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Author: JennyTrout

Where I was.

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On September 10th, I went to an evening class, Modern Culture and The Arts, at my college. I talked to some people in my class about how awesome the Harry Potter movie, coming out that next summer, looked from the pictures in Vanity Fair, and resolved to read the books- all three of them- before it came out. I went to a friend’s house. We made out while watching Evil Dead 2. I got home at three in the morning on September 11, 2001, and all I could think was “Thank god I don’t have class until noon tomorrow.”

At the time, I lived in my grandparent’s spare bedroom, and they were early risers despite being retired. I made a little note and taped it to my door before I went to sleep. “DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, WAKE ME UP BEFORE 10 OR I WILL TURN INTO A PILLAR OF SALT.” I knew they had to get up even earlier than usual, because they were going to drive to Indiana to visit relatives. But sure enough, my grandfather ignored the sign and called cheerfully up the stairs at 8:45 am (according to my alarm clock, that seemed to hate me), “Jenny, you want some pancakes?”

I yelled back, “No, I don’t want any pancakes. I don’t have to be to class until noon. I want to sleep in.”

I pulled my blankets over my head and tried to will myself back to sleep, but less than five minutes later, I heard my grandfather’s footsteps on the stairs again. “Jenny!”

“I told you I don’t want any pancakes please let me sleep for the love of God!” I begged. They’re used to my drama.

“Someone drove a plane into the World Trade Center!”

The first thing I thought was, “drove a plane? What an odd choice of words.” The second thing I thought was, “I bet this is going to be weeks of congressional hearings about air traffic controller safety.” I thought it would probably be something we’d cover in my American Government class.

There was no going back to sleep, so I got up. And this is the part I remember so vividly. I remember walking down the stairs, because that is the last thing I can remember before, as cliche as it is, everything changed. I went into the kitchen, where my grandmother was sitting at the table, watching on the little tv in there as the newscasters, and my grandparents and I, talked about what a horrible accident it was. And then we saw the second plane, and we tried to keep talking about it like an accident, like the people on television still were. But I think, at that time, we knew.

My grandparents called our relatives in Indiana and said they would be late, they were watching “what’s happening in New York”. We kept watching, and heard the report of the plane hitting the Pentagon. I started thinking of other buildings we would be hearing soon: the capitol, the Sears tower in Chicago, the New York Stock Exchange, the Statue of Liberty. It sounds silly now, knowing how things turned out, but at the time, it seemed like whatever was happening could wipe every city I could think of off the face of the Earth.

On the tv, a reporter stood in front of a fire truck, and behind him, fire fighters jogged together in a big group toward the towers. A few minutes later, the South tower appeared to partially collapse. Then, reports confirmed that it had completely collapsed. I looked at my grandfather and I said, “What happened to all those firemen?”

I watched tv all day that day, from the living room love seat where I would doze off, then wake up, the tv still on. My grandparents, devout Orthodox Christians, cancelled their trip and debated going to church. I don’t remember if they went. I do know that in the evening, a neighbor came down and knocked on the door. He was inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come down to his lawn to pray together.

I didn’t go pray. I stayed on the couch, watching television, for days. Thinking it was the end of the world. Wondering if we should start locking the doors at night, because the terrorists could come in and kill us in our sleep. The kind of thoughts a twenty-one year old shouldn’t have, ones that are more suited for a four year old. I was reduced to a child by my anxiety.

I shook the news paralysis (eventually, I had to go to work). I never shook that fear. No, I’m not still afraid of terrorists coming into my house and killing me in my sleep, but, like many Americans, I don’t feel safe anymore. Ten years later, I struggle to explain to my son that “terrorist” didn’t used to be a word that got used every single day, and that things used to be different. I think of the fact that both of my children will never know what it was like to live in a time where it didn’t seem like anything could touch us.

I don’t engage in 9/11 conspiracy speculation, and I’m not interested in discussing how our foreign policy and lack of awareness about ourselves may have hurt us. I’ve never been interested, because none of it matters. It doesn’t matter why, what matters is that it happened. And it is important, for people who witness the events, even just on television, to remember where they were and what they were doing. Not just on 9/11, but the day before. Everyone needs that snapshot of the last time things were okay, because ten years later, it’s still hard to accept that it will never be that way again.

The Well of Inspiration

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There has been a lot of negative press for the past, oh, thirty years or so, about how Michigan is a terrible place. The economy is bad. Everyone is on welfare. The winters are cold and the summers are humid. Too much crime and not enough jobs. Most of these things are true. Some of them are half true. But we also have something very special.

I came to this place last week, taken there by a friend who knew the way. I won’t share the directions. There are people who know where to find it, and those people are just the right amount. Twice, I was blessed to enjoy this sacred space alone, and I would selfishly like the place to remain secluded for as long as possible. But if you are determined, you can find someone to drive you out there, on the dirt two-track with holes that will swallow your tires if you’re unwary.

A part of the Pictured Rocks coast of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, it is a mishmash of sandstone cliffs and enormous boulders. The very glaciers that carved the Rocks now slap at the soft cliff faces in the form of the Great Lake herself, a perpetually frigid, temperamental beast that swallows men whole, never to release them.

The underwater boulders sift the currents in invisible patterns. One diver reported being pinned between two of the behemoths, captive to the pull of the waters. But on our first visit, we found only the gentle motion of a lake rolling over in slumber.

In the sunlight, the lazy currents rolled like gold silk, up from the crystalline blue depths. They split apart into sun-kissed lace gliding into a peaceful lagoon, or lapped half-heartedly at the rough cliffs. Where we stood could not be called a proper beach; all sandstone, with slick black algae making footing beneath the water perilous, the only loose sand one could find was in a single pocket beneath the water’s edge:

…and on drier ground, where it held onto love tokens from other realms of nature.

Caves shelter birds, bats, people, from the sun that can be unrelenting, but chose that day to be merciful. In a place like this, one feels a true sense of the interweaving of the elements. Earth, air, and water tugging and pulling with each other in a beautiful war, creating each other from their own destruction.

I’d like to tell you that the peace of this scene was repeated on the second day of our visit. There are no photographs of that day; rather than try in vain to capture the scene, the second day I became a part of it. Waves taller than our heads battered us again and again. Always respectful of the force and deadliness of the lake herself, we dared to venture out of our golden lagoon, to step off the the underwater cliff where hip deep water gave way to fathomless depths.

When she’d had enough of us, Superior drove us from her shores with warnings only a fool would fail to heed. We stumbled away, intoxicated by the furious, alien beauty of the place.

These photos are a pale imitation of the true beauty of the place. It almost makes my heart hurt to look at them, because I know I can’t share exactly what I felt those two amazing days. With a last look back, I returned to the mortal world, to live to my greatest potential until the time I return.

An Open Letter To Bill Schuette, Michigan Attorney General

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Warning: Hippie Political Raving Ahead

This is the text of a letter I sent to Bill Schuette’s office today, Friday, August 26, 2011. For those outside the state of Michigan or in the state and not following the developments surrounding the Michigan Medical Marijuana Act, Bill Schuette has made it his single-minded focus to undermine the will of the people of Michigan, who voted to legalize the medical use of marijuana in our state. Most recently, he declared the Michigan Court of Appeals decision to uphold the ruling in Michigan vs. McQueen, “a huge victory for public safety and Michigan communities struggling with an invasion of pot shops near their schools, homes and churches.” The ruling means that medical dispensaries are made illegal, and patients would have to seek their medication from possibly illegal, dangerous sources.

Dear Mr. Schuette,

I just wanted to offer a hearty and sarcastic “job well done” on effectively obliterating legal marijuana dispensaries in Michigan. Now, instead of getting my medicine from a secure, licensed facility, I can go to a drug dealer! And it will be so awesome when he tries to “up sell” me on illegally begotten Oxy, Vicodin, and Adderall! These dealers sometimes carry guns or other weapons (for their own protection only, I’m sure). These are definitely the kind of people I want to be involved with.

This is your “great victory” Mr. Schuette. Sick people, who are looking into alternatives to dangerous, sometimes off-label or untested drugs, will be immersed in drug culture. True drug culture, with all the dangers inherent when dealing in the illegal drug trade. These are operations that are happening near our “schools, homes, and churches.” Just because they don’t have a storefront doesn’t mean the streets are completely absent of drug crime. Instead of a clean, licensed, safe facility, you are asking patients to monetarily support the illegal drug trade in the event that they cannot receive medication from a licensed caregiver. You, by taking such a hard stance against dispensaries and patients, are supporting the illegal drug trade.

I assume that since you stand firmly against dispensaries, you won’t be buying your prescription medications from licensed facilities, either. If you need any kind of drug, from aspirin to Prozac, you’ll be going to your friendly neighborhood drug dealer to obtain it. It’s only fair, after all. I hope that we can soon also celebrate the removal of Walgreens, Rite Aid, and any other dealer of medications that can be abused from our neighborhoods.

Thanks for keeping us “safe”.

Jennifer Armintrout

Registered voter, proud Michigander

Doobie doobie dah!

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As I mentioned in an earlier post involving night cheese, one of my summer craft project is cross-stitching quotes from my favorite television show, Tina Fey’s 30 Rock, which I will then attempt to hang about the house until my husband notices them and, wildly embarrassed that he married someone who clearly destined to die alone, her face eaten by the many, many housecats she would have amassed during her lonely middle years as an animal hoarding spinster, takes them down.

I’ve finished the second project, and I couldn’t wait to show it to you. And by couldn’t wait, I mean, “man, I better post this to the blog before I forget. Fuck the frame, I don’t have an 8 x 10 frame just hanging around, and I know for damn sure and certain I’m going to forget to pick one up in town tomorrow. Fuck it, I’ll just show it to them like this, all wrinkly and unmounted.”
Hey, that’s a funny joke. What do my cross-stitch and an ugly lady elephant have in common? THEY’RE BOTH WRINKLY AND UNMOUNTED.
I chose the wisdom of one Mr. Tracy Jordan, star of Who Dat Ninja? and Honky Grandma Be Trippin’, Oscar winner for Hard To Watch, creator of the megahit pornographic videogame Goregasm: Legend of the Dongslayer:

This also gives you a heretofore unseen glimpse of my laptop keyboard, where I write all those amazing books y’all love so much.
Also, where I play Goregasm: Legend of The Dongslayer.
Or as I call it, World of Warcraft.

Blah I Vant To Suck Your Blaaaaaaad

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My latest Fiverr.com experiment does exactly what it says on the tin. The listing, from AngeltheArtist, can be found here: I will make you a finger face character with my fingers:

“Using my own fingers (girl hand) I will dress them or draw them to the character of your liking with a cute face. Like a guy from Paris, or a Vampire, or a cute couple etc. whatever you think of will work! Just tell me what you please, I will send you the picture digitally on fiver and were done! Great as a gift for a friend!

Clearly, I needed her to whip me up a vampire. This is what I asked for:

“let’s go with a vampire. As goth and tortured and darkity dark as you’re willing.”

I mean, if we’re going to go vampire, we need something dark and horrid and scary, the stuff that will make a lesser writer (like me) go on antidepressants, according to some. Cheap shot of the day! I win a billion dollars!

What AngeltheArtist sent to me did not disappoint. I present to you, finger vampires:

You can’t get much darker than that. I particularly enjoy the x’ed out eyes. Classic.

What I don’t understand is how one would go about creating this type of scene on one’s fingers. At some point wouldn’t you need both hands to apply the fake blood and bushy vampire eyebrows? I commend you, AngeltheArtist, for doing what I could not, at least, not without accidentally gluing my fingers together and then gluing my fingers to my foot and my foot to the floor.

Insert Top Gear Theme Here

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I’ve mentioned my love of fantasizing about hot hate sex with Jeremy Clarkson Top Gear before, I’m sure. In fact, if I’d never sat down and watched “that funny show with those guys who do things to cars” I would have never realized how awesome cars actually are. At first, cars were secondary to the antics of the hosts, but then as I continued watching, I developed a real enthusiasm for super cars. Because I always desperately love that which I cannot attain. I’m looking at you, James May.

Imagine my delight when I found GreenLambo, a seller on fiverr.com who, for five dollars, will write anything you want on a piece of paper, stick it somewhere on a green Lamborghini (to my untrained eye, it looks like one of the Gallardos), and send you a picture. Obviously, I needed to jump on this.

The only problem was, my plan for my fiverr.com adventure was to create disingenuous viral hype. How could I justify comparing myself to a lime green Lamborghini? While I’m awesome, I have to say, I’ve seen a Lamborghini in person before. It was in New York City. My husband, friend Jill and I were standing in front of the statue of Atlas outside of 30 Rockefeller Plaza (doobie doobie daaaah!) when I turned and saw an Astin Martin Vantage parked in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. As I raised my phone to snap a picture, a blinding white Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder wove through traffic that looked like it was standing still in comparison. The noise it made could only be described as the high, incessant whine of an electric guitar solo in an 80’s hair band mixed with the growl of bedsprings as the lead singer of that band got down with his lady love in a frenzied, early-AIDS panic meshing of unprotected sex and the threat of death.

It was a transformative experience.

So, obviously, I couldn’t say something in the picture like, “Jennifer Armintrout is cooler than this car.” It wouldn’t make sense. I mean, the experience I had seeing that car in action, just feet from me, was a religious vision. For a split second I actually had considered jumping into traffic, just for the story. “So you were in the hospital for how many weeks?” “It doesn’t matter, it was worth it.” I couldn’t even say, “Jennifer Armintrout is exactly as awesome as this car,” because if i had jumped into traffic and the wounds incurred were fatal, I would have whispered, “I… was… perfect!” like Natalie Portman at the end of Black Swan, that’s how amazing this was. I can’t live up to that. And I just couldn’t stand to stain this guy’s fine automobile with a lie.

So, this is what I came up with:

Worth it.

Let me explain to you about Fiverr.com

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A few days ago, while perusing Regretsy.com I learned about a website called fiverr.com, where people list stuff they will do for you if you pay them five dollars.

Not that stuff.

I immediately saw the potential for advertising in this venture. I can pay people to say I’m awesome? That’s so much easier than doing it by myself! So, from now on, expect to see a lot more random instances of people saying I’m badass, but keep in mind, I paid them to do so.

Like this handsome young chap here, who I paid five dollars to write a song extolling my many favorable qualities:

Okay, so clearly, this is the best thing ever. My thanks to “Thallett” for doing such a bang up job. If you’re feeling blue or totally rad, either way, send him some business. You’d be amazed at how much more awesome your life sounds when set to catchy pop. You can find him Here

Two blog posts in one day? This is MADNESS!

Naomi Clark is my new hero

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An Open Letter To Laurell K Hamilton

I agree with Ms. Clark. The tweet she references, in which Ms. Hamilton suggests that she welcomes the deep, gothic, darkity dark thoughts that she is plagued with and other people are just, I don’t know, not artistic or gothic or deep or what the fuck ever enough to handle them, makes me sick and offended. I’m a writer. I have a mental illness. And I’m not going to go untreated so I can better pour my tortured soul into my stories about vampires and shifters poking each other.

There’s another component to those words that suggest that if you’re strong, if you’re dedicated to your craft, you don’t need help to overcome your mental illness. There is already enough stigma attached to mental illness. We don’t need to be glorifying it as a gift from the Gods or something. What is this, ancient Rome? Okay, folks, Caesar had epilepsy, he wasn’t “touched by Mars” and if he lived today, he would be on medication for it. (I realize that epilepsy isn’t a mental illness, but I’ve been rewatching Rome lately and I can’t get out of that mode right now, okay, Vorenus?)

If you’re depressed, if you hear voices, if you live in constant fear and you know that it’s irrational, please, I urge you, go get help. This isn’t directed as Ms. Hamilton, but to anyone who might read this post and have these issues. Going untreated for a serious mental illness is not a badge of honor. It’s not an artistic, deeply feeling thing to do. It’s self-destructive and selfish, when it affects the people around you. I repeat: do not go untreated because some successful people feel that you can “create” better if you’re struggling with these issues.

Please, do go read Naomi’s letter, because she’s much better at breaking through her rage and channeling it into constructive words, and she hardly uses fuck at all in there, which is why she’s more professional than I am. You can read more reaction about this comment from a group known as the LKH_Lashout on LiveJournal: http://lkh-lashouts.livejournal.com/553179.html#cutid1 wherein people who live with mental illness react to those words and the hurt it caused them. It’s not pretty.