I was reading a book that mentioned a Leo Buscaglia story. Backtrack: Leo Buscaglia is an author, maybe a psychologist? His name is familiar to me via my parents and PBS-type shows. He is lumped in with calm entertainment a la Garrison Keillor and Ella Jenkins, back in the Chicago days. In any case, cool name. Moving on.
So when Leo was young, his father would ask him every night (Hello, there are parents who talk to their children on a daily basis?!) "What did you learn today, Leo?". And Leo would have to tell his father something new he'd learned about. If he hadn't learned anything, he'd scurry away (paints more of a picture than 'walking', don't you think?) and read something new in the encyclopaedia and report back. He credits this interaction with his love of learning.
I credit it with leaving me to some hard-hitting questions. Shit, I mean, do *I* learn something every day? I mean, something I'd be proud to tell someone else (moreover, my FATHER?). "Dad, I learned how to say 'shit' in Tagalog today." "Dad, I learned that if you eat asparagus, your pee will smell funny." Or "Dad, I learned that Plan B is basically a double-dose of birth control. Whaddaya know!". The pressure would be on. Reading this heartwarming vignette (retch, retch) makes me reflect upon what it is I *do* learn on a daily basis. I have lots of pop music knowledge (I just typed 'poop'. Coincidence? I think not). I can tell you who is married to who, who produced and album, what a song is written about. But outside of that, I don't know what I learn on a daily basis. I email my friends a lot. Maybe I should email strangers. Instead of hearing what my friends bought themselves on their various lunchbreaks or reading the "Guys' Rules" email forward for the millionth time, maybe, just maybe, I should find a penpal.
My first thought is to call back the customer service guy I dealt with at Netgear last night. The amount of time it took for him to pick up combined with his pristine Britain-o-Indian accent makes me think that, like HP, their calls are taken in India. He obviously knows things I don't, like how to wirelessly route my computer. Maybe we could be friends. I could learn science-y things. Computer science was never my forte. And then, after he had enlightened me with his techno-intellect, I could sweetly coo back to him (or write, if we decide to be penpals) about the reason why the Detroit Pistons love Anita Baker or the finer points of the state of Gwen Stefani's marriage.
Although, given how I hung up on him last night, maybe not.
What did I learn today? Hm.... (looking around). I learned that you can drive like a bat out of hell and not kill yourself because God is feeling particularly generous on that day. I learned that you can fry apples. I learned that Kinko's has become a very lazy establishment where you do your own copying (what is THAT all about?). Lemme think, lemme think. I learned that SDSU has an MBA in Sports Business Management in partnership with the Padres, the first program of its kind. I learned how to use a knife sharpener. I learned more about Steven Jay Gould's theories (not that I could recite them to you right now). I learned that fanatic Christians may be the downfall of scientific education in the United States (come on, people, I grew up in a Jewish town). Oh, and I learned that three Iranian women attempted a suicide pact after the fourth wife of their husband bought expensive shoes. (We Iranians are nothing if not dramatic.)
And I heard someone say "you don't have to like someone to learn from them". So maybe I'll start learning that much more.
WHAT RHYMES WITH BLOSSOM?
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.
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?
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