Lucy The

Is everybody special? Lo was irritated with the guy she dated this winter because he thought he was so unique. A 30 year-old white dude who loves movies. When you put it that way of course he's not different from a billion other former film majors in America. But probably in his little Midwestern town he stood out. I remember my friend Fletch went to a Christian college in Missouri and she was known as that "indie artsy girl" because she had "Wes Anderson movies" in her interests on Facebook. In her annoyance with this troubled soul of a man, Lo asked me "Do you think you are normal or weird?" And it felt like a trick because for the context of our discussion it's clear she was saying, "Everyone thinks they're weird when they are actually quite normal." But the honest truth is I do think I am weird. I figure there are more players in the NBA than working writers in Hollywood? I am an adult woman with a hamster? I just bought a non-ironic Hello Kitty face mask? And these are just three surface level examples. I dare not even begin spelunking into the depths of my (I think) weird brain. Doesn't seem normal to me?

I don't think there's anything wrong with being normal, and I don't really wish to not be it. I would like to be normal in more than two dozen ways.

How often should we expect to feel special? I think if you don't feel special sometimes you die. I really do. The magnitude of the specialness differs per person per day, you know? Sometimes you can ride a week off some itty bitty kindness. I bounced for a couple hours after my local barista made my cold brew before the sidewalk hoards' lattes. Like who is she? That mysterious girl in sweat shorts getting her order like Megan Markle? Or maybe it's just having a birthday--even if no one knows it's your birthday. Or maybe it's winning a huge award or getting a great compliment or posting a viral tweet.

Do we top out at feeling special? There are celebs who need far less special than others because they are secure and cozy in their bungalows. Or maybe they just osmosis the special in and don't need to think about it. There are also esteemed heroes who need oceans of special, I'm sure, as they've become numb to the daily joys we plebs have to get by on.

How much is enough? I'm wondering.

Alice in Shipland: One Week Down

Some things that have happened so far:

-In the middle of the week the producer took the cast out to a fancy French Bistro on board with SC footing the bill. I ordered four desserts.

-We have to wear Britney mics for our shows.

-I made friends with a guy from Albania during lifeboat drill.

-I accidentally fell asleep in a deck chair for twenty minutes on the first day at sea, and my right leg only got sunburned.

-In Mexico my roommate and I went to Cozumel Kmart for “essentials.” I bought a Hello Kitty pillow for my bed.

-I sleep on the top bunk, which is like a soft coffin. The ceiling is right in my face, but the room is pitch black at night, and the boat rocks me to sleep. Pictures of my friends surround me. And now I cuddle Hello Kitty’s fat face.

-The social dynamic within the cast is so specific to this experience. I don’t know some basic facts about most of my crew, but if something personal sprouts in the conversation everyone pretty much goes there because, well, we’re going to be together on this floating rock, so there’s no use hiding.

-Anxieties I haven’t felt since high school have reared their heads. I worry no one likes me.  Or I like everyone too much. In the wide world, none of that matters, but in ship world where there are SIX OF US, it can be scary. I have more empathy for people from small towns and the emotional turmoil that must entail.

-Crew bar is very cheap and very friendly. Everyone goes and hangs out there late into the night. One night the bar was moved from under the ship to above the pool deck. The wind was whipping so hard my hair grew a dreadlock, but I was outside in February, in shorts, laughing with new people, zooming over the ocean at 1 AM. Not too bad.

-Things felt a little weird until our first show. I don’t do well sitting in situations where my purpose has not been revealed yet. The sketch show—while a typical canon of safe and family friendly jokey joke scenes—felt huge. Hundreds of people were hooting at us. Surreal.

-I am nobody until show night, and then I am a mini-celebrity. Especially if a couple or more of us are walking through the pool deck, passengers smile and wave.

-In real life I listen to Spotify for all my music needs, which means I’m usually pumping whatever tunes have recently caught my ear. Now I am alone with my iPod that hasn’t been updated since college. I run the track above the food court and remember all of the albums that meant so much to me at a very different time.

-I love my roommate MB. I missed female sounding boards when I left Arizona, and I feel like the world plopped this queer tiny room with two people situation into my lap as a response. We slap on pjs and girl talk into the dark tiled void.

-I like the rest of the cast too--including the producer and director who were on board for the first week. Some highlights include doing magic tricks and playing late night celebrity in a conference room, sitting in the swanky Star Bar after our first show, rehearsing a murder mystery in a restaurant alcove.

-Once a week I visit port in New Orleans, which is where I write this now. I have felt fidgety a few times, maybe fussy, but back on land perspective flows easily, and I am so looking forward to the rest of this adventure.

Little Feeling of Freedom

Hunny texted me to ask if I had seen the video Taylor Swift put on her Insta tonight. Apparently she was hosting her best friend's birthday, so she hired a member of Dashboard Confessional to sing an old favorite song of theirs live. The song is "Hands Down"--an old fave of me an Hunny's also. Aw, it's like, their friendship is the same as our friendship. Except for a few million dollars. I went to the Instagram account and immediately remembered why I wasn't following it. Taylor Swift's life in pictures makes me hate mine.

In reality, I'm doing pretty well, and I am generally happy. I wouldn't ask for much to be different right now. I think I'm where I need to be. But...maybe I could have a mansion and hire rock stars for fun and also have very cute blond hair. I KNOW for a FACT, it's not as easy or exciting as it seems in pictures. I KNOW, but it's so hard to believe when all the squares are just so.

Why do I follow any celebrities on Instagram? I guess I figured I liked them so I would like seeing them? But, um, hold on, can we talk about how destructive that is. Waiting for the bus, casually scroll through people way richer and skinnier and "loved" than you. And then go on with your life. It seems like a highly unhealthy way to pass time throughout the day.

I have stopped following all the celebs I did on Instagram. I wondered, "But I want to keep up." With WHAT? I'm going to see the TV Show/movie/hear the record etc. I don't need to see the boats and the trip to Europe and the new headshot with fifty thousand comments. There are other things that are more important! Look at those.

All Stories Are Valid, Part One: Genius Resting

Spent most of yesterday feeling "So it goes" about Robin Williams. I, like every oxygen-breathing human on this earth, respected and loved him greatly. How many people can say they were given an okay doofy family comedy script about a cross-dressing old woman/dad and made it a beloved cultural artifact? The genie, the "stole my line" line. But it is what it is. Then last night I was just scrolling through Twitter and seeing how many people are deeply affected by this loss. I don't entirely feel allowed to really care about celebrity death because it's not like I have a personal connection with these people. And, yet, a sadness did lay its dark weight on my chest as I scrolled through all the tiny tweeted stories of a great man.

Bisque and I were driving into the bits of city sparkle. I mentioned how I wished it weren't physically possible to commit suicide without a letter. I am aware that a lot of the time (especially in these national headlines) there might be letters, but they are private. Bisque's response was, "I have trouble demanding something from someone who is in so much pain." That's why he's a better person than I am.

I just can't imagine why you wouldn't at least leave some questions answered, some clues for prevention in the future. Maybe some nasty, ugly viewpoints that people could digest and refute for themselves. People don't want to be remembered that way, okay. But what do they care? They will be dead. Yes, it's a different legacy than expected, but I just don't think there's anything but good from honesty.

No one would dismiss the man's greatness from his scared, sick confessions. It would give us something solid to build on. People say, "Don't glamorize suicide," but then what do we do? We gloss over the crusty parts of the human condition, cut to montages of the person at best, and how is that not glamour? Do not leave. Speak.

Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem.