why tomorrow shall be a fateful day

Tomorrow, April 25th, 2012, the New York City Marathon draws from the lottery of prospective entrants to determine who shall run a torturous 26.2 through the five boroughs of the metropolis. I had made running in this race a resolution last year, but I was thwarted by the luck of the Scheidler. (If you succumbed to clicking the hyperlink, I will let you know that I also failed at writing a book and improving my accordion skills but did start flossing regularly and spent the summer in London.) Only about 10% of lottery entrants are selected, and in 2011 it was even fewer.

I am so ready to run this marathon. Well, ready fashion-wise, not physically. I have decided what to wear (pizza shirt), what to listen to (four episodes of This American Life and then some "pump-it-up" songs to try to finish at my goal time of 4:30), and how to do my hair (pigtail braids). The powers that be in heaven and on Earth should recognize that running this is my destiny.

But, tomorrow's drawing may have a much more profound influence on my life.

I have chosen to view being selected to run in the New York City Marathon as a sign that I should move to New York City.

NYC has had a crazy appeal to me for years. Who know if I subconsciously internalized the episodes of Friends my mother watched dedicatedly throughout my childhood (a series which I watched myself chronologically in its entirety during college one or two episodes at a time over breakfast). I applied to NYU as an undergraduate, but was daunted by the crippling cost of tuition (okay, and a little bit of fear at the great unknown). The great travesty is that I went on to earn a Master's degree from NYU, but NEVER lived in the city or even New York state! (Sure, you will never hear me complain about living in Florence, but maybe it is now time to reside in the Big Apple.) I also may be strangely compelled to move to NYC because my mom changed the ringback tone on her phone to a well-known Sinatra song, so every time I call her I hear, "Start spreading the news. I'm leaving today. I want to be a part of it: New York, New York."

I am a prime candidate to be eaten up by a big heartless city. I can be shy and antisocial and absentminded and naive. But I am also hoping that living in the city of dreams (is that a real nickname, or did I just make it up?) I may be motivated to do the thing I always say I want to do: write. Screenplays, novels, short stories, zines, plays, musicals, songs, telenovellas, poetry, letters, resumes, quips, jokes, notes on the palm of my hand, maybe even graffitti.

I also think moving to New York is really terribly trite for a wannabe writer. But things happen in NYC. And how can it not be trite to move to a city where 8 million people live already. "Get off your hipster high horse (not stoned high, judge-y high), Roni and do what you want to do without arguing with yourself about its originality," I say to myself.

I have a job that I am suppose to work until November 16th. I like the people and like the job sometimes. To move to New York, I would have to forsake duty in the name of whimsical aspiration.

But if I do get it, I have a date for the day I hope to arrive in the city suitcases in hand: July 1st. But what will I put in these suitcases? Can I logically tote my guitar, cello and accordion across the country?

However, these problems can be considered after I see what fate the gods of chance decide.

Little Demetri

So, it turns out that I have an odd fetish with bestowing comedians with handmade trinkets.

When I bought tickets for the SLC Radiolab show, which featured Demetri Martin, I figured I ought to express my appreciation to the performer for coming up with some of my favorite quips that I routinely misquote, such as:

"Saying I apologize is the same as saying I'm sorry, except at a funeral."

"Owning a dog in a city tells you a lot about a person. It says, 'My desire for companionship outweighs my distaste for picking up poop.'"

"Dream catchers work, if your dream is to be gay." (No offense intended to dream catcher lovers straight or gay, or Native American communities. Mainly, I am making fun of my father. No offense to him either. I kid because I love.) 

So, I crafted (poorly) an effigy of Mr. Martin (that I hope he did not choose to burn.) The photo I posted was pre-stuffing, but I made his arms far too skinny, and stuffing them was devastatingly difficult, so I left his arms floppy and meatless. I explained this to Mr. Martin, and he self-deprecatingly remarked that it was anatomically correct. He may not have noticed that Little Demetri has no feet.

Our exchange was fairly routine. He was appropriately gracious and kind. He asked if he could keep it, and I said that was why I was presenting it to him. I told him I thought it would be creepy if I kept it. Especially after I embroidered "Fan Art of Voodoo" on Little Demetri's T-shirt.

Bringing Little Demetri and Real Demetri together wasn't terribly difficult. After the RadioLab show, which was absolutely terrific by the way, my friend Eliza's support supplied me with the courage to awkwardly stand by the stage hoping to get the attention of someone involved in the production. We tried to wave down  RadioLab host Robert, but he was distracted with equipment, but then Demetri came out to greet the handful of celebrity-obsessed loonies like myself.

I did not get a picture, so you may allege this never happened. It felt creepy enough giving someone a fabric rendering of themself. I also am not huge on the "getting pictures with celebrities." I feel photos can be a misrepresentation of reality. What does obliging a public figure to stand next to me smiling like we are buddies prove? That I was precocious enough to make demands of a famous person that I really know nothing about? I think we have this tendency to believe pictures are truth, maybe less so in the age of photoshop, but even before photoshop, photos are a framed isolated view of reality. And enough time on that soapbox.

But if you are looking for proof, Demetri said that if he ever updates his website (which he says he really hasn't had updated in like 5 years) he definitely wants to have a section of fan stuff, and that he would feature  Little Demetri with the tag that it was made by Roni from Salt Lake.

how many episodes of the west wing does it take to dye your hair?

 well, if your hair is like mine, long and of moderate thickness, and you are doing the work yourself instead of commissioning a licensed hair person or delegating the dirty work to a friend, i would say one-and-a-half episodes. and that is just for the application and set time.

before boldly making the decision to dye my hair red 100% by myself, absolutely no assistance, i looked like this. though, it should be noted, that is not virgin hair. my natural color seems long-forgotten, though i figure it is somewhere in the light-brown category. however, i find something remarkably liberating about being able to change my hair. it is a sort of assertion that my life is my own. that's why i chose red today. a part of me hoped it turned out bold little mermaid red. for no other symbolic reason other than i desire to live my life boldly. (i wasn't thinking i ought to leave my life behind and sell my voice to a witch to follow some man i saw briefly one fateful night, not at all.) also hoped that the dye would have some fancy-pants name like vermillion, or ideally soviet red (i would love to tell people my hair was soviet red), but it was just red, but to figure out how it turned out you will have to scroll further into the depths of this post.

 i made a bloody mess of myself that is for sure. also made a bloody mess of the bathroom. the money i saved buying the cheap dye (do i look like a Rockefeller? well, did they have any red heads?) will likely be spent buying mystical cleaning supplies like the much heralded magic eraser. however, i won't need to magic erase my face as the poor man's solution, warm water, did the trick.

waiting was intense. i could feel my hair physically heating. it was like it was letting me know that there was a chemical change in process. molecules were going wild, while i was fretting over the possibility of my hair bursting into flames and missing a spot (though missing a chunk of hairs would have fled from mind had my head ignited). once i lathered the stuff on the first strip of hair, i figured there was no going back, and truth be told the application process had been more arduous than i anticipated. nervousness and excitement abounded in my little bathroom while a symphony of witty political banter played on my laptop propped on the toilet. will i look like a fool tomorrow? will president bartlett and his wife reconcile?

and then, my shower was the scene of a murder. MURDER OF THE OLD AND BIRTH OF THE NEW! if i had known i was going to get the irresistible, spontaneous urge to transform the fibers growing out of my scalp today, i probably wouldn't have spent all that time cleaning my bathroom yesterday. c'est la vie. 

and the result was subtle. no one will mistake me for the little mermaid. but it is definitely a red made for the summer. the crimson hues glisten in the light. and mad props to the world's greatest sister for the world's greatest sheep pajamas.

now, here is where i planned to get introspective and tell you more about the wild wave of assertiveness i was riding as a decided to dye my hair, such a simple process, but doing it was a weird reminder that i can do what i want. i can follow my irrational dreams to see if they pan out. hey i could move to new york, buy a fedora and become a playwright. except i don't like fedoras. maybe a boat hat, i hear everybody looks good in those.