste for Meyer's books. But you have to start somewhere, so here goes:

1) They're not funny.

Oh, come on Jess, be fair. The Brothers Karamozov isn't exactly a knee-slapper, either. Okay, fine, but in defense of this critique: if you are going to drag the reader down the path of Supernatural Emodom, you could at least infuse it with some semblance of humor. J.K. Rowling sure did. Plus, she had the added decency to make the plot and characters compelling to begin with. The nerve!

Sample funny line from Harry Potter:

"Percy wouldn't know a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's tea cozy."

Oh, J.K. That is both hilarious and adorable. How very British of you. By contrast:

Sample funny line from Twilight (according to a Google search):

Edward: "Do I dazzle you?"
Bella: "Frequently."

Oh, Steph. That is equal parts nauseating, unfunny, and vaguely homoerotic. Go ahead and take that brilliant Rowling line and slap it on Meyers. Or feel free to change it up: "Meyers wouldn't know wit if it bit her in the freaking neck."

SM: Do I nauseate you?
Reader: Frequently.

Of course, I'd be more forgiving if not for this:

2) Bella is the most boring female protagonist ever created.

Bore-a--woops, my bad, Bella--is constantly amazed by her ability to enthrall the ice-prince Edward. Frankly, so am I. From what I can gather, Bella is good at two things:

1) cooking for her equally boring father Charlie, and
2) almost dying.

"Bella, babe...if I bite you, will you promise to bore me for all eternity?"

The latter is particularly useful, as it allows Edward ample opportunity to swoop in and save her. Which in turn gives him ample opportunity to dictate her every move (I'm not kidding. The feminist inside you will die a slow death with the turn of each page).

But that's okay, because...

3) Edward is really, really hot.

Like, really hot. As Bella will tell you. With her every. waking. thought. I mean, every now and then, Bella takes a break from contemplating her boyfriend's glittery hotness/her own inadequacy-at-being-hot to almost die, but after that, she quickly redoubles her ogling efforts. If there was something tantamount to a drinking game for books, the one for Twilight would go something like this: "Drink every time Bella elaborates on the utter physical perfection of Edward." And in five minutes, you would be completely smashed. Which would probably be a better use of your time than actually reading the book.

4) Conflict, schmonflict.

Last time I checked, conflict was, like, kind of fundamental to good storytelling. Below, I give you an abbreviated summary of Bella's-perceived-conflicts/their-awesome-resolutions. If you're mid-series or anxiously awaiting the gory details onscreen, two things: first, re-evaluate your tastes. Then, proceed to number 5.

"Ugh, moving from Phoenix to Forks, this sucks. I guess I'll have to be the awkward new girl at school. Wait a minute...why does everyone love me? Cool, whatever. That hot pale guy sure hates me though. HOLD THE PHONE...he's actually psychotically in love with me? Why? Okay, sweet. Cool. Let's date. Ah, he's gorgeous but he's some kind of societal outcast--he probably lives in some shack in the woods. Or NOT. What the he---this is your house!??! No way. Hot, and RICH. But a vampire. mmm. This could cause some probs, as he's immortal and I'm a just a stupid, boring human....*kicks a can down a street.* Bah, what else to do but also be a vampire? Huh, Ed? Bite me. No? Not till we're married? Cool, I can wait. But first let's have sex--umm, get married. Done. Well, this could end badly, as you have Hulk-like strength and are technically marble--waaaaait, no...awesome. Of course. Bite me. Yes, I'm aware that I'm going to be a walking murderous rampage and never see my parents again. Do it anyway. Ya see, I kiiiiiiinda don't have any thoughts or goals outside of you, so....if this doesn't work out, I'm screwed, got it? Ouuuuuuuuuchh--'k, done. Rad. Hey, now I'm almost as hot as you! And really super fast and strong! And vampire-vampire sex = TOTES better than vampire-human sex! Heh, who knew? Wait...what's this?!?! I have some godlike self-control which instantly gives me the restraint towards mortals that you've been honing for CENTURIES?!?! So I DON'T have to say goodbye to Ma and Pa? And NO ONE really has to make any real sacrifice of ANY KIND?!??! Awesome. I love you. Make out with me.

THE END.

Okay, granted, it's not all butterflies 'n' rainbows in Bella's world. At times things get a little turbulent. You may feel bad about not caring, until you remember that the characters are one-dimensional snoozefests.

5) Enough. With. The Vampire. Spin-offs.

It seems that any phenomenon, no matter how horrible, becomes the vanguard through which related/rip-off media floods the cultural consciousness.

Exhibit A.

...and B.

and dear God, why: C.

While the first two might be chalked up to a strange confluence of vampire interest, that last one troubles me. At least Stephanie Meyers had the ingenuity to spew out her own crappy series. Now it looks like some talentless/shameless Christian writers will whore out her series, de-Mormonify it, and cloak their efforts in righteousness. In a word: ugh.


*Pshew. I think I'm done. And I've barely scratched the surface of feminist critique, which could fill a book. But on an effort to end on a light-hearted note, I leave you with this...

a hilarious mash-up of shirtlessness and Kristen Stewart's horrible acting, also known as the "New Moon" trailer. Enjoy.

Sing out loud. Sing out strong.

So, I was driving home the other night, flipping through the radio, when I happened across an old Broadway show tune station. Hearkening back to my high school musical theater days, I enthusiastically--some might say dangerously (my right foot tends to get a whole lot heavier when I sing in the car)--sang along. Whilst doing so, I had an epiphany:

I really, really love to sing.

Now, this should come as no surprise to anyone who's known me longer than five minutes. By most estimations, I sing a lot--for the most part, unconsciously (it's just something I can't really help). But singing in the car, it struck me just how much I'd been neglecting this part of myself. I couldn't remember the last time I just sang, to the cars in my garage or to my shower wall, because I can, because I'm not dead, because it gives me more joy than just about anything else. And I could only ask myself...why not?

Why do I need to be reminded to do something that I love?

Before I was an esteemed scholar of the English language, I was a childhood subscriber to Highlights magazine. Highlights is proabably best known for introducing the world to the cartoon Goofus and Gallant, contrasting Gallant, the paragon of manners and tact, with Goofus, his belligerent, socially retarded counterpart. I, however, was especially fond of the advice section on the magazine's last page. Highlights to me represented the sum total of all wisdom, and I drafted many a frustrated query that never quite made it to the mailbox. Anyways, one question in particular from a mixed-up childhood contemporary has always stuck with me. It went something like this:

Dear Highlights,

I want to sing, but I don't know any songs. What should I do?

That question just breaks my heart, for several reasons. First of all, it's hard to believe that anyone is ever so young and innocent that their most pressing concern for an advice columnist is tips on what songs to sing. But secondly, and more importantly...isn't that kind of where everyone is stuck?

We want to express ourselves, and we don't know how. We want to tell our story, and we don't know the words. We want to dance, and we don't know how to move. We want to do so. many. things. And the fear of the unknown just stops the song.

I don't know a lot. I think it's a twentysomething rite of passage--or probably, just a human one--to question everything you've ever believed and to re-evaluate everything you've ever wanted to be. At least, I hope it is. But I do know this: I need to sing more. I've never been good at focused or regimented prayer, like I've never been good at sticking to anything. But I'm beginning to think that focused, active time spent in song could be the truest thing I could offer of myself, and therefore the best possible prayer I could give. I don't know. Maybe. It's not much, but it's the surest step in the right direction that I know to take right now.
I just pray I have the resolve to follow my song.

You Are Cordially Invited to a Pity Party.

Ugh. I got online today with such good intentions. I brought a pad of paper to the computer desk to write down job options for which I am qualified. I was going to spend some more quality time with Craigslist and idealist.org, but this time, with gusto and purpose. I was going to look up the definition of "vivisection." (Wait, just because I'm feeling sorry for myself doesn't mean my vocabulary has to suffer- 1) the cutting of or operation on a living animal usually for physiological or pathological investigation; 2) minute or pitiless examination or criticism. Ah ha. Knew it). I was going to blog about something not-depressing, for a change.

Instead, I inadvertently tripped over about a dozen emotional landmines reminding me that my entire world from the past year is going back to Rwanda, and I am not.

I mentioned before how the trail of circumstance leading up to Me Not Going Back has left me feeling a bit like a jilted girlfriend, confused and wanting answers. I'm beginning to wonder if I similarly should treat Rwanda+all-that-that-entails as an ex-boyfriend who's holding me back. Make a clean break. Don't look at his facebook pictures, or read his blogs, or listen to his music--no, anything but music to maintain emotional equilibrium--or try to remember, or write down, or ask for updates about his life, or see who else he's been romancing, and how it's all getting on without you just fine. At least, not until you're in a secure relationship of your own.

But then, if you lose all of that...what's left? Do you lose a part of yourself, too?

There are bigger problems in the world. Children are dying of AIDS, and being sold into the sex trade, and people are dying of cancer, and dolphins are being mutilated, and bad people are getting things they don't deserve. The "why" of all that is intensely more profound than any narcissistic vivisection (I swear I wasn't planning that, it just worked) I can muster for the embarrassingly-small semi-tragedy of me not going back to Africa.

So. I'll let you know when I've evolved past self-congratulatory whining. Till then, I should probably just avoid the internet altogether.