I took a little break and made a trip out to the east coast. Now that I'm back, I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to get back into the groove of working. Shh, don't tell. When you're on a roll, you're not supposed to take breaks, and I broke that cardinal rule. The last time I was on a roll, though, it was an academic one, and I was nudged in the direction of law school. Yuck. We all know how that ended.
Tonight I went to dinner and a movie with a friend. Nothing on the silver preview screen had particularly caught my eye as of late, so I let her pick. In to ALFIE we went.
Big mistake.
Think big American film stars being shepherded by an Iranian film director. By the end of the film, all I needed was to beat my chest and cry and moan for the plight of Alfie. Note: If you're planning on seeing the movie, skip the next bit. Better yet, go lie down in traffic.
I should have known. You know how they say there are signs all around you, if you choose to pick up on them? Well, the first preview was a Natalie Portman flick. Not a fan. And yet I had to watch her *repeatedly* pole dance. Barf bag please, here comes my tikka masala dinner. If that wasn't a cosmic nudge, what is?
Lights down, time for the real thing. You'd think once Jude Law was on screen, I'd melt into oblivion and not even notice the plot. But I had to. It was like a horrific television movie that I couldn't turn off. Watching an interpersonal car crash, you know? Here's the story: Alfie doesn't call girls back. He has sex with them and lets it go, doesn't commit. This movie is a woman's fantasy, much like a 'fat girl fantasy', as one of my friends dubbed the book GOOD IN BED. It just doesn't happen. You want me to believe that Jude Law gets dumped? Ok, let me suspend belief and examine the film a bit more closely. Who would dump Jude Law? Oh, apparently everyone from a kimono-obsessed American woman Susan Sarandon's age (who cheats on him with a younger guy. I kept laughing til I realized it wasn't a joke) to a homely but charming single mom (who then picked up with the screenwriter of Traffic, apparently). He gets to dump the homeless manic depressive girl who just got done cooking him a candlelit dinner, but we all know that Jude is dating her in real life, so that doesn't count.
But Alfie doesn't just get dumped. Enter Hollywood flair. God really sticks it to him when he takes his best friend's ex-girlfriend to get an abortion because, OOPS, Alfie impregnated her the night he went to talk her into taking back his friend. Oh, wait, PLOT TWIST, she didn't have the abortion after all, and, no, she doesn't want his help. SHE still has a boyfriend (the guy married her, found out, and kept her anyways -- WOMAN FANTASY, I told you!)
And Alfie?.... alone again. Well, not totally. He has a moment writing poetry with his boss, played by the illustrious Gedde Watanabe (reprising his role as Long Duck Dong). He has also befriended the bolo-tie wearing geriatric Joe, who he met at his doctor's office when he stopped through for a penis biopsy.
No, I am not making this shit up.
The slutty married woman who wore summer dresses in the deep of winter also ditched him. Once upon a time, she was tucking her undies in his jacket pocket as a souvenir, and now she and her smudged, clumpy mascara are swaying booty in the 'away' direction, back to the husband who won't shag her. At that point, I knew something good had to happen. And it did.
The credits began to roll.
Literally. That was the end of the movie. No happy ending. That WAS the ending. I mean, how brutal is that to release a movie of this caliber right before the holidays? What, enough lonely people aren't killing themselves right when xmas lights are going up around town? Are they going to release the DVD during Valentine's Day weekend? I mean, really people. Call the UN, we have a crime against humanity.
I suppose in this situation the female fantasy is supposed to triumph. We're meant to be thrilled that Alfie, who has played women for the fool all along, is going to end up alone. Alfie is every guy who has ever broken our hearts. Alfie is every guy who showed up at the door empty handed, ate our food, slept in our beds, listened to our thoughts while thinking of another woman. The man who was ungrateful for the little ways you made his living space look better. Who took for granted the sparkling smiles you flashed him, and the adoration you showered him with.
Revenge should be sweet, right?
And I'm the dummy who left the theater a little bit sad for him.
ONE FISH, TWO FISH, RED STATE, BLUE STATE
Belatedly, please allow me to throw my hat into the political blogging ring. "If everyone else is doing it, why can't I?"
CNN just announced that Iowa isn't going to give a call til tomorrow. Why? Because of the "fatigue" of poll workers. You know what fatigues ME? The fact that millions upon millions of Americans turned up at the polls to make sure, lest there be *any* doubt, that President Bush knows that it's okay to lie to them, okay to wage war on a country composed of defenseless people who have done nothing to you, okay to make unilateral decisions and not offer explanation or remorse. We support you. In some cases, we will stand in line for 9 hours to make sure you know that. Thanks George. The fact that even *one* person felt confident in slipping a ballot with his name firmly bolded in into the box absolutely boggles my mind. THIS is why he smirks. Hell, I would too if I were him.
Perhaps my mind has been, as conservatives love to tout, shaped by liberal institutions. You know, the ones where they let black people and women in. Nudge nudge, wink wink, THOSE liberal institutions. The ones where you know how to knot a tie but are lost on how to chew tobacco like a REAL man. Guilty as charged. This educational path has allegedly encouraged me to look down on people from lower-class middle America who vote against gay marriage when they don't even know a single gay person, and in the process, forget that they'll probably lose their job and, oh yeah, their health care, for doing so.
What I'm left with at this hour of the night is the incomprehensible fact that the future of our country- particularly women's rights, gay rights, and the economy- lie in the hands of Ohio. This raises concerns for me. I've only been a few times, and I have nothing against it. Pretty land, nice Midwestern people. Once through Toledo to go see a Dave Matthews Band show. Then to see Hudson Falls, which had a cute Starbucks. Let us rally this evidence to suggest that they're not *that* far off the beaten path. But honestly, what else do we know about Ohio? Why Ohio when you could have big-breasted Cali or sassy New York -- states that ANY American could find on a map (remember, we're using our 'average voter' as a marker here) -- make our decisions for us? Naturally, as a Wolverine, I fear the future being held in the hands of Buckeyes. For the first time, I'm required to have unrelenting faith in the enemy. But more so, how did this happen? Ohio is The Swan of this election, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
If I didn't love my family so much, I'd move. No question about it. Je parle francais and they like my Persian ass a hell of a lot better there...I have to admit, I did a test run in February. Expensive and rude, comme d'habitude, but the food is good and rednecks are detained at the border. Funny how today it's a *choice* whether I want to stay or go, and with the same Administration next year, they may well come up with another fun policy, perhaps "If your skin don't burn when the sun shines on it, consider yourself deeeeeeeeeeported!"
I wish I could offer something punchy and cute this evening, but I really don't have much. When I feel really down, I remind myself of the St. Louis Cardinals player named Albert Pujols. Rather than leaving it nebulous, he offers a pronunciation key on his website: "poo-holes". Pooholes. Albert Pooholes. That makes me smile. But just a little bit.
CNN just announced that Iowa isn't going to give a call til tomorrow. Why? Because of the "fatigue" of poll workers. You know what fatigues ME? The fact that millions upon millions of Americans turned up at the polls to make sure, lest there be *any* doubt, that President Bush knows that it's okay to lie to them, okay to wage war on a country composed of defenseless people who have done nothing to you, okay to make unilateral decisions and not offer explanation or remorse. We support you. In some cases, we will stand in line for 9 hours to make sure you know that. Thanks George. The fact that even *one* person felt confident in slipping a ballot with his name firmly bolded in into the box absolutely boggles my mind. THIS is why he smirks. Hell, I would too if I were him.
Perhaps my mind has been, as conservatives love to tout, shaped by liberal institutions. You know, the ones where they let black people and women in. Nudge nudge, wink wink, THOSE liberal institutions. The ones where you know how to knot a tie but are lost on how to chew tobacco like a REAL man. Guilty as charged. This educational path has allegedly encouraged me to look down on people from lower-class middle America who vote against gay marriage when they don't even know a single gay person, and in the process, forget that they'll probably lose their job and, oh yeah, their health care, for doing so.
What I'm left with at this hour of the night is the incomprehensible fact that the future of our country- particularly women's rights, gay rights, and the economy- lie in the hands of Ohio. This raises concerns for me. I've only been a few times, and I have nothing against it. Pretty land, nice Midwestern people. Once through Toledo to go see a Dave Matthews Band show. Then to see Hudson Falls, which had a cute Starbucks. Let us rally this evidence to suggest that they're not *that* far off the beaten path. But honestly, what else do we know about Ohio? Why Ohio when you could have big-breasted Cali or sassy New York -- states that ANY American could find on a map (remember, we're using our 'average voter' as a marker here) -- make our decisions for us? Naturally, as a Wolverine, I fear the future being held in the hands of Buckeyes. For the first time, I'm required to have unrelenting faith in the enemy. But more so, how did this happen? Ohio is The Swan of this election, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
If I didn't love my family so much, I'd move. No question about it. Je parle francais and they like my Persian ass a hell of a lot better there...I have to admit, I did a test run in February. Expensive and rude, comme d'habitude, but the food is good and rednecks are detained at the border. Funny how today it's a *choice* whether I want to stay or go, and with the same Administration next year, they may well come up with another fun policy, perhaps "If your skin don't burn when the sun shines on it, consider yourself deeeeeeeeeeported!"
I wish I could offer something punchy and cute this evening, but I really don't have much. When I feel really down, I remind myself of the St. Louis Cardinals player named Albert Pujols. Rather than leaving it nebulous, he offers a pronunciation key on his website: "poo-holes". Pooholes. Albert Pooholes. That makes me smile. But just a little bit.
PEOPLE IN CONCRETE HIGHRISES SHOULDN'T THROW FITS...
How fun you are, karma.
The other day my newlywed friends were telling me how they'd been awoken by some unpleasant sonic disturbance. Quickly assessing the matter at hand, they called the authorities that be in an attempt to shut down a Black Eyed Peas concert down the street that had gone on too darn long. I ribbed them, good-naturedly, for about, oh, two weeks about this. Haha, old people. Noise violations. Kids keep me up. La la la. I jammed as many "old married couple" jokes as I could into our conversations and meet ups, and patted myself on the back for staying so young and flexible.
Then the New Guy moved in upstairs. Right upstairs. Not upstairs, one apartment over. Upstairs, matching floorplan. The past few weeks have led me to wonder, ponder, philosophize about what raging parties he is POSSIBLY throwing in the kitchen. And why he just moved here but has more friends than I do (when up at night, consider counting voices). Things I know: New Guy has wood floors. New Guy has speakers placed on these wood floors. New Guy likes to have his friends over, so they can drink and hang over the balcony SCREAMING at some guy passing by that he is going to "fuuuuuuuck you UP!" and then have his friends pretend to hold him back from coming down to street level and starting a brawl in these gentrified parts of San Diego. Oh brother. New Guy likes his trendy hip-hop. He's a night owl. He spent yesterday polishing the wood floors with some heavy machinery. And right now he is, well, moving furniture. Lately this is New Guy's preferred nocturnal activity. This is odd because he's also watching the Dodgers game. With friends.
I've thought about sending The Note. I've only had to send one Note in this building so far, and it was to apologize for my dog's barking. The time may have come to send another Note, this time to Mr. New Guy.
Draft of Note to New Guy:
Dear New Guy,
You made me do it. You made me complain. I said I would've enjoyed a loud and free Black Eyed Peas concert on a weekend night, but the truth is that I do not. I do *not* enjoy hip hop lite emanating from your balcony into my open windows. There, I said it.
While we're at it, I do *not* enjoy your cheesy girlfriends giggling at 1 am about how manly you are, and holding you back from brawls, either (I don't know much, but I know from last week's balcony escapades that you are white and that you've never *really* had your ass kicked or you wouldn't talk like that). I've wondered if you're good looking, but I'm going to put my money on it that you're actually just young and well-off and that has compensated. Because I'm nearly sure that your balcony female chorus is blonde and largely busted. Just a hunch. I know you're new to the neighborhood, because you didn't realize we live in the gay part of town and that the only thing that gets blasted in these parts is KYXY. I'll bet you're the one I read about in our building "Memo" who throws lit cigarettes off your balcony so they land on the 4th floor patio to the point that one rolled into apartment, onto the carpet, burning a hole until some toddler picked up her prize and walks into her house with it. And I'm going to laugh when you get your 'citation' from the 'Committee', the amorphous totalitarian regime that runs our living space. Because I hate them, but I hate you more.
All this said and done, I doubt I'll have the nerve to put this on your door. But frankly, I feel a hell of a lot better.
LG
The other day my newlywed friends were telling me how they'd been awoken by some unpleasant sonic disturbance. Quickly assessing the matter at hand, they called the authorities that be in an attempt to shut down a Black Eyed Peas concert down the street that had gone on too darn long. I ribbed them, good-naturedly, for about, oh, two weeks about this. Haha, old people. Noise violations. Kids keep me up. La la la. I jammed as many "old married couple" jokes as I could into our conversations and meet ups, and patted myself on the back for staying so young and flexible.
Then the New Guy moved in upstairs. Right upstairs. Not upstairs, one apartment over. Upstairs, matching floorplan. The past few weeks have led me to wonder, ponder, philosophize about what raging parties he is POSSIBLY throwing in the kitchen. And why he just moved here but has more friends than I do (when up at night, consider counting voices). Things I know: New Guy has wood floors. New Guy has speakers placed on these wood floors. New Guy likes to have his friends over, so they can drink and hang over the balcony SCREAMING at some guy passing by that he is going to "fuuuuuuuck you UP!" and then have his friends pretend to hold him back from coming down to street level and starting a brawl in these gentrified parts of San Diego. Oh brother. New Guy likes his trendy hip-hop. He's a night owl. He spent yesterday polishing the wood floors with some heavy machinery. And right now he is, well, moving furniture. Lately this is New Guy's preferred nocturnal activity. This is odd because he's also watching the Dodgers game. With friends.
I've thought about sending The Note. I've only had to send one Note in this building so far, and it was to apologize for my dog's barking. The time may have come to send another Note, this time to Mr. New Guy.
Draft of Note to New Guy:
Dear New Guy,
You made me do it. You made me complain. I said I would've enjoyed a loud and free Black Eyed Peas concert on a weekend night, but the truth is that I do not. I do *not* enjoy hip hop lite emanating from your balcony into my open windows. There, I said it.
While we're at it, I do *not* enjoy your cheesy girlfriends giggling at 1 am about how manly you are, and holding you back from brawls, either (I don't know much, but I know from last week's balcony escapades that you are white and that you've never *really* had your ass kicked or you wouldn't talk like that). I've wondered if you're good looking, but I'm going to put my money on it that you're actually just young and well-off and that has compensated. Because I'm nearly sure that your balcony female chorus is blonde and largely busted. Just a hunch. I know you're new to the neighborhood, because you didn't realize we live in the gay part of town and that the only thing that gets blasted in these parts is KYXY. I'll bet you're the one I read about in our building "Memo" who throws lit cigarettes off your balcony so they land on the 4th floor patio to the point that one rolled into apartment, onto the carpet, burning a hole until some toddler picked up her prize and walks into her house with it. And I'm going to laugh when you get your 'citation' from the 'Committee', the amorphous totalitarian regime that runs our living space. Because I hate them, but I hate you more.
All this said and done, I doubt I'll have the nerve to put this on your door. But frankly, I feel a hell of a lot better.
LG
THESE ARE THE THEMES OF OUR LIVES...
Some people play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Lately, I seem to be playing Six Degrees of Milan Kundera. His philosophical musings have found their way into my every day. Of course, having the ridiculous long-term memory that I do, I'm restricted to pondering Immortality, my favorite novel of his to date, but also the one I reread last week. In it, he mentions that each of our lives has an inescapable theme. (I can't quote because I unbelievably lent my copy to someone. Someone I don't even know except that he makes the best damn coffee around, and for that, we trust him. And hope he's at the coffee shop next week.)
So, to recap: Each of our lives has a theme. We can go round and round, but we are merely circling in the eventuality of that theme. Through its iterations, shades, manipulations, morphings, and scalings. But it's always there. Mr. Kundera, if you're reading this, sorry for the bastard paraphrasing of your beautiful work. Oh, and... do you have a girlfriend?
Now. Let us tie Immortality to yet another fanciful piece of art. Before Sunset, the recent film starring Ethan "one tooth forward, one tooth back" Hawke. Am I bitter that on his book tour he never answered questions about his book? Yes. Are you bitter that I went to his book tour? Yes. Do you believe that I actually *read* his first book? Suspend the disbelief and let's get on with it.
In Before Sunset, it seems a point might be that our lives never escape the memory of one person who has affected us or connected with us. In the first volume (aptly titled Before Sunrise), his French girl had cankles, a brown plaid flannel tied around her waist, and an English vocabulary including but not limited to "groundskeeper" and "ferris wheel". But I'm not here to judge his taste, and neither are you. The point is that, in Before Sunset, her cankles are covered. No, that is not the point. Just a witty observation on my part.
The theme for Jessie (Jamie? Johnnie? Jeffrey? not sure. I was pretty focused on The Tooth) is Celine. No matter how his life has marched forward, a part of him has remained attached to her. He says that on his wedding day he was thinking about her (it is unclear if this was before or after he 'thought he saw her'. We find out it *was* her, nudge nudge, wink wink. They must have borrowed the Serendipity screenwriters for that bit.)
My question is -- can your theme BE a person? Or is the person a human manifestation of (part of?) your theme? Particularly in the case of a one-night stand (however partially cerebral), I have a hard time accepting that possibility. If it is possible for your theme to be a person, then is there a quality/quantity requirement? Does it have to be the person you were involved with for the longest? Or the person you had a first experience with? Does it even have to be someone you dated?
I just seem to have a hard time absorbing this concept that one person, particularly someone you know so little, can affect you (or Jamie/Jessie/Jeffie) so profoundly. Perhaps it was the mystery of it, the Love Jones, defined as "the possibility of a thing" that continued to connect him to her for all those years. (My male counsel always remind me that 'men want what they can't have' and I'm led to wonder if by standing him up at a Viennese train station, Celine did the right thing.)
The argument that he was one half of a shotgun marriage doesn't help his case (in the District Court of Lilly) any. And if we accept that your theme can be a person, what the cosmic mathematical likelihood that you're theirs as well? I simply felt her connection to him was not as strong. Even if she was his theme, I was not as ready to accept (despite her haunting guitar waltz - don't ask) that he was hers.
Maybe I still don't understand love. And that's okay. Maybe this was evident when I kept pointing out the extras' exaggerated hand and foot movements and the overt usage (and resusage) of Americans in French scenes to divert myself from the love story unfolding before me (gaaaaaaag).
Maybe a focus on the absurd is my theme.
I just hope it isn't "cankles".
So, to recap: Each of our lives has a theme. We can go round and round, but we are merely circling in the eventuality of that theme. Through its iterations, shades, manipulations, morphings, and scalings. But it's always there. Mr. Kundera, if you're reading this, sorry for the bastard paraphrasing of your beautiful work. Oh, and... do you have a girlfriend?
Now. Let us tie Immortality to yet another fanciful piece of art. Before Sunset, the recent film starring Ethan "one tooth forward, one tooth back" Hawke. Am I bitter that on his book tour he never answered questions about his book? Yes. Are you bitter that I went to his book tour? Yes. Do you believe that I actually *read* his first book? Suspend the disbelief and let's get on with it.
In Before Sunset, it seems a point might be that our lives never escape the memory of one person who has affected us or connected with us. In the first volume (aptly titled Before Sunrise), his French girl had cankles, a brown plaid flannel tied around her waist, and an English vocabulary including but not limited to "groundskeeper" and "ferris wheel". But I'm not here to judge his taste, and neither are you. The point is that, in Before Sunset, her cankles are covered. No, that is not the point. Just a witty observation on my part.
The theme for Jessie (Jamie? Johnnie? Jeffrey? not sure. I was pretty focused on The Tooth) is Celine. No matter how his life has marched forward, a part of him has remained attached to her. He says that on his wedding day he was thinking about her (it is unclear if this was before or after he 'thought he saw her'. We find out it *was* her, nudge nudge, wink wink. They must have borrowed the Serendipity screenwriters for that bit.)
My question is -- can your theme BE a person? Or is the person a human manifestation of (part of?) your theme? Particularly in the case of a one-night stand (however partially cerebral), I have a hard time accepting that possibility. If it is possible for your theme to be a person, then is there a quality/quantity requirement? Does it have to be the person you were involved with for the longest? Or the person you had a first experience with? Does it even have to be someone you dated?
I just seem to have a hard time absorbing this concept that one person, particularly someone you know so little, can affect you (or Jamie/Jessie/Jeffie) so profoundly. Perhaps it was the mystery of it, the Love Jones, defined as "the possibility of a thing" that continued to connect him to her for all those years. (My male counsel always remind me that 'men want what they can't have' and I'm led to wonder if by standing him up at a Viennese train station, Celine did the right thing.)
The argument that he was one half of a shotgun marriage doesn't help his case (in the District Court of Lilly) any. And if we accept that your theme can be a person, what the cosmic mathematical likelihood that you're theirs as well? I simply felt her connection to him was not as strong. Even if she was his theme, I was not as ready to accept (despite her haunting guitar waltz - don't ask) that he was hers.
Maybe I still don't understand love. And that's okay. Maybe this was evident when I kept pointing out the extras' exaggerated hand and foot movements and the overt usage (and resusage) of Americans in French scenes to divert myself from the love story unfolding before me (gaaaaaaag).
Maybe a focus on the absurd is my theme.
I just hope it isn't "cankles".
IT'S A BEAUTIFUL SURREAL LIFE
Love is in the air.
People ask me why I don't watch tv. Apparently, you need a reason for not watching tv. I'm still trying to think up one. One short answer would be that I find it absolutely agonizing that when I turn it on, I get sucked in. I look up and 2 hours are gone, and all I know is how 'Driven' Anna Nicole Smith is, how she's bisexual, and how many of her toothless and unbearably nonjudgmental family have tattoos of her (ranging from the ankle- her cousin, to full back-- her aunt and uncle).
NOT that this information isn't important. It is. I just haven't figured out why yet.
Further aggravating circumstances include the fact that, after watching tv, I will recall these tidbits of info, but I can't remember all 21 of the Amendments. Hell, I can't even remember if there are only 21 of them. So, by distancing myself from tv, I distance myself from these culturetrashbrainmagnets. Plus, I feel more productive. Some might ask why I don't watch National Geographic or the news. To them I say: hm. Never thought about that.
But this evening I learned much more about the world than I ever expected to from The Surreal Life, boasting a cast including Dave Coulier (of Alanis "You Oughta Know" fame, perhaps better known as wingman to the Olsen Twins) and Charo. Now, observations:
1) People can look at Charo and not laugh. Apparently exactly 5 people can do this.
2) Flava Flav is not just a Public Enemy, but a little teddybear. He makes good grilled cheese, can rock a viking hat at all hours of the day, and can make a little girl who plays an accordian feel like a rock star. Don't judge a book by its gold teeth.
3) It is possible for your Best Days to have been when you had a rat tail. See in re: The People vs. Jordan Knight. I LOVED this guy. I used to fight with Kathy and Anna for who would get which NKOTB. I was thrilled to go home having been paired up with him. [My sister, the Artiste Currently Known as Boygirlparty, defiantly wanted his brother Jon. The quiet, clinically depressed one who refused to get a nosejob.]
Point being that, despite this late=80s adoration of mine (which may have included fan letters and daydreams, but certainly included my mom growing a rat tail on my then 2 year old brother), by the end of the episode, I found Flava Flav the more attractive between them. When Jordan mentioned that he had a girlfriend, I did not gasp, but rather raised an eyebrow. (Not that this affects my wanting to see him play SD this week. Hong, you in?)
4) There is someone weirder than Sylvester Stallone. Apparently, it's the woman who was once married to him. Bridget Nielsen pouring over Flava Flav in a fiery volcano of European love (if you don't believe me, wait for the rerun of her climbing into his bed while he's snoring away). She finds Mexicans "very European" and she pushed an unsuspecting Greg Brady into a pool while he was holding a mic. Blondes have all the fun.
So, in the end, why WOULD I turn my back to the tv and read the classics of world literature when I can watch people who were SECOND CHOICE cast members after Tammy Faye Baker, Real World "Remind me again what I did that made me so famous?" Trishelle, and Rob "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle? I can clearly see the error of my ways.
I hereby surrender myself to my remote. Well, just until I find out what happens on their road trip next week...
People ask me why I don't watch tv. Apparently, you need a reason for not watching tv. I'm still trying to think up one. One short answer would be that I find it absolutely agonizing that when I turn it on, I get sucked in. I look up and 2 hours are gone, and all I know is how 'Driven' Anna Nicole Smith is, how she's bisexual, and how many of her toothless and unbearably nonjudgmental family have tattoos of her (ranging from the ankle- her cousin, to full back-- her aunt and uncle).
NOT that this information isn't important. It is. I just haven't figured out why yet.
Further aggravating circumstances include the fact that, after watching tv, I will recall these tidbits of info, but I can't remember all 21 of the Amendments. Hell, I can't even remember if there are only 21 of them. So, by distancing myself from tv, I distance myself from these culturetrashbrainmagnets. Plus, I feel more productive. Some might ask why I don't watch National Geographic or the news. To them I say: hm. Never thought about that.
But this evening I learned much more about the world than I ever expected to from The Surreal Life, boasting a cast including Dave Coulier (of Alanis "You Oughta Know" fame, perhaps better known as wingman to the Olsen Twins) and Charo. Now, observations:
1) People can look at Charo and not laugh. Apparently exactly 5 people can do this.
2) Flava Flav is not just a Public Enemy, but a little teddybear. He makes good grilled cheese, can rock a viking hat at all hours of the day, and can make a little girl who plays an accordian feel like a rock star. Don't judge a book by its gold teeth.
3) It is possible for your Best Days to have been when you had a rat tail. See in re: The People vs. Jordan Knight. I LOVED this guy. I used to fight with Kathy and Anna for who would get which NKOTB. I was thrilled to go home having been paired up with him. [My sister, the Artiste Currently Known as Boygirlparty, defiantly wanted his brother Jon. The quiet, clinically depressed one who refused to get a nosejob.]
Point being that, despite this late=80s adoration of mine (which may have included fan letters and daydreams, but certainly included my mom growing a rat tail on my then 2 year old brother), by the end of the episode, I found Flava Flav the more attractive between them. When Jordan mentioned that he had a girlfriend, I did not gasp, but rather raised an eyebrow. (Not that this affects my wanting to see him play SD this week. Hong, you in?)
4) There is someone weirder than Sylvester Stallone. Apparently, it's the woman who was once married to him. Bridget Nielsen pouring over Flava Flav in a fiery volcano of European love (if you don't believe me, wait for the rerun of her climbing into his bed while he's snoring away). She finds Mexicans "very European" and she pushed an unsuspecting Greg Brady into a pool while he was holding a mic. Blondes have all the fun.
So, in the end, why WOULD I turn my back to the tv and read the classics of world literature when I can watch people who were SECOND CHOICE cast members after Tammy Faye Baker, Real World "Remind me again what I did that made me so famous?" Trishelle, and Rob "Vanilla Ice" Van Winkle? I can clearly see the error of my ways.
I hereby surrender myself to my remote. Well, just until I find out what happens on their road trip next week...
LIST OF REASONS WHY PRINCE IS KING
10. He invented the swagger.
9. He does the aforementioned swagger in spike heels.
8. And colorful suits. Did I mention that? He swaggers in his platform leather spike heels and suits in brilliant colors. Did you know "red in the back, white in the front" is a suit option? Neither did I. Ruffles optional.
7. No matter what the suit (bias cut to complement his fine figure, of course), his guitar will match.
6. He can scream out "Ain't nobody funk-ay like me!" and no one laughs.
5. He plays guitar like it's an extension of his body. And bass. And piano. And drums. And he sings falsetto like a choir boy who just got kicked in the hoo hoo.
4. He made a song about the Pope a dance hit.
3. He practically owns the color purple.
2. He makes you think twice about being a Jehovah's Witness. As in, actually consider it.
1. We came home from his concert and actually debated whether he is required to wipe his own ass. The vote was no.
9. He does the aforementioned swagger in spike heels.
8. And colorful suits. Did I mention that? He swaggers in his platform leather spike heels and suits in brilliant colors. Did you know "red in the back, white in the front" is a suit option? Neither did I. Ruffles optional.
7. No matter what the suit (bias cut to complement his fine figure, of course), his guitar will match.
6. He can scream out "Ain't nobody funk-ay like me!" and no one laughs.
5. He plays guitar like it's an extension of his body. And bass. And piano. And drums. And he sings falsetto like a choir boy who just got kicked in the hoo hoo.
4. He made a song about the Pope a dance hit.
3. He practically owns the color purple.
2. He makes you think twice about being a Jehovah's Witness. As in, actually consider it.
1. We came home from his concert and actually debated whether he is required to wipe his own ass. The vote was no.
WHAT IS 5,800 IN E.S.L?
This morning I made the mistake of listening to KPBS while I was running. The discussion centered on the end of the legislative season (much like duckhunting season). Apparently, bills such as the infamous "foie gras" bill are being bandied about by our finest minds. The animal people say it's overfeeding geese. The one farm that aspires to make foie gras in California says it's a living. Lilly says this discussion at 8:30 a.m. is absolutely nauseating.
The conversation then moved on to the bill that would offer illegal immigrants the opportunity to get a drivers license. It's not looking good, because the Pubes, I mean, Republicans, want markings to differentiate the licenses. San Diegans were simply confused. Caller #1, "I mean, yeah, they, uh, they uh need them to drive." Caller #2, "Well, then can they vote? Cause would they still be illegal?". Caller #3, "Is Kate home?" Another man called in and was convinced that they come and "steal jobs." Right, and I could just HEAR him plucking the tomatoes off the vine as he spoke. The consensus seemed to be that armbands would work best.
At first, they had mentioned 800 bills. Then the Outspoken Angry Hick from Claremont called. "Wayyyllll... I'm a conservertive Republican, and I'm just wondering how the Governur's gonna read all of em. I mean I couldn't..." No doubt, fine chap, no *doubt* you would be hard pressed to read 800 words strung in a line, much less 800 pieces of legislative wordplay. The radio host quickly clarified that it was actually *5800* bills this season. Open season on the Austrian Wonder. And so my mind quickly jogged down the tangent of what a pain in the ass that has to be when you're E.S.L.
Don't worry, Arnie had the last laugh. I nearly fell off the treadmill laughing about it.
The conversation then moved on to the bill that would offer illegal immigrants the opportunity to get a drivers license. It's not looking good, because the Pubes, I mean, Republicans, want markings to differentiate the licenses. San Diegans were simply confused. Caller #1, "I mean, yeah, they, uh, they uh need them to drive." Caller #2, "Well, then can they vote? Cause would they still be illegal?". Caller #3, "Is Kate home?" Another man called in and was convinced that they come and "steal jobs." Right, and I could just HEAR him plucking the tomatoes off the vine as he spoke. The consensus seemed to be that armbands would work best.
At first, they had mentioned 800 bills. Then the Outspoken Angry Hick from Claremont called. "Wayyyllll... I'm a conservertive Republican, and I'm just wondering how the Governur's gonna read all of em. I mean I couldn't..." No doubt, fine chap, no *doubt* you would be hard pressed to read 800 words strung in a line, much less 800 pieces of legislative wordplay. The radio host quickly clarified that it was actually *5800* bills this season. Open season on the Austrian Wonder. And so my mind quickly jogged down the tangent of what a pain in the ass that has to be when you're E.S.L.
Don't worry, Arnie had the last laugh. I nearly fell off the treadmill laughing about it.
RETURN OF THE MACK.
Hi. That was a sheepish "hi", for those who couldn't read into it. I have been gone, and my readers have been nudging. Shout outs for caring. To the both of you. Whassup, thanks for coming.
The summer has flown by, and I realized that, post-Vegas, I really didn't write any more. I suppose too many thoughts were whirling around my little head, and I just never managed to pin them down. Like a toddler with a tantrum, off they ran, screaming, these little reflections of mine. I realize that summer is about to pass, and I believe it would be worthwhile for me to itemize the many things I've learned. For posterity. Let this be a gift to my children and yours.
1. Field Testing.
I have been field testing the concept that you can be lucky in love or in gambling. As it turns out, after I wrote (you may recall that I packed my best lipstick), I was lucky in love. Not so lucky in gambling. However, as soon as I returned to San Diego, that glow of Las Vegas Flirtation and Playful Romance faded, bringing with it the sweat of a long drive through the merciless desert. I never heard from him again, which is fine. I console myself with thinking he's ESL and couldn't find the right words to express his love for me, and so threw his hands up in the air (this, all before getting deported, of course).
I am happy to say that Lillystein has affirmed the theory of Romantic Relativity. If your romantic life is pretty much nil, your winnings at the tables will increase tremendously. I quickly jumped to action. I have been to Vegas again in the past month, infiltrated the boys' poker night, forayed into the casino-ic jungles of Connecticut, and played my luck at the Del Mar Racetrack. I made more money this summer gambling than I did at my job (like that's hard). The dealers didn't fear commitment; they saw the hand through. The horses didn't look at other women. The casinos bought my drinks and didn't expect me to put out. I could really live like this.
2. Kindred Spirits.
So, at the peak of believing that there just aren't any other people like me living in San Diego, I put an add on craigslist for a book club. Could there *be* people in San Diego who would read the book instead of seeing the movie? I had to find out. Before I knew it, I had about 30 responses. I look forward to embracing my dorkiness. I always thought that book clubs were for old ladies ('bridge clubs' comes next in the dictionary, I know). Next week I'll know if I'm right or not.
3. Busted Wrist.
I hurt my wrist. I quickly convinced myself that I strained it trying to jump onto my surfboard. You know, that one time I extracted myself from work and actually got to go surfing.
What, like I'm gonna plead Carpel Tunnel? As IF. I wear my Ace bandage proudly. It's just a matter of time before some fine surfer admires my athletic prowess and steals me away from this cyberworld. Just you wait.
4. Sisterhood.
I went to visit my sister. Whatever yourself. It doesn't SOUND interesting, but it is. We officially have never had a period exceeding 24 hours when we didn't fight. I stayed with her for about five (yes, FIVE) days and had the best time. I was relaxed. We sailed. We gambled. We frolicked in the waves (ok, for 5 minutes) of Rhode Island. I cut the buttons she then pressed in her buttonmaker, a familial production line as charming as it sounds. She fed me Kworn, which I've since become addicted to. We sang B-52s hits in the car (is this getting ugly?)
I realized for the first time that that glimmer of hope my mom once had when she'd shove us together after a fight and make us "make nice" had come true. My sister being one of my best friends, no ifs ands or buts, has been one of the most rewarding things about this summer. When they gave me a seat in the exit row, I should've known that It Was Meant To Be.
Now I want her to read this and send me presents. Hiiiiiiii susie!
5. Shaving.
My dad has been on my little brother's case about shaving for about, oh, 10 years. And he's 17. Just kidding. We saw his face unshadowed for the first time in a few years. Woo hoo. Of course, it was back by lunchtime, but still. Momentous G Family Occasion, duly noted.
6. Surfing.
I like surfing. Actually, what I like is saying I surf, when in reality, my schedule (and my willingness to climb down the Cliffs of Death in Del Mar) has allowed me to go only a handful of times this year. But that feeling of lying out on the water, no cell phone, no paperwork, nothing on my mind but my tan and not dropping into someone else's wave, is unbeatable. So much of the world is water, and yet I spend so little time in it. (Insert low blow about showering. Then feel free to appreciate my deep thought.)
In any case, I'm just glad that I got over my Jaws thing (I wouldn't stick a toe in recreational water for years. Susie screaming "SHARK!" when I had already launched myself off the highdive at the pool never helped...)
7. Revisiting the Past.
Also aptly titled Revisiting My Tape Drawer. This summer I attended concerts organized in the effort to reconnect with my faraway youth. First was Madonna (and yes, it was everything I expected and more.). Most recently, I forayed over to Humphrey's (does 'foray' imply skipping or some sort of swishy entrance? In that case, I just kinda 'went'). Cyndi Lauper. "Y" before "I". Girls just wanna have a night with their childhood memories. Perhaps you will be shocked to hear that she outdid my StarStudio version of that same song? She nailed the entire show. I stand by the fact that she is completely underrated. But aren't we all? Next up is The Purple One. Can't wait for that. My assless chaps are pressed and ready to go.
8. URgr8. Keep smilin'!
This has also been (as if it wasn't exciting enough?) the Summer of Reconnection. Old friends have been popping out of the woodwork. Sometimes I prod them (out of hiding?) a little bit, with engaging random, inspired emails sent during my frequent bouts of procrastination. It's amazing to see how someone you may not have ever had more than a social connection to just GETS you as you are now. Or maybe I just get myself more now? Maybe I'm good at making it seem like I get myself, so people feel they get me also. It's weird.
Ok. Confession. So maybe some of the reconnections happened because I have become a Weekend Minute Superstar, but still. Friends are never a bad thing. Although Ross really does bug.
---
With that, I leave my list at number 8. Usually I'd go up through my lucky number (13), but I need my rest since tomorrow is my LUCKY DAY. Friday the 13th. The day I got my first ghettoblaster. Sa-weet. While you guys are out dodging black cats or ladders or whatever, I'll be expecting some really good shit to happen to me. Details to follow.
The summer has flown by, and I realized that, post-Vegas, I really didn't write any more. I suppose too many thoughts were whirling around my little head, and I just never managed to pin them down. Like a toddler with a tantrum, off they ran, screaming, these little reflections of mine. I realize that summer is about to pass, and I believe it would be worthwhile for me to itemize the many things I've learned. For posterity. Let this be a gift to my children and yours.
1. Field Testing.
I have been field testing the concept that you can be lucky in love or in gambling. As it turns out, after I wrote (you may recall that I packed my best lipstick), I was lucky in love. Not so lucky in gambling. However, as soon as I returned to San Diego, that glow of Las Vegas Flirtation and Playful Romance faded, bringing with it the sweat of a long drive through the merciless desert. I never heard from him again, which is fine. I console myself with thinking he's ESL and couldn't find the right words to express his love for me, and so threw his hands up in the air (this, all before getting deported, of course).
I am happy to say that Lillystein has affirmed the theory of Romantic Relativity. If your romantic life is pretty much nil, your winnings at the tables will increase tremendously. I quickly jumped to action. I have been to Vegas again in the past month, infiltrated the boys' poker night, forayed into the casino-ic jungles of Connecticut, and played my luck at the Del Mar Racetrack. I made more money this summer gambling than I did at my job (like that's hard). The dealers didn't fear commitment; they saw the hand through. The horses didn't look at other women. The casinos bought my drinks and didn't expect me to put out. I could really live like this.
2. Kindred Spirits.
So, at the peak of believing that there just aren't any other people like me living in San Diego, I put an add on craigslist for a book club. Could there *be* people in San Diego who would read the book instead of seeing the movie? I had to find out. Before I knew it, I had about 30 responses. I look forward to embracing my dorkiness. I always thought that book clubs were for old ladies ('bridge clubs' comes next in the dictionary, I know). Next week I'll know if I'm right or not.
3. Busted Wrist.
I hurt my wrist. I quickly convinced myself that I strained it trying to jump onto my surfboard. You know, that one time I extracted myself from work and actually got to go surfing.
What, like I'm gonna plead Carpel Tunnel? As IF. I wear my Ace bandage proudly. It's just a matter of time before some fine surfer admires my athletic prowess and steals me away from this cyberworld. Just you wait.
4. Sisterhood.
I went to visit my sister. Whatever yourself. It doesn't SOUND interesting, but it is. We officially have never had a period exceeding 24 hours when we didn't fight. I stayed with her for about five (yes, FIVE) days and had the best time. I was relaxed. We sailed. We gambled. We frolicked in the waves (ok, for 5 minutes) of Rhode Island. I cut the buttons she then pressed in her buttonmaker, a familial production line as charming as it sounds. She fed me Kworn, which I've since become addicted to. We sang B-52s hits in the car (is this getting ugly?)
I realized for the first time that that glimmer of hope my mom once had when she'd shove us together after a fight and make us "make nice" had come true. My sister being one of my best friends, no ifs ands or buts, has been one of the most rewarding things about this summer. When they gave me a seat in the exit row, I should've known that It Was Meant To Be.
Now I want her to read this and send me presents. Hiiiiiiii susie!
5. Shaving.
My dad has been on my little brother's case about shaving for about, oh, 10 years. And he's 17. Just kidding. We saw his face unshadowed for the first time in a few years. Woo hoo. Of course, it was back by lunchtime, but still. Momentous G Family Occasion, duly noted.
6. Surfing.
I like surfing. Actually, what I like is saying I surf, when in reality, my schedule (and my willingness to climb down the Cliffs of Death in Del Mar) has allowed me to go only a handful of times this year. But that feeling of lying out on the water, no cell phone, no paperwork, nothing on my mind but my tan and not dropping into someone else's wave, is unbeatable. So much of the world is water, and yet I spend so little time in it. (Insert low blow about showering. Then feel free to appreciate my deep thought.)
In any case, I'm just glad that I got over my Jaws thing (I wouldn't stick a toe in recreational water for years. Susie screaming "SHARK!" when I had already launched myself off the highdive at the pool never helped...)
7. Revisiting the Past.
Also aptly titled Revisiting My Tape Drawer. This summer I attended concerts organized in the effort to reconnect with my faraway youth. First was Madonna (and yes, it was everything I expected and more.). Most recently, I forayed over to Humphrey's (does 'foray' imply skipping or some sort of swishy entrance? In that case, I just kinda 'went'). Cyndi Lauper. "Y" before "I". Girls just wanna have a night with their childhood memories. Perhaps you will be shocked to hear that she outdid my StarStudio version of that same song? She nailed the entire show. I stand by the fact that she is completely underrated. But aren't we all? Next up is The Purple One. Can't wait for that. My assless chaps are pressed and ready to go.
8. URgr8. Keep smilin'!
This has also been (as if it wasn't exciting enough?) the Summer of Reconnection. Old friends have been popping out of the woodwork. Sometimes I prod them (out of hiding?) a little bit, with engaging random, inspired emails sent during my frequent bouts of procrastination. It's amazing to see how someone you may not have ever had more than a social connection to just GETS you as you are now. Or maybe I just get myself more now? Maybe I'm good at making it seem like I get myself, so people feel they get me also. It's weird.
Ok. Confession. So maybe some of the reconnections happened because I have become a Weekend Minute Superstar, but still. Friends are never a bad thing. Although Ross really does bug.
---
With that, I leave my list at number 8. Usually I'd go up through my lucky number (13), but I need my rest since tomorrow is my LUCKY DAY. Friday the 13th. The day I got my first ghettoblaster. Sa-weet. While you guys are out dodging black cats or ladders or whatever, I'll be expecting some really good shit to happen to me. Details to follow.
getluckyinlv.com
Recently someone told me that you can either be lucky in gambling or lucky in love.
Needless to say, I booked a trip to Vegas.
The time has come to cash in on a dented heart and nights spent, well, entertaining you. I am about to pack up a little bag of Lilly Couture (read: cargo pants and shoes that enable standing comfortably for 3 hour shifts at the craps table). You see, this weekend, Cupid and I are gonna square up.
I haven't been to Vegas since December, when my oh-so-pious Muslim family made the trip over to Sin City to spend some quality time and celebrate the birth of Christ. A family that shames itself at blackjack together sticks together. Ok, or my Dad and I stick together while my mom asks us to pretend we don't know her.
So, thanks to the influential individual mentioned in the first line (who was so important that I actually forget who it was), I realized that this could be the birth of a movement. There is money to be made here. No one said I was making a roundtrip visit. Whenever YOU next find yourself cruising the strip (no, not cruising for a stripper. Hi guys), you will find me pushing a little vendor cart outside O'Sheas. "Teeeee shirts for sale!" Getluckyinlv.com. Lucky in love. Lucky in Las Vegas. Either way, I'm making bank. But don't look for me when the $5 tables are on. (cue "Hey big spendeeeeeeeeer")
I KNEW I didn't get the law degree for nothin'. Civil organization, here I go. The Movement: If I'm single when the next Black Friday, ahem, Valentine's Day weekend comes around, I have a plan. I will become the official tour organizer for Lucky In Something Tours. Singles only, 48 hours in Vegas. Make it or break it, but you can't leave until you've been lucky in one thing or the other. It's like Survivor, but with "all-nite" buffets.
As for my maiden voyage as CEO of the Tours, I have already purchased two pair of "lucky Vegas shoes". Trust me, they're an investment. The tunes for the car are ready to go. I resisted packing Eye of the Tiger for the trip. Ok, that was a lie. Come on, a girl needs an anthem!
But I can't totally lie. Last night I picked up some lucky lipstick too.
Just in case.
Needless to say, I booked a trip to Vegas.
The time has come to cash in on a dented heart and nights spent, well, entertaining you. I am about to pack up a little bag of Lilly Couture (read: cargo pants and shoes that enable standing comfortably for 3 hour shifts at the craps table). You see, this weekend, Cupid and I are gonna square up.
I haven't been to Vegas since December, when my oh-so-pious Muslim family made the trip over to Sin City to spend some quality time and celebrate the birth of Christ. A family that shames itself at blackjack together sticks together. Ok, or my Dad and I stick together while my mom asks us to pretend we don't know her.
So, thanks to the influential individual mentioned in the first line (who was so important that I actually forget who it was), I realized that this could be the birth of a movement. There is money to be made here. No one said I was making a roundtrip visit. Whenever YOU next find yourself cruising the strip (no, not cruising for a stripper. Hi guys), you will find me pushing a little vendor cart outside O'Sheas. "Teeeee shirts for sale!" Getluckyinlv.com. Lucky in love. Lucky in Las Vegas. Either way, I'm making bank. But don't look for me when the $5 tables are on. (cue "Hey big spendeeeeeeeeer")
I KNEW I didn't get the law degree for nothin'. Civil organization, here I go. The Movement: If I'm single when the next Black Friday, ahem, Valentine's Day weekend comes around, I have a plan. I will become the official tour organizer for Lucky In Something Tours. Singles only, 48 hours in Vegas. Make it or break it, but you can't leave until you've been lucky in one thing or the other. It's like Survivor, but with "all-nite" buffets.
As for my maiden voyage as CEO of the Tours, I have already purchased two pair of "lucky Vegas shoes". Trust me, they're an investment. The tunes for the car are ready to go. I resisted packing Eye of the Tiger for the trip. Ok, that was a lie. Come on, a girl needs an anthem!
But I can't totally lie. Last night I picked up some lucky lipstick too.
Just in case.
Lill-a-by.
When you're still up at 2:30 a.m, you might as well throw a blog in the fire, no?
Hm. That line might be reason enough to put the computer down and walk away.
I think I was more productive today (read: post rolling out of bed at 9 a.m.) than I've been in the last month. My back has curved to the form of the dining room chair I brought in to sit on. My mouth tastes of thrice-reheated French Vanilla coffee. The dirty pot from my break spent on a foray into experimental cooking (or any cooking at all) glares at me through the wall and into the room where I now sit. But I'm wild and crazy, and the crud of tonight's Bombay Fire creation (thank you Calcutta Heat seasoning) will just have to await cleansing until I'm up and at 'em tomorrow.
Not that I can fathom that once I'm in a bed I will ever rise again, but let's pretend.
I made the mistake of reading the news before going to bed. For this reason, I know that my dreams will now feature Ashley (who is quickly becoming "the angelic and compassionate Troll sister". Um, I mean Olsen Twin). They might have a cameo by Babbs, given that I misread CNN's headline about "Jury deadlocks in videotaped trial" to read "Jury dreadlocks". And then there's the woman who stole a law firm's identity. I don't know how you do that; I'm assuming that if I reread the story when I'm un-delirious-efized, I might get it. But maybe not even then.
Today's confession: at the gym, I found myself captivated by Dr. Phil's words of wisdom. He's a meanie, but he packs a punch. It made my workout go by faster, and now I'm concerned that it might enter into the elite ranks, joining CHARMED as "Things I'd Never Watch Unless I Was A Handcuffed Prisoner Placed Before It or If I Am At The Gym-- In Which Case I Will Start to Like It Against My Will."
So with these rambling words, I retire to my bed, fearful of the fact that it's only... Tuesday.
Hm. That line might be reason enough to put the computer down and walk away.
I think I was more productive today (read: post rolling out of bed at 9 a.m.) than I've been in the last month. My back has curved to the form of the dining room chair I brought in to sit on. My mouth tastes of thrice-reheated French Vanilla coffee. The dirty pot from my break spent on a foray into experimental cooking (or any cooking at all) glares at me through the wall and into the room where I now sit. But I'm wild and crazy, and the crud of tonight's Bombay Fire creation (thank you Calcutta Heat seasoning) will just have to await cleansing until I'm up and at 'em tomorrow.
Not that I can fathom that once I'm in a bed I will ever rise again, but let's pretend.
I made the mistake of reading the news before going to bed. For this reason, I know that my dreams will now feature Ashley (who is quickly becoming "the angelic and compassionate Troll sister". Um, I mean Olsen Twin). They might have a cameo by Babbs, given that I misread CNN's headline about "Jury deadlocks in videotaped trial" to read "Jury dreadlocks". And then there's the woman who stole a law firm's identity. I don't know how you do that; I'm assuming that if I reread the story when I'm un-delirious-efized, I might get it. But maybe not even then.
Today's confession: at the gym, I found myself captivated by Dr. Phil's words of wisdom. He's a meanie, but he packs a punch. It made my workout go by faster, and now I'm concerned that it might enter into the elite ranks, joining CHARMED as "Things I'd Never Watch Unless I Was A Handcuffed Prisoner Placed Before It or If I Am At The Gym-- In Which Case I Will Start to Like It Against My Will."
So with these rambling words, I retire to my bed, fearful of the fact that it's only... Tuesday.
You're my Number One Best Friend.
I'm not sure when we outgrow this. The friend thing. I have at least one friend over the age of 30 who manages to keep his friends in line by suggesting ways they might please him and elevate themselves in his mind. At first it seemed absurd. However, when I found myself somewhat interested in his requirements (apple computer: yes, smiths fan: yes, republican: no), I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry myself back to junior high.
What I'm trying to figure out at this point is which is more appropriate. Childhood and adolescence lend themselves to uncensored communication with others, friend or foe. Few are the tweens who can separate themselves from someone they don't like and be quiet about why they did so. Thus cliques and whatnot. But as adults, all of a sudden this need to smooth things over comes along. If I hate your girlfriend, I will still hang out with her and make friendly overtures, because that is "the thing to do". And others will nod approvingly (ok, or raise an eyebrow if they heard what I had to say about her the night before). But for the most part, we put a premium on masking distaste or dissent about others. It's un-pc to not like people for a reason other than their being a mass murderer or, well, Republican.
When my friend asks me if her friend can come out with us, I cannot say no. Because without a reason (as listed above), it would be Unjustified. Or Immature. Or worse... Bitchy. You can't dislike someone just because. You can't dislike them based on the fact that you just simply don't affirmatively *like* them. But sometimes I think it would be easier that way. The grey area is too much for me to handle. Why should I spend dinner, or better yet, my full weekend, with someone I don't care for. Is that not a slower death than being with someone you despise? At least there's some fire there!
Come to think of it, I wasn't that blatant when I was younger, either. Except once. I told my mom I didn't like Elaina Schmolens (*not the subject's actual name. But it rhymes, for all you super-sleuths out there.) She asked me why. I didn't have a good enough reason. She was pretty and she was popular and she didn't hate me. In youthful society, you would think that'd be all she wrote, and we'd rush off hand in hand to buy a BFF necklace. But my mom thought I was being weird. And so mom kept nurturing this friendship. Elaina kept coming to my birthdays, grinning and gleaming and being tall (which was a cruel thing to do to my tiny self).
Then one day I went to her house. We were hanging out. The details are unremarkable. Something led her to tell me about the lax babysitter her parents had landed, who microwaved cookies for them. Woo hoo, livin' on the edge in the 'burbs. As we were touring the house and she was showing me the exact site where the babysitter then let them eat ON THE COUCH (you don't say!) she committed the inexplicable. Fully knowing I was *terrified* of dogs, she suddenly sicked her dog on me to "be funny." (She could have just armpit farted for all the tastefulness or wit in that joke.)
Then she called him away. Haha, oh, funny Dana. I mean, um, "Elaina".
Ok, so my point is that I think when we get a feeling about not liking something or someone, you should stick to it, because it will bite you in the ass (and if they have a dog, this could be prophetic and oh so literal). I realize that my little proclamation could throw our society into chaos. No more fake smiles? I'm not insisting that we take the gloves off, so to speak. But really, life is too short to hang out with people you don't care for. Unless "they" are me. Then do me a favor and pretend.
What I'm trying to figure out at this point is which is more appropriate. Childhood and adolescence lend themselves to uncensored communication with others, friend or foe. Few are the tweens who can separate themselves from someone they don't like and be quiet about why they did so. Thus cliques and whatnot. But as adults, all of a sudden this need to smooth things over comes along. If I hate your girlfriend, I will still hang out with her and make friendly overtures, because that is "the thing to do". And others will nod approvingly (ok, or raise an eyebrow if they heard what I had to say about her the night before). But for the most part, we put a premium on masking distaste or dissent about others. It's un-pc to not like people for a reason other than their being a mass murderer or, well, Republican.
When my friend asks me if her friend can come out with us, I cannot say no. Because without a reason (as listed above), it would be Unjustified. Or Immature. Or worse... Bitchy. You can't dislike someone just because. You can't dislike them based on the fact that you just simply don't affirmatively *like* them. But sometimes I think it would be easier that way. The grey area is too much for me to handle. Why should I spend dinner, or better yet, my full weekend, with someone I don't care for. Is that not a slower death than being with someone you despise? At least there's some fire there!
Come to think of it, I wasn't that blatant when I was younger, either. Except once. I told my mom I didn't like Elaina Schmolens (*not the subject's actual name. But it rhymes, for all you super-sleuths out there.) She asked me why. I didn't have a good enough reason. She was pretty and she was popular and she didn't hate me. In youthful society, you would think that'd be all she wrote, and we'd rush off hand in hand to buy a BFF necklace. But my mom thought I was being weird. And so mom kept nurturing this friendship. Elaina kept coming to my birthdays, grinning and gleaming and being tall (which was a cruel thing to do to my tiny self).
Then one day I went to her house. We were hanging out. The details are unremarkable. Something led her to tell me about the lax babysitter her parents had landed, who microwaved cookies for them. Woo hoo, livin' on the edge in the 'burbs. As we were touring the house and she was showing me the exact site where the babysitter then let them eat ON THE COUCH (you don't say!) she committed the inexplicable. Fully knowing I was *terrified* of dogs, she suddenly sicked her dog on me to "be funny." (She could have just armpit farted for all the tastefulness or wit in that joke.)
Then she called him away. Haha, oh, funny Dana. I mean, um, "Elaina".
Ok, so my point is that I think when we get a feeling about not liking something or someone, you should stick to it, because it will bite you in the ass (and if they have a dog, this could be prophetic and oh so literal). I realize that my little proclamation could throw our society into chaos. No more fake smiles? I'm not insisting that we take the gloves off, so to speak. But really, life is too short to hang out with people you don't care for. Unless "they" are me. Then do me a favor and pretend.
SHEELA NA GIG.
Yesterday, when I arrived back into San Diego, I found myself standing in front of the baggage carousel. I stood for a good half hour watching Carousel #1 rotate. It whirred and spun, mimicking me just standing there. Reunited families gathered their horrendously ugly tan floral luggage, their camping gear, their boogie boards and each other and headed out. The belt kept turning, eventually spitting out a lone piece of luggage that swirled and swirled, me its sole audience (but appreciative, as I was really too jetlagged to do much else). I was fascinated and stood for awhile watching it (medium upright roller -- black) tour the belt purposefully. The pace stayed the same, but I began to lose hope that it would find a hand to haul it off.
Eventually I realized that my bags were probably shelved somewhere, as I'd been bumped from the previous night's flight, and let my pensive moment by Lindburgh Airport Pond go.
Tonight I have this one thought that keeps going through my head. Each time it disappears around the corner, I convince myself that it will come back differently. That I'll see it in a light that won't be as nauseating and frustrating and breathtaking and.. revealing... as the one I now see it in. Watching the black suitcase go around, I somehow convinced myself that it might return in the blue and red form I was seeking. Freshly practiced, I'm doing that now. I'm squinting into the past and trying to play a game of revisionist history with myself. For some reason, I can't help trying to give this person and this situation a chance at reappearing in shades that don't clash so much with the hues of truth I credited them with.
No one wants to be played for a fool. And no one wants to play the fool so well.
Eventually I realized that my bags were probably shelved somewhere, as I'd been bumped from the previous night's flight, and let my pensive moment by Lindburgh Airport Pond go.
Tonight I have this one thought that keeps going through my head. Each time it disappears around the corner, I convince myself that it will come back differently. That I'll see it in a light that won't be as nauseating and frustrating and breathtaking and.. revealing... as the one I now see it in. Watching the black suitcase go around, I somehow convinced myself that it might return in the blue and red form I was seeking. Freshly practiced, I'm doing that now. I'm squinting into the past and trying to play a game of revisionist history with myself. For some reason, I can't help trying to give this person and this situation a chance at reappearing in shades that don't clash so much with the hues of truth I credited them with.
No one wants to be played for a fool. And no one wants to play the fool so well.
VOTE FOR ME.
It's been said before, but let me say it again. Friendster is a big fat popularity contest. I am not bitter, however. For once, I am winning, with 48 first-degree friends and no less than 95,758 charming individuals in my friendship network. Numbers like those could afford me a seat in a cyber congress or something. Yay for hunting down summer camp friends. I've kinda become a Friendster snob, too. When people write me random "wanna be my friendster?" emails, I first throw my head back and laugh. Kinda cackle. First of all, no one talks like that except NEW kids. Secondly, um, NO! Hahahah. Cackle cackle. Then I give my screen a weird look and delete. Which is not the way to increase my numbers, I now realize.
But more to the point, I have begun to view people who don't have testimonials as 'shady'. I see them as shadowy figures of a conspicuous and shameful nature rather than what they are, which is probably "people with more of a life than me and mine." I see a profile with no testimonials, and I must wonder. Does this person *literally* have no friends? Are the friends unable to muster up one or two flattering comments to sandwich in between juvenile and irrelevant inside jokes? Are the friends sending me a secret message directly meant for me saying "This person is no good. Run, don't walk, in the other direction"?
I don't view the fact that I actually think about this stuff to be a good sign at all.
But you have to occupy your mind. I'm trying not to think about the upcoming trip I have. I leave for Chicago at 6:30 tomorrow morning. Well my flight is then. I will be up stumbling in the dark at a beautiful round 4:30. I will then spend 6 days working intensely, networking with the literary elite. I have packed my glasses in the hopes of finagling my way into a few VIP parties (Janeane Garofalo is a speaker). My professional endeavours will be interspersed with socializing with my high school friends and some cousins.
Going back to Chicago is always a bit tough for me. It doesn't help that two of my best friends recently moved within a 2 block radius of my ex (and no, they are not roommates, let alone friends. This is the sick hand of fate at work.) Blah. Will I be walking down the street and be forced to confront what I masterfully avoided for three years? I mean, why have closure when I've had such wonderful fodder for girl bonding armchair analysis sessions?
And there's the whole 'hometown' thing. I've beat that subject to death, but it will be weird to go back to the town where I have no home. My brother and sister do it from time to time; jump back onto memory lane. But what need have I to go to the streets where I once walked with pegged jeans and army boots, oversized rainbow-colored flannel shirts, and a backpack full of teen angst? None, I tell you. Unless TC is in town. That would change things.
I like to think I'm not related to the girl i was when I lived in Chicago. At the end of the Madonna show last week, lights blazed that read "Reinvent Yourself". In a way, I think I did that the minute I walked out of graduation. I didn't look back once. Granted, I haven't become a megamogul sexpot like SOME people whose name rhymes with Fadonna, but I feel like I've moved lightyears past where I was. Which I think is the general notion of reinventing yourself. Improve yourself. Cut the shit out that you just don't dig. If the number 60035 makes you queasy, spend your Orbitz dollars elsewhere.
I love the city, but I don't love who I was or what I went through when I was there. Rather than dwell on it, I've left it behind. Maybe this time I'll just be a visitor. I hear the Sears Tower is nice.
But more to the point, I have begun to view people who don't have testimonials as 'shady'. I see them as shadowy figures of a conspicuous and shameful nature rather than what they are, which is probably "people with more of a life than me and mine." I see a profile with no testimonials, and I must wonder. Does this person *literally* have no friends? Are the friends unable to muster up one or two flattering comments to sandwich in between juvenile and irrelevant inside jokes? Are the friends sending me a secret message directly meant for me saying "This person is no good. Run, don't walk, in the other direction"?
I don't view the fact that I actually think about this stuff to be a good sign at all.
But you have to occupy your mind. I'm trying not to think about the upcoming trip I have. I leave for Chicago at 6:30 tomorrow morning. Well my flight is then. I will be up stumbling in the dark at a beautiful round 4:30. I will then spend 6 days working intensely, networking with the literary elite. I have packed my glasses in the hopes of finagling my way into a few VIP parties (Janeane Garofalo is a speaker). My professional endeavours will be interspersed with socializing with my high school friends and some cousins.
Going back to Chicago is always a bit tough for me. It doesn't help that two of my best friends recently moved within a 2 block radius of my ex (and no, they are not roommates, let alone friends. This is the sick hand of fate at work.) Blah. Will I be walking down the street and be forced to confront what I masterfully avoided for three years? I mean, why have closure when I've had such wonderful fodder for girl bonding armchair analysis sessions?
And there's the whole 'hometown' thing. I've beat that subject to death, but it will be weird to go back to the town where I have no home. My brother and sister do it from time to time; jump back onto memory lane. But what need have I to go to the streets where I once walked with pegged jeans and army boots, oversized rainbow-colored flannel shirts, and a backpack full of teen angst? None, I tell you. Unless TC is in town. That would change things.
I like to think I'm not related to the girl i was when I lived in Chicago. At the end of the Madonna show last week, lights blazed that read "Reinvent Yourself". In a way, I think I did that the minute I walked out of graduation. I didn't look back once. Granted, I haven't become a megamogul sexpot like SOME people whose name rhymes with Fadonna, but I feel like I've moved lightyears past where I was. Which I think is the general notion of reinventing yourself. Improve yourself. Cut the shit out that you just don't dig. If the number 60035 makes you queasy, spend your Orbitz dollars elsewhere.
I love the city, but I don't love who I was or what I went through when I was there. Rather than dwell on it, I've left it behind. Maybe this time I'll just be a visitor. I hear the Sears Tower is nice.
THE THINGS WE WON'T DO WITH OUR WEEKEND MINUTES.
For one of the first times in my life, I can't seem to find the song to fit my mood or what I've just been through. I realize that people usually describe "been through" to describe great personal tragedy, years of fighting for civil rights, or maybe childbirth. So prepare yourselves, because what I have is not close to that magnitude; conveniently, it's much more juicy. Settle in. Let's talk.
I'd like to start by blaming everything on Jon (lesson number one - always blame someone else. Don't say I never taught ya nothin.) He came through my door with a copy of Reality Bites this afternoon. I hadn't seen it in years. Some would think that, featuring my lookalike Janeane Garofalo, I would pour over it (and by that, myself?); not so. It was released when I was a lass of 16 and *maybe* indulging in my first kiss (ah, how a renegade high school house party will release the wild child in a girl). I had no concept then of anything beyond crushing. My devotion was, if ever, encoded in the shaky writing of simply friendly yearbook messages (Tony come back!). If I was really feeling like going on a limb, I would use high school GPS to 'position' myself by the lockers allowing for optimum sighting chances. When Reality Bites greeted American moviegoers, I certainly didn't understand the concept of boy-girl emotions (indeed, at that point in time, I probably called them such) and relationships and their complexities.
And so the soundtrack was more memorable to me than the film.
We sped through the movie. I tried to quickly memorize the series of brilliant quips, mostly failing, and rather gaping while indulging the gallons of coffee that allow me to now sit uncomfortably alert at this weird hour. After it finished and I watched the credits go by in a haze, I suppose I had a spirit of "why not" in me. I mean, as unfeasible as their future was, I rooted for Lanie and Troy. They had convinced the closet romantic in me that there is something to gain by laying emotions on the line from time to time. I put my coffee cup in the sink and had to wonder if perhaps what I'm looking for is as simple as someone to share a cup of coffee and good conversation with. I'm usually pretty good about telling people where I stand if it just has to do with me ("It's rainy out. I'm in a crappy mood.") But revelation of emotions that deal with someone *else*? What a concept. Intriguing and important.
As I watched the movie this afternoon, I wondered how sincere it was. I mean, could people REALLY look at each other and say "I love you." without knowing beforehand where the other person stood? Fantastic concept (golf claps).
In the movie, they could say those lines b/c Ethan could look with conviction into her eyes and spill his guts knowing that her next line was set. IT WAS ON THE TELEPROMPTOR. Whether it was this scene or the next one, he would get the girl. Revealing himself just moved along to the inevitable conclusion.
After reflection, I could see the merit. This bearing of the heartwaves should be done with calculated timing, I decided. I rewound the movie and sent Jon on his way.
And then a funny thing happened.
This evening, as if mocking me, my phone rang and it was a guy I'd been playing phone tag with for literally months. Someone from my tucked-away past. I'm talking five years of long-time-no-see. Someone who once had my heart more than he realized; or I did, for that matter. And someone I coincidentally hope isn't the internet dork I am :) Um, if he is, um, hi?
Tonight I watched thoughts that had been trapped in my head and heart escape me and travel down the line to the faraway place where he is (the faraway place where I left my correct grammar, apparently). Thoughts that had percolated (and often festered) in me bubbled to the surface and marched out of my mouth one by one. Sometimes they were greeted by silence; other times understanding or reflection. While it is crucial to be honest with yourself, I wonder if we (Ok, I) remember to put equal value on being honest with other people? And not the "well, you didn't ask!" variety, either. Maybe the two types of honesty go hand in hand.
So, does Reality Bite?
I think Troy would say it does. But he also lives at The Winter of Our Discontent, so really, you can't expect more.
Reality is personal. If something isn't working for you; if it feels like reality does really bite, maybe there's something to it. Reality bites, but when it bites, it bites you in the ass. Hard. And usually for a good reason.
I'd like to start by blaming everything on Jon (lesson number one - always blame someone else. Don't say I never taught ya nothin.) He came through my door with a copy of Reality Bites this afternoon. I hadn't seen it in years. Some would think that, featuring my lookalike Janeane Garofalo, I would pour over it (and by that, myself?); not so. It was released when I was a lass of 16 and *maybe* indulging in my first kiss (ah, how a renegade high school house party will release the wild child in a girl). I had no concept then of anything beyond crushing. My devotion was, if ever, encoded in the shaky writing of simply friendly yearbook messages (Tony come back!). If I was really feeling like going on a limb, I would use high school GPS to 'position' myself by the lockers allowing for optimum sighting chances. When Reality Bites greeted American moviegoers, I certainly didn't understand the concept of boy-girl emotions (indeed, at that point in time, I probably called them such) and relationships and their complexities.
And so the soundtrack was more memorable to me than the film.
We sped through the movie. I tried to quickly memorize the series of brilliant quips, mostly failing, and rather gaping while indulging the gallons of coffee that allow me to now sit uncomfortably alert at this weird hour. After it finished and I watched the credits go by in a haze, I suppose I had a spirit of "why not" in me. I mean, as unfeasible as their future was, I rooted for Lanie and Troy. They had convinced the closet romantic in me that there is something to gain by laying emotions on the line from time to time. I put my coffee cup in the sink and had to wonder if perhaps what I'm looking for is as simple as someone to share a cup of coffee and good conversation with. I'm usually pretty good about telling people where I stand if it just has to do with me ("It's rainy out. I'm in a crappy mood.") But revelation of emotions that deal with someone *else*? What a concept. Intriguing and important.
As I watched the movie this afternoon, I wondered how sincere it was. I mean, could people REALLY look at each other and say "I love you." without knowing beforehand where the other person stood? Fantastic concept (golf claps).
In the movie, they could say those lines b/c Ethan could look with conviction into her eyes and spill his guts knowing that her next line was set. IT WAS ON THE TELEPROMPTOR. Whether it was this scene or the next one, he would get the girl. Revealing himself just moved along to the inevitable conclusion.
After reflection, I could see the merit. This bearing of the heartwaves should be done with calculated timing, I decided. I rewound the movie and sent Jon on his way.
And then a funny thing happened.
This evening, as if mocking me, my phone rang and it was a guy I'd been playing phone tag with for literally months. Someone from my tucked-away past. I'm talking five years of long-time-no-see. Someone who once had my heart more than he realized; or I did, for that matter. And someone I coincidentally hope isn't the internet dork I am :) Um, if he is, um, hi?
Tonight I watched thoughts that had been trapped in my head and heart escape me and travel down the line to the faraway place where he is (the faraway place where I left my correct grammar, apparently). Thoughts that had percolated (and often festered) in me bubbled to the surface and marched out of my mouth one by one. Sometimes they were greeted by silence; other times understanding or reflection. While it is crucial to be honest with yourself, I wonder if we (Ok, I) remember to put equal value on being honest with other people? And not the "well, you didn't ask!" variety, either. Maybe the two types of honesty go hand in hand.
So, does Reality Bite?
I think Troy would say it does. But he also lives at The Winter of Our Discontent, so really, you can't expect more.
Reality is personal. If something isn't working for you; if it feels like reality does really bite, maybe there's something to it. Reality bites, but when it bites, it bites you in the ass. Hard. And usually for a good reason.
MY CALLING CARD, OR, JON'S REVOLUTION.
It's a work in progress. I've been trying to think of what represents me, and I fear it is the bizarre fine points of my quirky existence. I'd love to paint broad strokes of passions and life goals, but then I'd have sorted out the meaning of (my) life. Can't do that without a few shots of tequila, so alas, water bottle in hand, I offer you:
1) I shake the milk before I pour. Always have.
2) I count people's toes (Visually. I do not touch. That's another item). If you average 5 digits per foot, you're not off the hook. I need to assure myself that the MODE, if you will, is 5 per foot. This quirk can be directly traced back to "Jenny" at Tamarak day camp's little bro, who visited us in bare feet, thus exposing me to a six-toed pudgy baby foot.
3) I hated the name Lilly until college. As a child, I renamed myself "Carol" and my dad was "Peter". In true childlike fashion, my mother did not exist.
4) I speak four languages. I will keep learning new ones until someone understands me.
5) I hate... *hate*... Seinfeld. I watched the finale along with the rest of the tv-infected world to be assured that it was truly over.
6) I danced before I could walk.
7) I have a brother and a sister. For some reason, in conversation I tend to admit to the existence of one, but not the other. So let's just throw that in here.
8) I have never been in love. That question on email surveys is way up there on the DancingonmynervesMeter (tm). Due to the fact that I am 26 and have never been in love, I field the question of whether I'm a lesbian from time to time. I am not, although historical factors might have predicted otherwise. (see #11)
9) I was in a sorority. I'm not as ashamed of it as my general public would expect me to be. If someday pictures of me doing a kegstand appear on the net, or better yet -- dressed in all white holding hands (or candles) swaying and singing about One Heart, One Way, you heard it here first.
10) I always wanted a treehouse. Never got one.
11) My parents never bought us Ken. We always had Barbie (or Marbie, etc.) So my sister and I shaved one's head, christened her "Sandy Duncan", and she was the lesbian in the group. Avant garde childplay, I realize now.
12) I'm convinced I'll die by gunshot or shark attack. I have a haunting fear of both...figures that I'd move to California ;)
13) Thirteen is my favorite number. On the 13th of March I got my first ghettoblaster (yes, back when we called them by that lovely name), which was probably the biggest day of my life. Ok, or maybe my brother's birth. But I'm leaning towards the stereo.
14) I'm a little bit scared of old people. An old lady slapped me once when I gave her a Valentine I had made (I was lured into this type of crisp suburban good-doing by my Brownie troop); my romance with the Cocoon generation was summarily ended.
15) I always feel the need to justify my actions. While I aspire to live a life lead by my heart, I tend towards living with my head. This is proof that GGG is my dad, not Fred the Mailman, as my mom used to tell me.
16) I usually find it easier to communicate via writing. Except right now. Let us laminate now.
1) I shake the milk before I pour. Always have.
2) I count people's toes (Visually. I do not touch. That's another item). If you average 5 digits per foot, you're not off the hook. I need to assure myself that the MODE, if you will, is 5 per foot. This quirk can be directly traced back to "Jenny" at Tamarak day camp's little bro, who visited us in bare feet, thus exposing me to a six-toed pudgy baby foot.
3) I hated the name Lilly until college. As a child, I renamed myself "Carol" and my dad was "Peter". In true childlike fashion, my mother did not exist.
4) I speak four languages. I will keep learning new ones until someone understands me.
5) I hate... *hate*... Seinfeld. I watched the finale along with the rest of the tv-infected world to be assured that it was truly over.
6) I danced before I could walk.
7) I have a brother and a sister. For some reason, in conversation I tend to admit to the existence of one, but not the other. So let's just throw that in here.
8) I have never been in love. That question on email surveys is way up there on the DancingonmynervesMeter (tm). Due to the fact that I am 26 and have never been in love, I field the question of whether I'm a lesbian from time to time. I am not, although historical factors might have predicted otherwise. (see #11)
9) I was in a sorority. I'm not as ashamed of it as my general public would expect me to be. If someday pictures of me doing a kegstand appear on the net, or better yet -- dressed in all white holding hands (or candles) swaying and singing about One Heart, One Way, you heard it here first.
10) I always wanted a treehouse. Never got one.
11) My parents never bought us Ken. We always had Barbie (or Marbie, etc.) So my sister and I shaved one's head, christened her "Sandy Duncan", and she was the lesbian in the group. Avant garde childplay, I realize now.
12) I'm convinced I'll die by gunshot or shark attack. I have a haunting fear of both...figures that I'd move to California ;)
13) Thirteen is my favorite number. On the 13th of March I got my first ghettoblaster (yes, back when we called them by that lovely name), which was probably the biggest day of my life. Ok, or maybe my brother's birth. But I'm leaning towards the stereo.
14) I'm a little bit scared of old people. An old lady slapped me once when I gave her a Valentine I had made (I was lured into this type of crisp suburban good-doing by my Brownie troop); my romance with the Cocoon generation was summarily ended.
15) I always feel the need to justify my actions. While I aspire to live a life lead by my heart, I tend towards living with my head. This is proof that GGG is my dad, not Fred the Mailman, as my mom used to tell me.
16) I usually find it easier to communicate via writing. Except right now. Let us laminate now.
GENE-EE IN A BOTTLE.
What do you do when you have the opportunity of a lifetime? Something you've always wanted to do is offered to you... how do you carry yourself?
The honorable Gene (son of Dave) took me on a field trip to the recording studio on Tuesday. There was a "Do Not Disturb: In Session" plastic cracked sign on the door slot, but I was special. I got to disturb. When the door to the vault of my innermost daydreams swung open, my wide eyes began to focus. Herein lie the buttons and knobs that make the air I breathe. I fell back onto a beat up desk chair behind the board, trying to capture in mental photographs the plant delicately placed between two speakers, the deliberate romantic lighting, and the fake Persian carpets all at once. When the sound engineer offered me a cup of coffee, I nearly wept.
So, faced with this dream come true, this culmination of years of Star Studio at Six Flags, what did I do?
Well, first I belted out an off the cuff song about Hong's romantic prowess in an Argentinian accent. If there had been large windows, I would have thrown them open and clenched my fists over a crowd of gathered Peronistas. If there had been a bull, someone would have tossed me a cape. If I had *only* had a flamenco skirt, we would have been in business. It was horrific and hilarious at the same time (or so I am told).
Having retouched my "musical roots" (oh so deserving of quotation marks), yesterday, under his tutilage, I bought an Ibanez AF75.
Rock me Amadeus.
You always hear these jokes about fools who get 3 wishes and waste them. Well, those were 2 of mine. There's a little pressure on what I'll do with the third one, but I think I'm hoping for ice cream trees.
The honorable Gene (son of Dave) took me on a field trip to the recording studio on Tuesday. There was a "Do Not Disturb: In Session" plastic cracked sign on the door slot, but I was special. I got to disturb. When the door to the vault of my innermost daydreams swung open, my wide eyes began to focus. Herein lie the buttons and knobs that make the air I breathe. I fell back onto a beat up desk chair behind the board, trying to capture in mental photographs the plant delicately placed between two speakers, the deliberate romantic lighting, and the fake Persian carpets all at once. When the sound engineer offered me a cup of coffee, I nearly wept.
So, faced with this dream come true, this culmination of years of Star Studio at Six Flags, what did I do?
Well, first I belted out an off the cuff song about Hong's romantic prowess in an Argentinian accent. If there had been large windows, I would have thrown them open and clenched my fists over a crowd of gathered Peronistas. If there had been a bull, someone would have tossed me a cape. If I had *only* had a flamenco skirt, we would have been in business. It was horrific and hilarious at the same time (or so I am told).
Having retouched my "musical roots" (oh so deserving of quotation marks), yesterday, under his tutilage, I bought an Ibanez AF75.
Rock me Amadeus.
You always hear these jokes about fools who get 3 wishes and waste them. Well, those were 2 of mine. There's a little pressure on what I'll do with the third one, but I think I'm hoping for ice cream trees.
IF YOU WILL ALL PLEASE STAND.
I'd like to send special shout outs to Reverand Hongy and Reverand Jon Yang. Per their ordainments this evening (ah, the powers of the internet), they are each empowered to set up their own Churches. Right, as if guys need that ;)
This popularity contest is sure to outshine any middle America student council election. Fun for the whole family. While Reverand Yang is resting his weary head, Reverand Pan has made his first campaign promise. He tried to ply me with "cookies in between services." I upped the ante and we're looking at Sushi Deli 2 outings for Church members and prospective conversions.
Will his campaign promises hold the test of time? Tune in: same blog time, same blog station.
I wonder if God can roll His eyes.
This popularity contest is sure to outshine any middle America student council election. Fun for the whole family. While Reverand Yang is resting his weary head, Reverand Pan has made his first campaign promise. He tried to ply me with "cookies in between services." I upped the ante and we're looking at Sushi Deli 2 outings for Church members and prospective conversions.
Will his campaign promises hold the test of time? Tune in: same blog time, same blog station.
I wonder if God can roll His eyes.
SO TELL ME MRS. RITA, WHAT'S IT SAY IN MY TAROT?
I really try to be good and not get addicted to too many things. Some slipped through the cracks. I can't help myself when it comes to caffeine, boys with mischevious eyes, Madonna, ocean views, and singing in the car. In no particular order. There's one more, though, one I keep lurking right below the surface, so you'd have to be in a bookstore with me or randomly walking down a touristy boardwalk to know about it... fortunetellers.
I'd like to begin by exonerating myself under the broad umbrella that I am a Scorpio. I am therefore programmed (by the cosmos, duh) to be really into this stuff. Proof positive: any bookstore is inevitably out of Scorpio volumes. But yes, as for the evidence against me, I stipulate to the following: I'm the person who stays an extra 10 seconds at the front of the line at a cafe to read the paper's horoscope, hastily taped to a coffee mug. I bring my friends in droves to experience my mom's coffee cup readings. (She does it lightheartedly. I don't.) I know the 'good' astrology sites to procrastinate on. I have more than once covertly found out a guy's birthday, and maybe once or twice noted an eclipse in my business planner.
So a few weeks ago mom and I were wandering through Balboa Park when, lo and behold, there was a woman with bleached blonde hair, a green velvet top and colorful skirts, body adorned in 2042902409 rings and bracelets, a tiara, and WINGS. I mean, does that last accessory not call for a pause in our trek? We walked up to see what was going on. She had a little collapsable table and was doing readings for 'donation only'. Palm reading, handwriting analysis, tarot card, dice, Tibetan spirits, Aztec something or other, *everything*. It was fortunetelling Disneyland. And in a recession, I mean, this woman must really love her craft to expect nothing for her psychic pains. Fast forward to the fact that she was creepily accurate (you know it's accurate when they say things that bother you. The ass-kissers are never any good.) So today mom has her over for a tea party with some friends, and I'm going to drop through.
I'm not sure what she's going to say that would be much different than 2 weeks ago, but I think it's part of the human condition to hope that things will change that quickly. Suddenly, the dead-end job will disappear (actually, astrologyzone.com predicted that back in February and it did...). Or the Next Big Thing is right around the corner (if it's a guy, all the better). You will reconcile with a long-lost friend. Someone is thinking of you. Success will be yours if you make a call on Wednesday. Yes, this type of stuff actually cheers me up.
There are definitely the crazy stories in my family of what people around the world predicted (yes, this fascination has followed my mom's family and me across continents and generations), but it's mostly just fun. I think life gets too serious, and fortunetelling gives you a minute to step off of whatever track you're on.
When and if I feel I can cough up the money (ok, and pride) for one of these services, it's inevitably during a most stressful period in my life. (Like when I jumped into the $3 palmreader's booth in Santa Monica on a walk in between finals. She looked at my palm and told me I was "a snob." If she hadn't been gripping my hand, rest assured she would have had a close up of my finger. But I digress...) The whole world of the paranormal is so far off the logical spectrum on which I live and breathe; it's my guilty pleasure.
So we'll see what happens this afternoon. In any case, it beats the hell out of doing work.
And now, if you will excuse me, a lady with wings awaits me...
I'd like to begin by exonerating myself under the broad umbrella that I am a Scorpio. I am therefore programmed (by the cosmos, duh) to be really into this stuff. Proof positive: any bookstore is inevitably out of Scorpio volumes. But yes, as for the evidence against me, I stipulate to the following: I'm the person who stays an extra 10 seconds at the front of the line at a cafe to read the paper's horoscope, hastily taped to a coffee mug. I bring my friends in droves to experience my mom's coffee cup readings. (She does it lightheartedly. I don't.) I know the 'good' astrology sites to procrastinate on. I have more than once covertly found out a guy's birthday, and maybe once or twice noted an eclipse in my business planner.
So a few weeks ago mom and I were wandering through Balboa Park when, lo and behold, there was a woman with bleached blonde hair, a green velvet top and colorful skirts, body adorned in 2042902409 rings and bracelets, a tiara, and WINGS. I mean, does that last accessory not call for a pause in our trek? We walked up to see what was going on. She had a little collapsable table and was doing readings for 'donation only'. Palm reading, handwriting analysis, tarot card, dice, Tibetan spirits, Aztec something or other, *everything*. It was fortunetelling Disneyland. And in a recession, I mean, this woman must really love her craft to expect nothing for her psychic pains. Fast forward to the fact that she was creepily accurate (you know it's accurate when they say things that bother you. The ass-kissers are never any good.) So today mom has her over for a tea party with some friends, and I'm going to drop through.
I'm not sure what she's going to say that would be much different than 2 weeks ago, but I think it's part of the human condition to hope that things will change that quickly. Suddenly, the dead-end job will disappear (actually, astrologyzone.com predicted that back in February and it did...). Or the Next Big Thing is right around the corner (if it's a guy, all the better). You will reconcile with a long-lost friend. Someone is thinking of you. Success will be yours if you make a call on Wednesday. Yes, this type of stuff actually cheers me up.
There are definitely the crazy stories in my family of what people around the world predicted (yes, this fascination has followed my mom's family and me across continents and generations), but it's mostly just fun. I think life gets too serious, and fortunetelling gives you a minute to step off of whatever track you're on.
When and if I feel I can cough up the money (ok, and pride) for one of these services, it's inevitably during a most stressful period in my life. (Like when I jumped into the $3 palmreader's booth in Santa Monica on a walk in between finals. She looked at my palm and told me I was "a snob." If she hadn't been gripping my hand, rest assured she would have had a close up of my finger. But I digress...) The whole world of the paranormal is so far off the logical spectrum on which I live and breathe; it's my guilty pleasure.
So we'll see what happens this afternoon. In any case, it beats the hell out of doing work.
And now, if you will excuse me, a lady with wings awaits me...
WAKING UP THE ROOSTER.
To be up at 6:54 is to stumble out of bed, narrowly missing the metal corner you always hit your foot on. After a moment pondering how your socks came off in the middle of the night, you head directly to the pantry for some 'wake up' food, and to ponder exactly how big your little heart is that you'd do this all for charity.
Today's the Race for Literacy 8K. Down the 163 I will go, woo hoo foot patrol. Mom is my trusty companion for this event, so we'll be walking rather than running it. I'd like to say that walking 5 miles is something I could 'do in my sleep', but alas, it appears to require garments other than my sleepwear of comfy short shorts and a sweatshirt. I mean, San Diego just doesn't deserve that ;) So off I go to change and pinch myself til both eyes are open (trying to cut down on coffee. Not sure that this will work. Details to follow in the coming weeks)
Question of the day (I have at least an hour in the steaming hot sun to ponder it, if you folks don't help me out): When do you turn off the backburner? For those of you who think I'm speaking literally- I love you- if you come over and cook for me, I will do the dishes always and forever.
I mean the 'boy backburner' (or girl backburner). Is there an expiration date on this act of narcissism?
Today's the Race for Literacy 8K. Down the 163 I will go, woo hoo foot patrol. Mom is my trusty companion for this event, so we'll be walking rather than running it. I'd like to say that walking 5 miles is something I could 'do in my sleep', but alas, it appears to require garments other than my sleepwear of comfy short shorts and a sweatshirt. I mean, San Diego just doesn't deserve that ;) So off I go to change and pinch myself til both eyes are open (trying to cut down on coffee. Not sure that this will work. Details to follow in the coming weeks)
Question of the day (I have at least an hour in the steaming hot sun to ponder it, if you folks don't help me out): When do you turn off the backburner? For those of you who think I'm speaking literally- I love you- if you come over and cook for me, I will do the dishes always and forever.
I mean the 'boy backburner' (or girl backburner). Is there an expiration date on this act of narcissism?
9 TO 5 MY ASS.
Something very sneaky happened along the way. I am overworked and underpaid but self-employed. Not sure where to direct my frustration, short of mumbling to myself.
So much on my mind. My brain feels like this frail necklace chain I once had that got all tangled up. My mom says you have to tackle life's problems (or whatever's on your plate) as you would that chain- loosen it up little by little instead of trying to attack it at once from all angles. I got really irritated, incidentally pulled the knot tighter, and tossed it back in a box in no man's closet.
So much on my mind. My brain feels like this frail necklace chain I once had that got all tangled up. My mom says you have to tackle life's problems (or whatever's on your plate) as you would that chain- loosen it up little by little instead of trying to attack it at once from all angles. I got really irritated, incidentally pulled the knot tighter, and tossed it back in a box in no man's closet.
UNEDITED TRAIN OF THOUGHT. ENTER AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION (AND QUITE POSSIBLY BOREDOM)
I am in deep shit, as I 'seem' to have lost a cap for one of my dad's wheels. I thought while he was out of town I'd give my little bro my wheels and just keep Dad's in case of errands, etc. (or the need to leisurely cruise around in a car that appears as if I have a lofty income -- or any at all).
Dad is on the other end of the planet right now. Like if you could draw a line THROUGH earth, you might find him. Probably in a kabob restaurant with his family, laughing at stories he hasn't heard because 13 years has passed and the least they can do is have tales to regale him with. He is equally liable to be in a mosque sneaking pictures, oh tricky tourist! I kinda wish he asked me to go with, but he didn't. Still licking that wound. I'm not sure that I actually want to go back right now, but it would have been nice to see it from his point of view - film a mental documentary as I wandered around with him, peeking out from under my scarf that wouldn't make me pass out because it's only spring. Instead of battling waves of heat-induced nausea, I might actually have enjoyed myself. I miss him, so it's going to be a long three weeks.
Other thoughts in no particular order:
The plants on my balcony aren't doing a good job of staying alive. I hold this against them. I am a woman, therefore a nurturer, so GROW you BASTARDS! Even my friggin plants challenge my femininity.
I keep telling people I'll watch Braveheart with them. But I don't want to. And every time it comes up in conversation with a new person, I feign the same motivation and interest. I am living a lie.
No one seems to have the answer as to why in baseball there is a manager instead of a coach. This is starting to annoy me.
I need to get (another) job. Like "lottery winner". Or "heiress to the Heinz empire".
As much as I whined about being a little worn out around the wedding and all the frenetic activity that surrounded it, I think I'm suffering some variation on letdown. I tried to convince Gene to do a Gregorian chant interpretation of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" at his next show. If that's not a sign of depression, what is? ;)
Dad is on the other end of the planet right now. Like if you could draw a line THROUGH earth, you might find him. Probably in a kabob restaurant with his family, laughing at stories he hasn't heard because 13 years has passed and the least they can do is have tales to regale him with. He is equally liable to be in a mosque sneaking pictures, oh tricky tourist! I kinda wish he asked me to go with, but he didn't. Still licking that wound. I'm not sure that I actually want to go back right now, but it would have been nice to see it from his point of view - film a mental documentary as I wandered around with him, peeking out from under my scarf that wouldn't make me pass out because it's only spring. Instead of battling waves of heat-induced nausea, I might actually have enjoyed myself. I miss him, so it's going to be a long three weeks.
Other thoughts in no particular order:
The plants on my balcony aren't doing a good job of staying alive. I hold this against them. I am a woman, therefore a nurturer, so GROW you BASTARDS! Even my friggin plants challenge my femininity.
I keep telling people I'll watch Braveheart with them. But I don't want to. And every time it comes up in conversation with a new person, I feign the same motivation and interest. I am living a lie.
No one seems to have the answer as to why in baseball there is a manager instead of a coach. This is starting to annoy me.
I need to get (another) job. Like "lottery winner". Or "heiress to the Heinz empire".
As much as I whined about being a little worn out around the wedding and all the frenetic activity that surrounded it, I think I'm suffering some variation on letdown. I tried to convince Gene to do a Gregorian chant interpretation of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" at his next show. If that's not a sign of depression, what is? ;)
THE BRAINWASHING OF THE HEART OF L-----.
It's gotten to the point where I dread talking to my most beloved friends. Particularly with the girls, there is NO way to pass the 4 minute mark without a question being shot directly at my ego about who I'm dating or if I'm not, an explanation (short essay) of why not. It's become a sickening mental game of "Boiling Point". Today: Janet. Boiling point... 12 minutes. She spared me, which only tells me one thing... she's single too.
I have been with couples nonstop for the past few weeks. So it only seems natural to wonder why one of these things is not like the others. The short-list roster: My friend from law school and her husband. My pan-continental partner in crime and her fiance. My Vegas satellite and her husband. My bar study buddy and *her* now-husband. Another law school girlfriend and her new fiance. I'm only stopping the count because I might launch into an anxiety attack. And if that's not enough salt in the wound, honk honk, beep beep, up pulls a rental Mercury Sable with my sis and the love of her life.
Yes, love even looks good in an old man mobile.
I swear, I did not get the memo. I have NO idea how people do this. I was a huge old-school Disney fan (Snow White- black hair, white skin? Hello. That's ME!), so Jon's (www.hyperwest.net/anachronic) recent examination of this clear-cut direct-market brainwashing of L---- (that's me, too) was enlightening. Are my standards just a convoluted bipidy-boppity-boo?
The idea of being paired up with someone has always made me a little nervous. When I wore my gray velvet dress and do-si-doe'd with Brian B. in third grade... sweat. When I had to seventh-grade slow-dance with Chad and yet keep good posture in my tie-died Skort...panic. When I had to fake marry Josh G. for our Family Matters class in high school, we lived 'parallel lives' and our love fern quickly died in my locker. My most durable relationship to date with a man has been with George Michael; and yes, it is entirely possible that this fact alone prompted his coming out of the closet.
There are not many things that scare me, but alongside sharks, snakes, and six-toed human beings is the idea of putting my heart on the line like that.
I have been with couples nonstop for the past few weeks. So it only seems natural to wonder why one of these things is not like the others. The short-list roster: My friend from law school and her husband. My pan-continental partner in crime and her fiance. My Vegas satellite and her husband. My bar study buddy and *her* now-husband. Another law school girlfriend and her new fiance. I'm only stopping the count because I might launch into an anxiety attack. And if that's not enough salt in the wound, honk honk, beep beep, up pulls a rental Mercury Sable with my sis and the love of her life.
Yes, love even looks good in an old man mobile.
I swear, I did not get the memo. I have NO idea how people do this. I was a huge old-school Disney fan (Snow White- black hair, white skin? Hello. That's ME!), so Jon's (www.hyperwest.net/anachronic) recent examination of this clear-cut direct-market brainwashing of L---- (that's me, too) was enlightening. Are my standards just a convoluted bipidy-boppity-boo?
The idea of being paired up with someone has always made me a little nervous. When I wore my gray velvet dress and do-si-doe'd with Brian B. in third grade... sweat. When I had to seventh-grade slow-dance with Chad and yet keep good posture in my tie-died Skort...panic. When I had to fake marry Josh G. for our Family Matters class in high school, we lived 'parallel lives' and our love fern quickly died in my locker. My most durable relationship to date with a man has been with George Michael; and yes, it is entirely possible that this fact alone prompted his coming out of the closet.
There are not many things that scare me, but alongside sharks, snakes, and six-toed human beings is the idea of putting my heart on the line like that.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.
I'm definitely my father's child, because my thoughts and emotions have been wrapped in real estate this weekend.
My brother showed me a brochure today. Actually, he didn't show it to me. I threw open his bedroom door uninvited, and began interrogating him and picking up random things on his floor, including a real estate brochure. It took me a second to figure out what was going on. "Is thi ---" I couldn't even fully ask the question, so he told me. "Yup, the house." He had recently returned from a jaunt over to Chicago and had taken it upon himself to go investigate what was happening with our old house. The guy who bought it from my family paid the price of the land, renovated the whole house (I'm talking GUTTED IT) and put it back on the market. For three times the price (again, as a G, I am embittered). I was looking at the pictures and it was like this whole sector of my childhood was totally inverted. I mean, this is the ONLY HOUSE I grew up in. Every memory I have was there. It's one thing to renovate the house, but to put the front door where the back door was? Put the back door where the front door was... you changed my ADDRESS, man! Give me my house back!
There were only about 7 pictures to torment myself with. The office above the garage that I spent some of my most precious time in, sifting through shelves of amazing books and making mix tapes for plane rides (complete with spoken interludes) for my friends... it's gone. The garage where I stored my bikes and badminton rackets (don't ask) and rollerblades is now one with the office, one big high-ceilinged living room. Who wants to 'live' in the room where I stealthily parked my mom's car complete with Steve Prince's frozen barf splattered across the side on a cold winter's night?
Cyrus said my room survived, but didn't make it clear as to whether the walk-in closet connecting my room to Susie's did as well. I really didn't prod him as much as I should have for answers. Will the new inhabitants be able to launch surprise attacks via the connecting closet -- throwing open the doors (which had no locks) and beating the holy hell out of their siblings? And if not, I ask you, what kind of childhood can they be expected to have, *really*? Have they changed the windows, or can some frustrated teenager still prop her Thighmaster on the windowsill and use it to catapult random shit into the backyard? Are the tape marks still there from where I lined my closet with shirtless photos of Bret Michaels, Slash and Axl, Sebastian Bach, and the Robinson Brothers in a mudbath? (Yes. Together. This never struck me as strange until I typed these words.)
The kitchen is remodeled, too. I looked at the picture and can't even envision where I hid out when Ella's (our old babysitter) boyfriend's wife (Oooooops) came over, rang the doorbell, and knocked her one. The room where I'd watch our young neighbor make her way across the backyard with her red wagon in tow. The place where, as in any good Persian family, social life centered. Where we'd congregate after returning from (or throwing) a mehmooni (party) and rehash the entire night and the psychology (or psychosis) of each and every attendee. The kitchen where I got my first college acceptance (Indiana U) and where I had my last cup of coffee with [and ever saw] my friend Sam.
I've always been glad that we moved out of Highland Park. That's never been a question. For all my blogistic dramaticism, I *hated* living in that town, and was only too happy to flee the walls of that house. When I moved to California, I really cut the cord. I realized that you need to put the past behind you and move forward and be open to opportunities and they will find you (hello ocean view, sunny winters of 70 degrees, and Life with Pele). But today was a quick trip in a rickety time machine, and it definitely threw me for a loop.
Glad I got that out.
But as long as we're living in the now... I returned to my apartment in the afternoon and just absorbed where my life is centered now. Pulling back all the blinds, I had a new appreciation for my distant view of the bay. Water has always calmed me. People think it's my newcomer reaction to being by the ocean, but I find it tranquilizing in all forms. It could be the ocean. Or a lake. Or a lilypond or a fountain. (The toilet is pushing it). Then the thought set in that they're going to build in front of my view. A thirty story building, no less. I suppose I'm being "glass-is-half-empty" today. Which is fine. It happens. I suppose that instead of bitching about the past and worrying about the future I should get on making some new memories in the homes I now occupy (minds OUT of the gutter on the count of three...)
Hm. Bright note, bright note... This weekend I saw a good friend of mine who just got married. She is a living testament to the fact that people who question whether love even exists can find not only that love does exist, but subsequently fall deeply in it. She broke her gaze from her hubby (who is awesome and certainly has the Lilly stamp of approval) only to do sake bombs and tell me that there's someone out there for everyone.
Happy note.
THE LILLY.
Names. This has been the theme of the week.
Yesterday, while taking a scenic detour along the harbor with Hong and Jon, I somehow felt compelled to let them in on yet another 'special' episode of my childhood. I told them about how I hated the name Lilly because it was the name of everyone's dead grandma when I was little (true). And how I adapted quickly to a self-proclaimed pseudonym of Carol, and dubbed my father Peter (Electra complex what?) Indeed, these were the appelations I used when I placed a social phonecall to 911 in a feast of 4 year old boredom when my parents left me with a Polish sitter and went to the movies. But I digress...
Tonight I capitulated and watched a huge dose of tv. I can't help it. I'm hooked on The Apprentice in a big, bad way. So first I sat through some old Friends episodes, and in one Phoebe changed her name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock. Apparently I'm not the only person to have had name reservations in my life. Until tonight, I thought it was me and then Susie's college friend, whose liberal parents allowed him to pick his own name at a young age. Hello Beanbag Amerika. My train of thought was diverted by the discomfort of discussing the derivation of bananahammock (speedos) with my mom, and we broke for a commercial.
But names came up **again** this evening when during The Apprentice (sigh) the love of my greedy heart referred to his little pool of asskissers...um...I mean applicants. He was talking about the standards for an employee of The Donald. Yes, he referred to *himself* as "The Donald." Take that.
I wouldn't mind ruling the world from my boardroom, but I'd take the close second of just being called The Lilly. As I build up my little literary empire, name recognition counts for something. I mean, people are literary, but does identifying me need to be a spelling bee? Isn't The Lilly more fitting than 10 letters and 2 silent h's anyways? ("G-H, like 'ghetto'")
So it has been decided.
Parting thoughts: I am on PickthePersian.com. Exactly how many of my 15 minutes of fame just got sucked there?
Yesterday, while taking a scenic detour along the harbor with Hong and Jon, I somehow felt compelled to let them in on yet another 'special' episode of my childhood. I told them about how I hated the name Lilly because it was the name of everyone's dead grandma when I was little (true). And how I adapted quickly to a self-proclaimed pseudonym of Carol, and dubbed my father Peter (Electra complex what?) Indeed, these were the appelations I used when I placed a social phonecall to 911 in a feast of 4 year old boredom when my parents left me with a Polish sitter and went to the movies. But I digress...
Tonight I capitulated and watched a huge dose of tv. I can't help it. I'm hooked on The Apprentice in a big, bad way. So first I sat through some old Friends episodes, and in one Phoebe changed her name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock. Apparently I'm not the only person to have had name reservations in my life. Until tonight, I thought it was me and then Susie's college friend, whose liberal parents allowed him to pick his own name at a young age. Hello Beanbag Amerika. My train of thought was diverted by the discomfort of discussing the derivation of bananahammock (speedos) with my mom, and we broke for a commercial.
But names came up **again** this evening when during The Apprentice (sigh) the love of my greedy heart referred to his little pool of asskissers...um...I mean applicants. He was talking about the standards for an employee of The Donald. Yes, he referred to *himself* as "The Donald." Take that.
I wouldn't mind ruling the world from my boardroom, but I'd take the close second of just being called The Lilly. As I build up my little literary empire, name recognition counts for something. I mean, people are literary, but does identifying me need to be a spelling bee? Isn't The Lilly more fitting than 10 letters and 2 silent h's anyways? ("G-H, like 'ghetto'")
So it has been decided.
Parting thoughts: I am on PickthePersian.com. Exactly how many of my 15 minutes of fame just got sucked there?
POSTSCRIPT RE: AUTOFAILS.
Tonight an unnamed but dear friend of mine (Hi Gene!) alerted me to a most decisive autofail. The toe sock.
This item of clothing offers a clear definition of the lines preventing entry into my big heart.
What are they? Socks that offer a cozy compartment for each individual toe.
They should have been a fad. Much as I appreciate their function of hiding away the nastiness of the human foot, their prompt and shapely silhouetting of the foot feels like betrayal of the highest order.
I regret that the subject came to pass, not via the innocuous path of mere chit chat, but due to Gene's own choice of footwear this evening.
This item of clothing offers a clear definition of the lines preventing entry into my big heart.
What are they? Socks that offer a cozy compartment for each individual toe.
They should have been a fad. Much as I appreciate their function of hiding away the nastiness of the human foot, their prompt and shapely silhouetting of the foot feels like betrayal of the highest order.
I regret that the subject came to pass, not via the innocuous path of mere chit chat, but due to Gene's own choice of footwear this evening.
TAKE ME OUT TO THE FOOD STANDS...
I love baseball.
Even more so, I love my friend Hong for hooking me up with a ticket to last night's Padres stadium. For over a year now, I have been excitedly twiddling my thumbs, watching cranes swing back and forth over the distant patch of green you can see if you lean right and hang precariously over my balcony. The time had come for closer exploration, and so Jon, Gene (the Artist Currently Known as Dave's Son), Hong and I made our way down Cortez Hill to become one with America's favorite pasttime.
I got really into baseball last year during the pennant races. I am a sucker for the underdog (read: the Cubs). I went into work early in order to be home for 5pm tee-offs... um, I mean...kickoffs? I've never been super into team sports (except kickball. Why, oh why, are you not an Olympic game?), but there's something to the pace of baseball that does in fact suck me in. The amount of food involved in attending a baseball game is merely bonus, I assure you.
So, we lived the luxury life. Our suite came complete with what I like to call "my own personal assistant" - Jean - who assured me that she was there for anything we needed, ie. if we wanted to order food into the box, etc. As you may already know, I've had my manicure this week, so I simply thanked her for the offer and did what I could to slide gracefully by the seat of a woman 14 months pregnant.
We won. I am still trying to decide if that made the difference in my experience. I suppose if we'd had a closer game (8-3. Is that even a GAME?), I would have had to watch the game a little closer. But this way, I could zoom out and drink in my tax dollars. The stadium is on a prime piece of property. You really have to will yourself to stay in your seat and not wander the 1001 restaurants and bars and head up to the back deck with the view of the bay, the bridge, and Coronado island. I think they should sell seats to just sit up there.
From the ballpark, all of a sudden San Diego felt like a 'real city'. I mean, I had never seen so many people, for one thing. The population of San Diego had reached its peak point for me when I happened through Persian festivities at Mission Bay, population 5000. The energy of a crowd of that many people (1 million?) watching one game, focusing on one little baseball, was fantastic. And when the Dodgers hit a ball past the outfield fence and a minute later it plopped back onto the field, we were not just neighbors, we were family.
As we were leaving, employees had been stationed to wish you a good evening, thank you for coming to Petco Park, and to request that you drive home safely now, you hear? With a love like that, who wouldn't love this game?
Even more so, I love my friend Hong for hooking me up with a ticket to last night's Padres stadium. For over a year now, I have been excitedly twiddling my thumbs, watching cranes swing back and forth over the distant patch of green you can see if you lean right and hang precariously over my balcony. The time had come for closer exploration, and so Jon, Gene (the Artist Currently Known as Dave's Son), Hong and I made our way down Cortez Hill to become one with America's favorite pasttime.
I got really into baseball last year during the pennant races. I am a sucker for the underdog (read: the Cubs). I went into work early in order to be home for 5pm tee-offs... um, I mean...kickoffs? I've never been super into team sports (except kickball. Why, oh why, are you not an Olympic game?), but there's something to the pace of baseball that does in fact suck me in. The amount of food involved in attending a baseball game is merely bonus, I assure you.
So, we lived the luxury life. Our suite came complete with what I like to call "my own personal assistant" - Jean - who assured me that she was there for anything we needed, ie. if we wanted to order food into the box, etc. As you may already know, I've had my manicure this week, so I simply thanked her for the offer and did what I could to slide gracefully by the seat of a woman 14 months pregnant.
We won. I am still trying to decide if that made the difference in my experience. I suppose if we'd had a closer game (8-3. Is that even a GAME?), I would have had to watch the game a little closer. But this way, I could zoom out and drink in my tax dollars. The stadium is on a prime piece of property. You really have to will yourself to stay in your seat and not wander the 1001 restaurants and bars and head up to the back deck with the view of the bay, the bridge, and Coronado island. I think they should sell seats to just sit up there.
From the ballpark, all of a sudden San Diego felt like a 'real city'. I mean, I had never seen so many people, for one thing. The population of San Diego had reached its peak point for me when I happened through Persian festivities at Mission Bay, population 5000. The energy of a crowd of that many people (1 million?) watching one game, focusing on one little baseball, was fantastic. And when the Dodgers hit a ball past the outfield fence and a minute later it plopped back onto the field, we were not just neighbors, we were family.
As we were leaving, employees had been stationed to wish you a good evening, thank you for coming to Petco Park, and to request that you drive home safely now, you hear? With a love like that, who wouldn't love this game?
THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE?
This past weekend I got my nails done. Not a big deal, I know.
FOOLS! OF COURSE IT'S A BIG DEAL! In salons across the United States, statements are being made on a daily basis. As feet soak in warm water tubs, as hands rest in paraffin baths, women aren't just enjoying themselves, they are speaking out (albeit in a weird language that faintly smells of acetone). Allow me to translate. They're saying: "I'm a girl. Yoo hoo, watch me be feminine."
The weekend found me in Santa Barbara with a small group of my closest girl friends. We were there to celebrate the big send-off of our first compatriot into the domain of marriagehood. It's a world I know nothing about except that it's directly inspired her to become more interested in china patterns, thread counts and kitchen appliances, oh my! And she will get booty on the regular.
For the past year that she's been engaged, I've struggled to try to come to terms with womanhood "as it should be" for my age group, particularly those women of the Persian persuasion. By my age (the big 2-6), most Persian girls are well on their way to marital bliss. If they aren't, it's due to an educational exemption or extenuating circumstances. I have been accused of sheer laziness. But really, I'm not lazy. I just don't have a clue about this whole world. I can't even get myself dressed right in the morning, much less "find a man".
I had to fight off the desire to cover my ears and let out a Macauley Caulkin Home Alone holler when the bridal shower for this friend had rolled around and I heard my friends debating what two brands of silver trays any married woman should have. (The answers, now emblazoned in my head, are Lennox and Arthur someoneorother, FYI). To begin with, I felt betrayed. Like all of a sudden, my girlfriends had come out of the closet with the fact that they actually *don't* hate Martha Stewart. I was just standing there, mouth gaping until I found one friend (heretofore known as The Last Woman Standing) to share an eye roll with. I reacted as I do when watching an art movie. I 'got it' enough to make vague conversation about it, but then I felt free to go home and be confused in private.
I'm trying to decide whether to embrace or shun my decidedly unfeminine traits (again, using the scale somewhat offered to me by my Persian foremothers). I'm currently in limbo, and kinda on a self-imposed probation. The citations are scattered, but are many. I've caught myself wearing sweats one too many times lately. I like doing arm weights. I have never once turned on the Love Channel that I apparently pay premium cable bills for, but my tv is always set to 325- Fox Sports World. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the price tags on designer purses. I always forget to ask to see the ring.
On one hand, I pride myself on being able to have fun sans high heels and attitude. On the other hand, sometimes I watch these other girls trapse up and down the streets of San Diego (or God forbid LA, if I'm up there, which is when the guilt *really* sets in), and I wonder why I don't *care* enough to be like that. Am I lazy? Why do I find myself inherently annoyed if a conversation about clothing lasts more than the obligatory "What's the dress code for tonight?". Clothes shopping is an absolute last resort for me... placing a distant second after gyno appointments and watching paint dry.
I'm not sure how you negotiate femininity. Even if I wear a beautiful dress and heels and put a twist in my hips when I walk (hey single boys, I *can* do it, and do it well. holla back), some comment is sure to fire out of my mouth that betrays me. Or perhaps someone will walk by in a baseball shirt and a ponytail and flannel pj pants and I will just stare longingly, thus giving myself away.
I guess the question is: what percentage do you have to be 'typical' to be considered feminine? I have a uterus. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
So, going back to my story, given the opportunity to have my nails done, I jumped at it. Hands? Oh yes. Pedicure? Oh, but of course!
I do this in spurts. Once in awhile, I realize how far off the girly scale I've landed, and I tuck my chromosomes under my arm and saunter back over with a vengeance. I mean, my name is Lilly, for God's sake. I wear skirts for a few days in a row and show some leg. I put on a sexy pink bra. I do grocery shopping with concentration and pick up whichever magazines have the most ribs showing on the cover. I lower my voice, and I resist (with all my might) the urge to snicker like an adolescent boy at sexual innuendos.
Then I realize how much I miss my cargos and myself, and I revert.
I kept the polish on my nails for exactly 54 hours this time (yes, I counted). It's almost as if the orange polish (see, I told you. Can't do anything distinctly feminine right) didn't want to stay on my fingers. It just began to chip away in its own little political statement.
Right now I have trailer trash couture in the manicure department.
Let that be a lesson to me.
FOOLS! OF COURSE IT'S A BIG DEAL! In salons across the United States, statements are being made on a daily basis. As feet soak in warm water tubs, as hands rest in paraffin baths, women aren't just enjoying themselves, they are speaking out (albeit in a weird language that faintly smells of acetone). Allow me to translate. They're saying: "I'm a girl. Yoo hoo, watch me be feminine."
The weekend found me in Santa Barbara with a small group of my closest girl friends. We were there to celebrate the big send-off of our first compatriot into the domain of marriagehood. It's a world I know nothing about except that it's directly inspired her to become more interested in china patterns, thread counts and kitchen appliances, oh my! And she will get booty on the regular.
For the past year that she's been engaged, I've struggled to try to come to terms with womanhood "as it should be" for my age group, particularly those women of the Persian persuasion. By my age (the big 2-6), most Persian girls are well on their way to marital bliss. If they aren't, it's due to an educational exemption or extenuating circumstances. I have been accused of sheer laziness. But really, I'm not lazy. I just don't have a clue about this whole world. I can't even get myself dressed right in the morning, much less "find a man".
I had to fight off the desire to cover my ears and let out a Macauley Caulkin Home Alone holler when the bridal shower for this friend had rolled around and I heard my friends debating what two brands of silver trays any married woman should have. (The answers, now emblazoned in my head, are Lennox and Arthur someoneorother, FYI). To begin with, I felt betrayed. Like all of a sudden, my girlfriends had come out of the closet with the fact that they actually *don't* hate Martha Stewart. I was just standing there, mouth gaping until I found one friend (heretofore known as The Last Woman Standing) to share an eye roll with. I reacted as I do when watching an art movie. I 'got it' enough to make vague conversation about it, but then I felt free to go home and be confused in private.
I'm trying to decide whether to embrace or shun my decidedly unfeminine traits (again, using the scale somewhat offered to me by my Persian foremothers). I'm currently in limbo, and kinda on a self-imposed probation. The citations are scattered, but are many. I've caught myself wearing sweats one too many times lately. I like doing arm weights. I have never once turned on the Love Channel that I apparently pay premium cable bills for, but my tv is always set to 325- Fox Sports World. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the price tags on designer purses. I always forget to ask to see the ring.
On one hand, I pride myself on being able to have fun sans high heels and attitude. On the other hand, sometimes I watch these other girls trapse up and down the streets of San Diego (or God forbid LA, if I'm up there, which is when the guilt *really* sets in), and I wonder why I don't *care* enough to be like that. Am I lazy? Why do I find myself inherently annoyed if a conversation about clothing lasts more than the obligatory "What's the dress code for tonight?". Clothes shopping is an absolute last resort for me... placing a distant second after gyno appointments and watching paint dry.
I'm not sure how you negotiate femininity. Even if I wear a beautiful dress and heels and put a twist in my hips when I walk (hey single boys, I *can* do it, and do it well. holla back), some comment is sure to fire out of my mouth that betrays me. Or perhaps someone will walk by in a baseball shirt and a ponytail and flannel pj pants and I will just stare longingly, thus giving myself away.
I guess the question is: what percentage do you have to be 'typical' to be considered feminine? I have a uterus. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
So, going back to my story, given the opportunity to have my nails done, I jumped at it. Hands? Oh yes. Pedicure? Oh, but of course!
I do this in spurts. Once in awhile, I realize how far off the girly scale I've landed, and I tuck my chromosomes under my arm and saunter back over with a vengeance. I mean, my name is Lilly, for God's sake. I wear skirts for a few days in a row and show some leg. I put on a sexy pink bra. I do grocery shopping with concentration and pick up whichever magazines have the most ribs showing on the cover. I lower my voice, and I resist (with all my might) the urge to snicker like an adolescent boy at sexual innuendos.
Then I realize how much I miss my cargos and myself, and I revert.
I kept the polish on my nails for exactly 54 hours this time (yes, I counted). It's almost as if the orange polish (see, I told you. Can't do anything distinctly feminine right) didn't want to stay on my fingers. It just began to chip away in its own little political statement.
Right now I have trailer trash couture in the manicure department.
Let that be a lesson to me.
"ALL I KNOW FROM EXPERIENCE IS THAT IF YOU HAVE TO ASK FOR SOMETHING MORE THAN ONCE OR TWICE, IT WASN'T YOURS IN THE FIRST PLACE..."
I understand that we never outgrow certain things. I still like my cereal super soggy and my milk shaken. I will always respect a good, big swingset. Mary Poppins is and always will be my favorite movie. But today I was confronted with proof positive that I have really not progressed much from where I was at age 6.
I remember watching my dad help me dub my first tape. (Ah, the roots of copyright infringement. How it could bring a family together.) I had gotten a new stereo for Persian New Year, so I'm not joking when I say it was hovering around 15-20 years ago. I wasn't tall enough to see what was taking place on the bar countertop (some would say that hasn't changed?). But I knew with all my heart what was going on. The tape to be dubbed FOR ME AND ONLY ME onto the translucent orange blank tape (what a treat!) was... Madonna "Like a Virgin". I'm talking Angel, Dress You Up, or for ye 80s pop cultural neophytes (hi Jon!), "Material Girl".
The years passed and the tapes got more standard. A translucent clear - but with yellow label- for my dubbing of Madonna "Madonna" (I had to work backwards on that one. Caught on late.) A store-bought True Blue, which notably became my first creative foray into dance. I mean, when the woman says "Get up, stand tall, put your back/up/against the wall, cause my love is dangerous", well then, you throw your little body against the wall, arms in the air, in a display of prepubescent sexuality. And your father, who is the Patron of the Arts, shelling out a buck for each performance, tries to sneak out, but you remind him that there IS ANOTHER song left on this side of the tape before INTERMISSION!
It was around this time that I realized Madonna had progressed to other media (without me?) -- Desperately Seeking Susan made its breakthrough, and I marvelled at a woman so cool she'd dry her armpits on a bus stop hand-dryer. I watched the film "Who's That Girl" over and over again, wondering how long I had to wait to dye *my* hair platinum. Then I bought the soundtrack, impressed and feeling justified (and arguing) that my idol was also, apparently, bilingual "Quien es, esta nina?/Who's that girl?".
The hits kept coming... as You Can Dance, a remix album, was released, I'd insist on staying in the car and listening to it. Lying sweaty in the back of mom's Ford Taurus with the windows barely cracked (Chicago summers, no less), I'd sing along literally Over and Over while mom and dad browsed the racks of Burlington Coat Factory on any given Sunday. Everyone knew I loved her. If there was a Madonna question, you'd ask *me*. That's just the way it was.
You guys who only knew her for Like A Prayer missed out on the whole Dick Tracy movement. In another G family moment (who knew so many of them were due to The Unvirgin herself?) - my sister Susie and I choreographed and entire show to I'm Breathless in our basement. And made my dad sit through it. (Please visit www.boygirlparty.com to see how the choreographer of "I'm Going Bananas" has since matured, well, at least musically.)
While my mom had the idea to let me have a punk 9th birthday party, I was strictly forbidden from attending Madonna concerts. Ever. (Apparently, dressing like her once per year was acceptable, though?) I knew mom didn't like her, encouraging me to listen to Cyndi Lauper instead, or even Michael Jackson, the King of Crotch-Grabbing. I had to sneak over to Kathy Stachniw's house to watch the forbidden Justify My Love video. And we didn't have cable until I was almost through with high school, so videos and awards shows were all I had to go on to keep in touch.
I studied dance. I admittedly never read "Sex", but that's not for lack of me looking for it at the library. I covered "Material Girl" at my school fun fair's Star Studio. I read about her and I enjoyed her freedom while I was a sheltered Persian girl in the midwest. Eventually, I went to University of Michigan. Coincidence? Perhaps.
I stayed faithful through Erotica, Bedtime Stories, and Ray of Light. I bought Evita and took off to Argentina to see the Casa Rosada. I stopped watching Sean Penn movies and tucked away my signed Rodman photo. I nodded to the Maverick building along Santa Monica when I'd drive through L.A. I forgave her for making The Next Best Thing. I overlooked her bastardization of Japanese culture, then Indian. I read about Kabbalah (although I always misspell it "Kaballah," which may be a sign in and of itself?). When she did Swept Away, we got in a fight, and I stopped paying attention to her for a few months. But we made up and American Life joined my expansive cd collection.
Somewhere in there, I *might* have bought her earliest album (horrendous electronica dance stuff from some Scandinavian country, if anyone's looking for it). And I *might* have dropped $20 for the London Symphony Orchestra's tribute to her. But I'm not admitting anything.
What I AM admitting is that this morning, some 20 years after this madness began, I found myself rushing to try and get tickets to her next tour. I'm 26, and I remembered last week that "I'm the boss of me" (said in my most petulant voice). So I dedicated $100 to obtaining tickets to her 'Reinvention' show at the Forum.
No such luck.
So, why am I admitting all of this?
Because part of me is as disappointed as the, what, 11 year old who wasn't allowed to see Blonde Ambition (in retrospect, watching Madonna masturbate on-stage would have been a bonding moment I really didn't need to have with my mom).
It's something I can't seem to get a handle on -- I mean, I am 20 years older than I was when I first started listening to her. In the interim, the world has progressed from tape walkmen to pen-sized mp3 players. We've gone from Reagan to Bush (ok, bad example).
As for Miss Madonna, she has clearly (well, to me) progressed from promiscuous strumpet to zen mother of two. She's gone from wailing popstress to aspiring Streisand impersonator. Her nasal Michigan accent has been replaced by her renown affected British accent. And her literary endeavours have moved from porn-and-poetry buffets to children's bestsellers.
The question remains: If she has grown up, why haven't I?
I understand that we never outgrow certain things. I still like my cereal super soggy and my milk shaken. I will always respect a good, big swingset. Mary Poppins is and always will be my favorite movie. But today I was confronted with proof positive that I have really not progressed much from where I was at age 6.
I remember watching my dad help me dub my first tape. (Ah, the roots of copyright infringement. How it could bring a family together.) I had gotten a new stereo for Persian New Year, so I'm not joking when I say it was hovering around 15-20 years ago. I wasn't tall enough to see what was taking place on the bar countertop (some would say that hasn't changed?). But I knew with all my heart what was going on. The tape to be dubbed FOR ME AND ONLY ME onto the translucent orange blank tape (what a treat!) was... Madonna "Like a Virgin". I'm talking Angel, Dress You Up, or for ye 80s pop cultural neophytes (hi Jon!), "Material Girl".
The years passed and the tapes got more standard. A translucent clear - but with yellow label- for my dubbing of Madonna "Madonna" (I had to work backwards on that one. Caught on late.) A store-bought True Blue, which notably became my first creative foray into dance. I mean, when the woman says "Get up, stand tall, put your back/up/against the wall, cause my love is dangerous", well then, you throw your little body against the wall, arms in the air, in a display of prepubescent sexuality. And your father, who is the Patron of the Arts, shelling out a buck for each performance, tries to sneak out, but you remind him that there IS ANOTHER song left on this side of the tape before INTERMISSION!
It was around this time that I realized Madonna had progressed to other media (without me?) -- Desperately Seeking Susan made its breakthrough, and I marvelled at a woman so cool she'd dry her armpits on a bus stop hand-dryer. I watched the film "Who's That Girl" over and over again, wondering how long I had to wait to dye *my* hair platinum. Then I bought the soundtrack, impressed and feeling justified (and arguing) that my idol was also, apparently, bilingual "Quien es, esta nina?/Who's that girl?".
The hits kept coming... as You Can Dance, a remix album, was released, I'd insist on staying in the car and listening to it. Lying sweaty in the back of mom's Ford Taurus with the windows barely cracked (Chicago summers, no less), I'd sing along literally Over and Over while mom and dad browsed the racks of Burlington Coat Factory on any given Sunday. Everyone knew I loved her. If there was a Madonna question, you'd ask *me*. That's just the way it was.
You guys who only knew her for Like A Prayer missed out on the whole Dick Tracy movement. In another G family moment (who knew so many of them were due to The Unvirgin herself?) - my sister Susie and I choreographed and entire show to I'm Breathless in our basement. And made my dad sit through it. (Please visit www.boygirlparty.com to see how the choreographer of "I'm Going Bananas" has since matured, well, at least musically.)
While my mom had the idea to let me have a punk 9th birthday party, I was strictly forbidden from attending Madonna concerts. Ever. (Apparently, dressing like her once per year was acceptable, though?) I knew mom didn't like her, encouraging me to listen to Cyndi Lauper instead, or even Michael Jackson, the King of Crotch-Grabbing. I had to sneak over to Kathy Stachniw's house to watch the forbidden Justify My Love video. And we didn't have cable until I was almost through with high school, so videos and awards shows were all I had to go on to keep in touch.
I studied dance. I admittedly never read "Sex", but that's not for lack of me looking for it at the library. I covered "Material Girl" at my school fun fair's Star Studio. I read about her and I enjoyed her freedom while I was a sheltered Persian girl in the midwest. Eventually, I went to University of Michigan. Coincidence? Perhaps.
I stayed faithful through Erotica, Bedtime Stories, and Ray of Light. I bought Evita and took off to Argentina to see the Casa Rosada. I stopped watching Sean Penn movies and tucked away my signed Rodman photo. I nodded to the Maverick building along Santa Monica when I'd drive through L.A. I forgave her for making The Next Best Thing. I overlooked her bastardization of Japanese culture, then Indian. I read about Kabbalah (although I always misspell it "Kaballah," which may be a sign in and of itself?). When she did Swept Away, we got in a fight, and I stopped paying attention to her for a few months. But we made up and American Life joined my expansive cd collection.
Somewhere in there, I *might* have bought her earliest album (horrendous electronica dance stuff from some Scandinavian country, if anyone's looking for it). And I *might* have dropped $20 for the London Symphony Orchestra's tribute to her. But I'm not admitting anything.
What I AM admitting is that this morning, some 20 years after this madness began, I found myself rushing to try and get tickets to her next tour. I'm 26, and I remembered last week that "I'm the boss of me" (said in my most petulant voice). So I dedicated $100 to obtaining tickets to her 'Reinvention' show at the Forum.
No such luck.
So, why am I admitting all of this?
Because part of me is as disappointed as the, what, 11 year old who wasn't allowed to see Blonde Ambition (in retrospect, watching Madonna masturbate on-stage would have been a bonding moment I really didn't need to have with my mom).
It's something I can't seem to get a handle on -- I mean, I am 20 years older than I was when I first started listening to her. In the interim, the world has progressed from tape walkmen to pen-sized mp3 players. We've gone from Reagan to Bush (ok, bad example).
As for Miss Madonna, she has clearly (well, to me) progressed from promiscuous strumpet to zen mother of two. She's gone from wailing popstress to aspiring Streisand impersonator. Her nasal Michigan accent has been replaced by her renown affected British accent. And her literary endeavours have moved from porn-and-poetry buffets to children's bestsellers.
The question remains: If she has grown up, why haven't I?
She Bangs, Will, but you rock
Not since the 1960s have so many women gathered, screaming with perfumed abandon. Is it the Rolling Stones? Nope. The Beatles? Who are they? We're talking William Hung. And don't the ladies know it.
Tonight we decided to take reality television one step forward by participating in the phenomenon known as a William Hung free concert at North County Fair. I hate malls (gender abberation), but I had to go. And courtesy of my resident Tall Friend, Jon, I may even have photographic proof (if not the skillz to post them here).
So. Off we went. Jon dropped us off at the front door and headed off to battle parking. There could be no doubt that the cream-colored Avant limo was for the Hungster (not to be confused with the Hongster). But the legions of screaming women and children? Amazing.
There was quite a lot of build-up to the performance. As muted pop blared through the mall's speakers, we rushed around Robinsons May (not sure of name, just giving you an image) to find a good vantage point. There was none to be had. Even where you could find a space to stand, it was only to be eye-level with youngster-ass, suspended midair in a fatherly display of shoulder-perching. Having made the inappropriate (for the circumstances) choice to wear flat sneakers for the night, I was relegated to merely listening to Will perform, periodically gazing at the posters and pictures of him hanging behind me in an effort to create a more immediate environment for myself. The crowd took mercy on me and parted ways just enough for me to catch the sweep of his hair across his happy forehead. *Hi William* His background dancers swayed, and he sang. About the Circle of Life. Which got a girl thinking.
What in the hell is going on here?
I have had a really tough time telling if America is fascinated by him, or making fun of him. At first, I thought it was brutality of the underhanded junior high 'we let him hang out with us - DORK!' kind. You see, I didn't realize that he set up his OWN website. Now, the pieces fall together-- this guy is at Berkeley. He's no dummy. He's capitalizing on something that usually only makes it as far as a set of 6 life-affirming tapes on a late night infomercial, for 4 easy installments of $39.95 plus tax.
In a weird way (one involving grand stage entrances via two-floor christmas-lit mall elevator), William made his dream come true. I mean, come on, what's the difference between playing Staples center and the mall? (I wouldn't doubt that Kelly Clarkson had to play a few malls in her day, anyway.) He wanted attention. He wanted to sing. I doubt he even thought so far as the pleasant-looking women swaying supportively behind him tonight.
My theory is this: America is watching and drooling over the concept that Everyone is a Star. The fact that his career is preposterous makes it all the more loveable. I mean, it makes sense. We don't love Madonna because she can sing. We love her because she's entertained herself and us and made shitloads of $ by *not* being able to. She's not this untouchable talent; she's just another girl with persistence and a good sense of humor and a business mind. Like the kind of mind that sets up a website immediately following humiliation on a national scale.
If the crowds of tonight are anything to go by, Hung's fans are as much the lone adults strolling the periphery as the young girls who screamed the adorations previously reserved for Justin Timberlake and his prepubescent counterpart Aaron Carter.
The rest of us who get lazy with our dreams (statistical overlap with the populations who hang around malls?) enjoy and live vicariously.
William for President.
THE TRAIN.
It can begin with a simple question. Someone asks you for your opinion about someone. You begin to casually outline the innocuous parts of your Real Thoughts. The conversation continues, and before long, what was once a pencilled tracing of your Real Thoughts becomes pen. No, wait, let's make that marker. Permanent. Bloody, thick lines of permanent black ink. And you're coloring it on, oh boy are you. It feels like a nice good binge standing in front of an open fridge (ok, here I may have lost the guys, but go with it). And you stand back, and have another moment that happens late night in front of the fridge- a moment of absolute and complete disgust with yourself.
Yesterday I found myself talking for an hour and a half about someone I don't know well enough to speak well of for an hour and half. I know this will show up on my report card from hell, but meanwhile, I'm struggling. I'm struggling with the notion of "venting" vs. "bitching" vs. "bouncing ideas". And I'm trying to understand the chemical reaction that takes place when you have particular thoughts or feelings and keep them inside, but the moment they hit the open air (whether in your booming drunken slur or in a delicate whisper), they are different. They are something out of your control. And there is no way to take them back.
I feel like there are some distinctions to be made in the maze of Gossipland. There is of course the elemental truth/falsity line. Then there's the personal-experience/secondhand. To talk about something that happened directly to you involving another person is often considered "reflection", "venting", "sharing your feelings". But if for some reason someone just rubs you the wrong way and you say it, there's NO explanation. Particularly in a world where we're supposed to be making logical decisions, not ones based on INTUITION, for God's sake. That's the title to an offensively pop Jewel song, and ipso facto, not a motto by which to live your life.
No one wants to believe that they're the engine or that they in any way contribute to the chain of evil that somewhat resembles gossip. If we're make a litmus test, I suppose it would be that you should feel good when you're done talking if it's not gossip (pink strip!); you should feel like you got something off your chest. Otherwise, you need to check yourself. And hope it's not too late.
It can begin with a simple question. Someone asks you for your opinion about someone. You begin to casually outline the innocuous parts of your Real Thoughts. The conversation continues, and before long, what was once a pencilled tracing of your Real Thoughts becomes pen. No, wait, let's make that marker. Permanent. Bloody, thick lines of permanent black ink. And you're coloring it on, oh boy are you. It feels like a nice good binge standing in front of an open fridge (ok, here I may have lost the guys, but go with it). And you stand back, and have another moment that happens late night in front of the fridge- a moment of absolute and complete disgust with yourself.
Yesterday I found myself talking for an hour and a half about someone I don't know well enough to speak well of for an hour and half. I know this will show up on my report card from hell, but meanwhile, I'm struggling. I'm struggling with the notion of "venting" vs. "bitching" vs. "bouncing ideas". And I'm trying to understand the chemical reaction that takes place when you have particular thoughts or feelings and keep them inside, but the moment they hit the open air (whether in your booming drunken slur or in a delicate whisper), they are different. They are something out of your control. And there is no way to take them back.
I feel like there are some distinctions to be made in the maze of Gossipland. There is of course the elemental truth/falsity line. Then there's the personal-experience/secondhand. To talk about something that happened directly to you involving another person is often considered "reflection", "venting", "sharing your feelings". But if for some reason someone just rubs you the wrong way and you say it, there's NO explanation. Particularly in a world where we're supposed to be making logical decisions, not ones based on INTUITION, for God's sake. That's the title to an offensively pop Jewel song, and ipso facto, not a motto by which to live your life.
No one wants to believe that they're the engine or that they in any way contribute to the chain of evil that somewhat resembles gossip. If we're make a litmus test, I suppose it would be that you should feel good when you're done talking if it's not gossip (pink strip!); you should feel like you got something off your chest. Otherwise, you need to check yourself. And hope it's not too late.
VALENTINIAN FORMULAE.
"Some days are just 'no days'," mom told me.
I saw him across the parking lot of Starbuck's. Two blah dates and an unreturned call flashed through my mind, and I immediately became enraptured by the contents of my trunk. But alas, destiny was to have the upper hand, and when I ducked into Ralph's as an extra measure, he was approaching. Like the ghosts that duck through those infuriating tunnels and corner Pacman, it was a lost cause and I had only to crumple up and die. I was cornered near the Coinstar machine, ziploc full of change in hand, my ear to my phone checking messages. He was going to play it like he didn't recognize me, but he did. I knew he did. [He hadn't seen me duck him at Jury Duty a few months back - that time I brushed my hair over my face and bent over searching through my purse] This time, I knew I had been spotted. I knew I was the non-caller, which gave him higher moral standing on the dating scale? I think. Caught in the headlights, I pretended to be very involved with the silence in between my phone saying "you have NO - NEW - MESSAGES!", and, without slowing my pace, wiggled my fingers at him.
A wave.
This wave was more than a him-me thing. It was the universal gesture of the auto-fail. It was Simon's smile before dismissing an American Idol contestant. The rolling of eyes at your friends after dismissing a lame guy who you'd seen working his way down the line of ladies at the bar.
I don't like to think of the Auto-Fail as a judgmental instrument. Rather, it is a sincere screening device for settling what you can and can not stand for, and, the way I see it, a tool to spare everyone involved some serious amounts of wasted time.
Often, people will just say "we didn't click". Or "there's just NO chemistry" with us. What is the formula, you may ask? (Or the guy who has just been dissed for the 2040299402th time may ask. I'm not saying you're him. Let's just say it's an example). The formula is personal. It is the formulaic result of data collected from people you've dated, people you wish you'd dated, people your friends dated, the girl at dinner next to you in the ugly jacket, movies, books... all of it. I believe your brain quickly snaps through the possibilities and your human limitations, and spits out a 'yes' or 'no' fortune. It's not super high-tech, but it happens and we do it every time we walk by someone on the street. "Scruffy shoes". Boom. Autofail. "Blowing by panhandler without eye contact or donation." Boom. Autofail. "Deep blue shirt under suit." Meep meep. *Come here, baby*
My formula involves bans on bouffant hairdos, mandals, a guy who slips in the door before me, proud declaration of bowel movements and other illustrious bodily functions, cheesy tattoos, and halitosis. Some may call this shallow, but hey, there are guys out there who won't kick it to a non-blonde or a girl who breaks a sweat at the height requirement signs at Magic Mountain. All's fair in love and war.
But. There's always a but, isn't there? (Unless you don't like butts. Which, again, is your prerogative.) In compiling this little list of my auto-fails, I realized that I have let repeat offenders through the door. More than that, I've nearly fallen for composites of things I didn't want. And the 'nearly' came after the autofail had, well, failed.
So.
I'm learning a lot as I grow up. I've definitely espoused the belief in the past that "ohmigod, he likes that song TOO! What a SIGN!" I thought that the more you were like someone, the more random little interests you shared, the more it was meant to be. And I found that it was easy to focus on those little similarities and find comfort in them when, on a much larger moral scale, we were totally from differing planets. I used to think if a guy liked the same songs, it would be worth trying it out. Then I realized that when you love the same song, one person can love it for the lyrics and another is so caught up in the tune that they didn't even notice the words. Where does that leave you?
Now I wonder if it's possible that I'll fall in love with someone who can't dance for shit, hates sushi, only reads if the phone rings and he needs to click 'closed caption' on The Man Show (on "Girls on Trampolines"... just in case), and can speak about the Bush Jr. presidency without a wave of nausea washing over him.
Yin and yang. Day and Night. Opposites attract. Destiny. Fate. The perfect pair.
Sometimes I think that maybe I'm the sock that didn't make it out of the dryer.
But as for Auto-Fail? The happiest I've been is when it was on the fritz. Maybe I can handle the mandals.
But the halitosis is non-negotiable.
"Some days are just 'no days'," mom told me.
I saw him across the parking lot of Starbuck's. Two blah dates and an unreturned call flashed through my mind, and I immediately became enraptured by the contents of my trunk. But alas, destiny was to have the upper hand, and when I ducked into Ralph's as an extra measure, he was approaching. Like the ghosts that duck through those infuriating tunnels and corner Pacman, it was a lost cause and I had only to crumple up and die. I was cornered near the Coinstar machine, ziploc full of change in hand, my ear to my phone checking messages. He was going to play it like he didn't recognize me, but he did. I knew he did. [He hadn't seen me duck him at Jury Duty a few months back - that time I brushed my hair over my face and bent over searching through my purse] This time, I knew I had been spotted. I knew I was the non-caller, which gave him higher moral standing on the dating scale? I think. Caught in the headlights, I pretended to be very involved with the silence in between my phone saying "you have NO - NEW - MESSAGES!", and, without slowing my pace, wiggled my fingers at him.
A wave.
This wave was more than a him-me thing. It was the universal gesture of the auto-fail. It was Simon's smile before dismissing an American Idol contestant. The rolling of eyes at your friends after dismissing a lame guy who you'd seen working his way down the line of ladies at the bar.
I don't like to think of the Auto-Fail as a judgmental instrument. Rather, it is a sincere screening device for settling what you can and can not stand for, and, the way I see it, a tool to spare everyone involved some serious amounts of wasted time.
Often, people will just say "we didn't click". Or "there's just NO chemistry" with us. What is the formula, you may ask? (Or the guy who has just been dissed for the 2040299402th time may ask. I'm not saying you're him. Let's just say it's an example). The formula is personal. It is the formulaic result of data collected from people you've dated, people you wish you'd dated, people your friends dated, the girl at dinner next to you in the ugly jacket, movies, books... all of it. I believe your brain quickly snaps through the possibilities and your human limitations, and spits out a 'yes' or 'no' fortune. It's not super high-tech, but it happens and we do it every time we walk by someone on the street. "Scruffy shoes". Boom. Autofail. "Blowing by panhandler without eye contact or donation." Boom. Autofail. "Deep blue shirt under suit." Meep meep. *Come here, baby*
My formula involves bans on bouffant hairdos, mandals, a guy who slips in the door before me, proud declaration of bowel movements and other illustrious bodily functions, cheesy tattoos, and halitosis. Some may call this shallow, but hey, there are guys out there who won't kick it to a non-blonde or a girl who breaks a sweat at the height requirement signs at Magic Mountain. All's fair in love and war.
But. There's always a but, isn't there? (Unless you don't like butts. Which, again, is your prerogative.) In compiling this little list of my auto-fails, I realized that I have let repeat offenders through the door. More than that, I've nearly fallen for composites of things I didn't want. And the 'nearly' came after the autofail had, well, failed.
So.
I'm learning a lot as I grow up. I've definitely espoused the belief in the past that "ohmigod, he likes that song TOO! What a SIGN!" I thought that the more you were like someone, the more random little interests you shared, the more it was meant to be. And I found that it was easy to focus on those little similarities and find comfort in them when, on a much larger moral scale, we were totally from differing planets. I used to think if a guy liked the same songs, it would be worth trying it out. Then I realized that when you love the same song, one person can love it for the lyrics and another is so caught up in the tune that they didn't even notice the words. Where does that leave you?
Now I wonder if it's possible that I'll fall in love with someone who can't dance for shit, hates sushi, only reads if the phone rings and he needs to click 'closed caption' on The Man Show (on "Girls on Trampolines"... just in case), and can speak about the Bush Jr. presidency without a wave of nausea washing over him.
Yin and yang. Day and Night. Opposites attract. Destiny. Fate. The perfect pair.
Sometimes I think that maybe I'm the sock that didn't make it out of the dryer.
But as for Auto-Fail? The happiest I've been is when it was on the fritz. Maybe I can handle the mandals.
But the halitosis is non-negotiable.
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF SLACKING.
It's been a long week. One of those weeks that feels like a year. On a roadtrip. Sitting bitch. With the a/c out. Listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on staticky radio.
But I'm back. I have a sore throat. This appears to be to the benefit of my neighbors, who will no longer hear my shower operetta. At least not this week.
While I haven't been writing much, I have been thinking alot. Not in the way that, when you're caught napping, you go "My eyes are closed because I'm *thinking*". For real thinking. Pondering. About "working to live" vs. "living to work". About friendship and how you gauge how much time/effort you're going to put into getting to know someone. About the appropriate length for a flirtatious email. About forgiveness and persistence in the face of cumulative signs that something (or someone) isn't right for you. About how a silly game of football is the pinpoint upon which the most powerful nation in the world rests for exactly 4 hours per annum. And about how to best develop my triceps (suggestions are appreciated).
2004 has been pretty entertaining so far. I find myself making grossly inappropriate decisions that I know Lilly would never have made a year ago. As my bank account steadily approaches zero, I booked a ticket to visit Paris. I did this, quite simply, because I feel like speaking French and taking lots of black and white photographs, even if they are on an automatic camera. It makes no sense and it goes against every grain of what I've ever been taught, particularly with my job hanging (dangling?) in the balance. But I'm finding more freedom in living in the moment this past month than I have in the entire past 26 years of my life.
I've always been raised to gogogogogogogo. I've been watching my sister be the one to gogogogogogo for the last month (big ups to susie g.- take a trip around the corner to www.boygirlparty.com). There's this immense relief in not being the go-getter. In watching my sibling be the one to bring home exciting news and pride in her accomplishments. I have been revelling in my backseat position these past few weeks (ok, all of you - heads OUT of the gutter!). I get to have that amazing feeling of being proud of (her) accomplishments and - get this! - I don't have to do ANYTHING!
Besides my general lack of drive to do anything except knit scarves and watch reality television, I find my new attitude filling my brain like smoke seeping through from under the door. I have proof positive that I'm getting dumber, and I'm exploring this new (or just acknowledged?) spacey-ness with the same excitement that I'd try on new shoes or a funky pair of earrings. I'm attitude-accessorizing, if you will.
The other day I had two episodes of blatant stupidity; moments where I played Chrissy Snow to the world's Janet. And I LOVED them, because it felt so **normal**. You can't always be smart. You can't always be 'together'. You can't always have a map for the next 5 years of your life sketched out. I had always thought these things so necessary to my happiness, and yet I found myself unhappy.
When you take the pressure of attempts at perfection out of every moment of your waking life, you notice that you're actually breathing. You notice the sun rise and set, not as the imposing parameters of what you can get done in the day, but as a pretty gift you get on a daily basis, you ungrateful shit! :) Now when a piece of my life seems like it's unraveling, I either deal with it, or laugh about it and put it away for another day when I have the energy to deal with bullshit. I don't lose my head over it. I don't obsess. Because it's just life, after all.
For my next act, I will attempt to bottle this attitude.
"Life is a tragedy to those who feel, and a comedy to those who think."
-someone, as quoted to me by my Mom
It's been a long week. One of those weeks that feels like a year. On a roadtrip. Sitting bitch. With the a/c out. Listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on staticky radio.
But I'm back. I have a sore throat. This appears to be to the benefit of my neighbors, who will no longer hear my shower operetta. At least not this week.
While I haven't been writing much, I have been thinking alot. Not in the way that, when you're caught napping, you go "My eyes are closed because I'm *thinking*". For real thinking. Pondering. About "working to live" vs. "living to work". About friendship and how you gauge how much time/effort you're going to put into getting to know someone. About the appropriate length for a flirtatious email. About forgiveness and persistence in the face of cumulative signs that something (or someone) isn't right for you. About how a silly game of football is the pinpoint upon which the most powerful nation in the world rests for exactly 4 hours per annum. And about how to best develop my triceps (suggestions are appreciated).
2004 has been pretty entertaining so far. I find myself making grossly inappropriate decisions that I know Lilly would never have made a year ago. As my bank account steadily approaches zero, I booked a ticket to visit Paris. I did this, quite simply, because I feel like speaking French and taking lots of black and white photographs, even if they are on an automatic camera. It makes no sense and it goes against every grain of what I've ever been taught, particularly with my job hanging (dangling?) in the balance. But I'm finding more freedom in living in the moment this past month than I have in the entire past 26 years of my life.
I've always been raised to gogogogogogogo. I've been watching my sister be the one to gogogogogogo for the last month (big ups to susie g.- take a trip around the corner to www.boygirlparty.com). There's this immense relief in not being the go-getter. In watching my sibling be the one to bring home exciting news and pride in her accomplishments. I have been revelling in my backseat position these past few weeks (ok, all of you - heads OUT of the gutter!). I get to have that amazing feeling of being proud of (her) accomplishments and - get this! - I don't have to do ANYTHING!
Besides my general lack of drive to do anything except knit scarves and watch reality television, I find my new attitude filling my brain like smoke seeping through from under the door. I have proof positive that I'm getting dumber, and I'm exploring this new (or just acknowledged?) spacey-ness with the same excitement that I'd try on new shoes or a funky pair of earrings. I'm attitude-accessorizing, if you will.
The other day I had two episodes of blatant stupidity; moments where I played Chrissy Snow to the world's Janet. And I LOVED them, because it felt so **normal**. You can't always be smart. You can't always be 'together'. You can't always have a map for the next 5 years of your life sketched out. I had always thought these things so necessary to my happiness, and yet I found myself unhappy.
When you take the pressure of attempts at perfection out of every moment of your waking life, you notice that you're actually breathing. You notice the sun rise and set, not as the imposing parameters of what you can get done in the day, but as a pretty gift you get on a daily basis, you ungrateful shit! :) Now when a piece of my life seems like it's unraveling, I either deal with it, or laugh about it and put it away for another day when I have the energy to deal with bullshit. I don't lose my head over it. I don't obsess. Because it's just life, after all.
For my next act, I will attempt to bottle this attitude.
"Life is a tragedy to those who feel, and a comedy to those who think."
-someone, as quoted to me by my Mom
Posts
