Hoot or Be Hooted or Ode to Owen

Last night we went linedancing. A cultural experience, if you will. The theme of the evening was "hoot squared". The plan was that first we'd dine (if you can call it that) at Hooters (one of the six in San Diego, I learned). Then we would mosey down the street to a country western bar called In Cahoots, where we would learn the folk dances of white people. Who could resist? Not me.

Hooters was, well, anticlimactic. Women with cosmetically improved breasts greeted us with sorority-pitched voices (yes, I realize it takes one to know one) "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!! Welcome to Hooters!". Then we sat at a table and our waitress (whose silicone stretched skin had an uncanny resemblance to pork casing) proceeded to take the guys' orders. Then she left. No, I am not kidding. Her little bleached-blonde head turned, and her orange short shorts and tan tights and 1985 aerobic stacked athletic socks and white sneakers marched out of view. I wasn't going to be a hater. I had gone to Hooters with an open mind (Um. obviously). But this meant war. When I asked her if I could order my dinner as well, she looked extremely perplexed (confirming my belief that they don't let their waitresses eat. Ever.). "Um. Okay. Like. I'm gonna take these drink orders. And then? Um. I'll come back and take orders." This as wing sauce dripped down the faces of a gleeful Ryan, Eric, Jon and Hong.

Sigh.

I took a moment to memorialize the signs the girls had worked soo hard to make. (Author omits another dig at sorority girls). "Have you seen our new Sea Food menu?". Apparently this is two words. You learn something new every day. Thanks Hooter Girls!

I'll spare you the rest of the dining experience, which included but was not limited to some guy trying to hit on me on my way to the bathroom. Um, let me just make a public service announcement here and now.

Gentlemen: Times not to hit on a woman include when she is beelining for the bathroom. Secondly, do not assume she speaks Spanish, no matter how Latina she looks. Finally, when trying to woo the ladies, Hooters might not be your best bet. At least save it for the parking lot. Jeez.

So then we went to In Cahoots. Somewhere along the way, while living my little urban lifestyle, I failed to realize that people line up, 100 people deep, for hours outside this bar in Mission Valley. A fair number (read: more than one or two) were in their white cowboy hats and Wranglers. Everyone had their shirts tucked in, as per the dress code. Seeing men with shirts tucked in is worth your $7 admission alone. I thought it must have been a Spring Break rush, but apparently that's the norm over there. What people won't do for $1.75 you-call-its. As we approached the door, 2Pac's "California Love" came blaring from the rustic windows. Um. Yeah.

So we went in, and made for the bar, as any woman worth her salt would. Armed with my wine freshly poured from a generic jug under the bartender's counter, I made my way to the dancefloor. That's where I saw Owen. So nicknamed by Gemma for his resemblance to a famous actor of our generation, he was a sight to behold. The only way I can describe it is this: ballroom dance champion with cowboy fashion sensibilities. I mean, this guy was a GOOD dancer. While some others (one guy who I would end up dancing with, as luck would have it) danced their partners around the floor with all the grace -- and speed- of a drag race, Owen stood out. As did his unbuttoned shirt boasting, well, not a single chest hair. I think the stetson laying low on his face helped mask all of his 19 years or so.

You learn a lot by going new places. A good share of my evening was spent peoplewatching under the banner/excuse of "I'm middle eastern. We don't stomp."

I learned that there is a line dance to Sweet Home Alabama. I also learned that some company actually makes tee shirts that say "Save a horse. Ride a cowboy." I learned that there are people who actually wear them. I learned that the scrawniest guy will surprise you and be the best dancer. I learned that there are dances that people with no rhythm can perform successfully. I learned that, lest any of you out there be worried your time is running out, it is socially acceptable in some circles to make out on a dance floor when you're 35, 40, nay 50. I learned that country music can be bearable in mass quantities in the right situation.

I also learned that I have a poetic side. I'd like to conclude this entry with an Ode to Owen;

Like a ballerina
In a cowboy hat
You danced the floor
And that was that

With a twirl
You spun that girl
Punk.
You should have danced with me.

So that gross guy would have left me alone.
The one who smelled like barf
No thanks to $2 you-call-its.

With a hitchkick
Up in the air
You broke into my heart
And I won't share
You with Gemma.

'Tis the Season

This morning my roommate got an email from her dad:

"Don't forget to jump over fire tonight. Love, Dad"

Lest ye be under the mistaken impression that the only holidays that exist are those alloted careful space on Hallmark shelves, let me welcome you to Persian New Year. For all the negative press Middle Easterners get, you think we'd get a teensy bit of recognition for the creative spark to our holidays. Tonight is Char Shanbeh soori. What this involves is good food, jumping over fire (or carrying old people over fire, which rivals Chapelle's Show in hilarity), and friends. No presents, just good people and maybe some dancing if you're one of 5000 Iranians to crowd onto the grass of Mission Bay.

With age, I've broadened my appreciation of Persian holidays. Rewind. I grew up, indeed, I think all three of us G offspring did, with the mistaken impression that we were Christian Persians. We lived in a Jewish suburb of Chicago. For December arts and crafts you did red and green or you did blue and white. I went with red and green and called it a day. My sister went through a brief period of exploring her Jewish side, tacking a homemade Star of David on her door and issuing my mom a stern warning: "don't CHOUCH it!" Soon that was replaced with a "stay out" type of sign and she expanded her talents beyond construction paper, but that's another story for another day. (Hi susie!)

In any case, like I said, Santa was the man. I tried to ignore my dismay that so many of my friends had oh so many nights of gifts coming their way and did my best to loot at Christmas, in between jetting to exotic warm destinations. However we had one secret in our pockets. Right around March 21st, Mom would call us in sick for the day, citing family obligations. Hey, any family where staying home and dressing up in new clothes and eating til you're sick and then ceremonially accepting wads of freshly printed cash from family friends is a family I want to be part of.

My American friends leaned in closer. "You get *what*?" I'd beam back the free advertising smile of the daughter of a dentist. "Yup, money." "Like how much?" "It depends." But it didn't really. My parents were always extremely generous. Once in awhile there was a gift. Like the year my dad got into the spirit and bought me a 'ghettoblaster' and taught me how to dub tapes. Most often it was crisp cash tucked within the pages of the Quran. God help me escape the mental connectio between Quran pages and Benjamin Franklin's face on a sheet of green. Sometimes I think they amortized the compensation for Iranian-hostage-crisis-related-trauma over the course of the years, paying their children in installments. As we gathered around the haft-seen to take pictures, images of my forthcoming trip to loot Musicland danced in my head.

So tonight my friends and I will jump over a fire (Rule Number One of Persian Living: Always listen to your parents!), symbolically giving it our sickness and taking its vibrant heat. On Sunday morning, the actual New Year (the first day of spring), my family will awaken and dutifully dress in new clothing from the skin out and stand around our haft-seen at 4:30 in the morning. The haft-seen will be a notch more elaborate than last year, and the lilac plants will make me sneeze as much as I will have the night before courtesy of Persian men self-doused in cologne for the cultural society's party. We'll smile for the camera. My parents will vigorously snap shots of the Endangered Son In Suit and Tie, and we'll each critique the photos before deleting and retaking in an incessant cycle (because we expect somehow to look GOOD in these photos at 5am, don'tchaknow?).

In the dawn light, we'll each silently make wishes on the year to come. Some of us will wish for world peace. Others will wish for new and exciting people in our lives. Others yet will wish for the hoopla to be over so they can return to bed. Then, a moment late (and thus right on schedule), my mom will remind us that we should have held coins as the year changed for good luck and fortune, launching yet another year of cheerful poverty for their artist children :)

Ritual complete, family and guests will slink back to our rooms. Then I might make a quick return to slip a few more pieces of the baklava, but there will be no witnesses to my crime. As I wander back down the hallway to my own room, I don't know what will go through my mind. What I do know is that part of me will be very very glad that there is no construction paper that comes close to capturing the colors of this holiday.

Joan Rivers Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

I watched the Oscars too. Okay, at home. On my couch. In my sweats. With Jon, who played Melissa to my Joan. But we were there. I don't know that I've ever watched them before. I think I have seen repeat clips, including but not limited to some old guy who won dropping and doing push-ups. Name escapes me, as did the interest to ever watch them in full. You may wonder what the result of the evening was. Well, first and foremost, I lost the betting pool we had going. Apparently I suck at mindreading the academy. That makes some $20 I've lost in gambling endeavours to my friends this weekend. I turned off the tv with the sinking feeling that I *might* have just wasted 2 hours of my life, shock and awe at the fact that Jamie Foxx's speech made me cry (although his movie didn't), and a compulsion to apply as a seat-filler for next year, to help them save face. I mean, as long as they continue giving awards in the aisles, who could resist?

THE BASICS
The way I see it, the Oscars are a comedy of the absurd. It's beautiful, rich people celebrating themselves. They do so in song. And if you're beautiful and rich in 2005, this song might happen twice, both times by Beyonce, with significant costume change. Some stars who absolutely do not belong on the scene make appearances to be sure that they, too, are counted in the census of the beautiful and rich untouchables. Enter Prince. "This evening, Prince (twirl) is wearing a silky purple jacket ensemble with white palazzo pants". You know it's bad when they let Antonio Banderas sing but you don't. This is when you take them up on the "regrets" part of RSVP, bro!

THE CATFIGHT
The Academy, much like San Quentin Prison, recognizes the ethnic groupings of its inmates. Why else would Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek present together? I don't know if they don't like each other or if they were just pissed to appear onstage in matching hairdos. I would be. I get the feeling Salma's the smart one and Penelope is the barbie of the two, but in any case, it was very, very weird. They gave each other one fake smile. I think it was more that Penelope grinned at Salma and caught her unexpectedly, so Salma forced one back. If they'd been kept on camera 5 minutes longer, I think we might have been graced with a Million Pesos Baby reenactment. Then maybe Beyonce could sing for us again.

RETURN OF 90S POPSTERS
Oh, Counting Crows! THERE you are! I've been looking for you! Not. A few weeks ago, a friend told me that Adam Duritz's hair is a wig given to him by his father. Contemplating this factoid was the only fascinating thing about their performance. That and wondering if Jennifer Aniston would even consider him while on the rebound.

WHO ARE THE PRETTY PEOPLE?
Guaranteed next year's presenters will be uglier. This year they outshined the actresses. You saw them - the tall, georgeous women in gold dresses. That's like bridesmaids upstaging the brides. And when you have actresses with questionable fashion taste (hi Kristin Dunst), well, you have to take measures.

OH, SO THAT'S HOW SHE GOT IT
I have spent quite a while wondering how Sandra Oh got the role in Sideways. Then the screenwriters won and came up to thank their wives. Oh, looky here! Sandra Oh is one of them.

BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT
In an effort to reduce the physical strain of walking up to the stage, the Academy now awards winners in the aisles. They run a dizzying camera down the aisle where the nominees are seated, and the winner comes to the mic to accept, much like the question-and-answer sessions following a David Sedaris show. Only not funny. Just insulting.

THE NEXT KARATE KID
Won the Oscar. Enough said. See you next year when Son of Mask sweeps...

RELATIONSHIP RULE #1

Oh, come on. As if it's going to be that easy. That's the bad news. The good news is that you're not the first to think so.

Today I declared to a friend that I'd learned that, in relationships, "Actions speak louder than words". It felt monumental to write out in an email and push "send". I felt like the scientist who discovered, I dunno, that cells divide. I had discovered The Truth. But the truth is that I was just finding ways to make myself feel productive on a Monday. In a typical friends-of-Lilly(tm) rapidfire email exchange, he agreed that he would subscribe to my rule, which caught me off guard. I had to go back and correct my mistake before I became Her Befuddled Guru of Messy Relationships. I went back to the chalkboard with this tidbit:

"you can learn the rule as many times as you like. I learned the rule years ago, and never implemented. i like to *say* i will implement, because it makes me feel that i've learned something. if it were easy to apply rules to matters of the heart, there would be no heartbreak, everyone would be settled down, and books like "He's Just Not That Into You" wouldn't sell zillions of copies. It's not stuff women don't know ("if he doesn't call you, he isn't into you"; "if he tells you he loves you but you haven't met a single friend, he isn't into you", "if he sleeps with you and disappears for a month, he isn't into you"). we know it. we just forget in the face of romance or a cutie or a few martinis. everyone does. and so spins the wheel."


It's almost like, as a society, we have a wicked case of willful amnesia.

Suckybowl Sunday

When I heard that Paul McCartney was the talent lined up for this year's Superbowl Half-Time Show, I knew I wouldn't be watching. Not just halftime, the whole game. I'm out about this now. Closeted-no-more! I don't care about football! Woo hoo! I mean, sometimes I do. I care if my friend's fiance makes a team he wants to be on so they can live a blissful life. Why do I care about this? Well, clearly I want somewhere nice to go when I need a break from my apartment, the year 2024, peopled only by dusty books and underfed ants and maybe Pele if he takes pity on me...

I took a moment to wonder today if I could be deported for not liking football. I mean, is my commentary about not caring about the Great American Sport (which is only such when baseball is not in season, conveniently) dangerous to my citizenship status? Could I be kicked out of the good ole U.S. of A for being "UnAmerican"? I mean, where does the insanity end? One day it's incendiary political words inciting action that can get you your own "1br/1bath with view; on the Bay" (of Guantanamo...), but with the Patriots taking it for the third time, were I to (in a fictional word, I assure you, Mr. Gonzales, but thanks for dropping by...) speak *against* His Royal Bradyness, would INS show up at my door?

Then I remembered I was born here. Phew.

Yeah, so the Superbowl doesn't really affect you if you don't want it to. I thought I'd go to Borders and sit and read, figuring it would be empty, but as I maneuvered my car in that direction (northward, for ye who are interested), I realized that the nerds would come out! It would not be empty and read-able, but rather, Borders would be overrun by fellow bookworms, losers, American misfits. I turned the car around and came back home.

Which would have been fine, but for the fact that my garage door opener expired this afternoon. It fucking broke, that's what I mean. And not just in a "please replace the battery" way, but in a "busted open completely unprovoked" way. I sat for 20 minutes behind the garage door, visualizing how happy I would be when it jumped back to life, but no dice. No dice and, as it were, no cars either. I sat in my car for 20 minutes watching nothing happen. Not one person ventured out in the time I sat there. OF COURSE. And the meters in the neighborhood? - Full. OF COURSE. Eventually, I parked a few streets away and made my way back home in a caravan of self-pity. When I came home, I immediately began wrestling with a mini-screwdriver (the real kind, although, in retrospect, a little OJ and vodka would have done the trick). I heard a little something or other clatter out of the opener and on to the kitchen floor, but I couldn't find it, not knowing what I was looking for. I got on my hands and knees and fished around, and coming up with only a handful of questionable food crumbs, I gave up.

Someone remind me to move my car in the morning?

So that's Superbowl Sunday over here. I checked the score from time to time on my laptop, hearing my upstairs neighbor (yes, THAT ONE) and his friends erupt into cheers with a 4 second delay. Then I went to work out and read about rappers who have been shot. Because if that didn't put me in a better mood, nothing would. A few fairy tales from the faraway kingdom of Compton later, perspective has been restored. I'm still annoyed, but, lacking caps to bust in negligent asses, I'm going to make myself a sandwich.

I Bet You Think This Blog Is About You

Once upon a time, things were simple. You might remember it. Sit down for a second. No, wait, stand. We're gonna take a walk down memory lane.

Way back when, let's say, oh, 1989, you had very simple criteria in your life. You hung out with friends who entertained you. You found ways to amuse yourself that honed in on your talents. You made tape mixes and swapped them with other kids, having already screened said friends for their musical taste. It wasn't considered weird to filter people out of your life based on their (allegedly) shitty taste in music. Importantly, it wasn't uncalled for to screen people out for *lacking* their own taste in music. You did what you wanted to. Oh, and what your parents wanted, because they paid the bills.

Since I don't have access to your particular memory lane, let me take you down mine. I had a decent amount of friends (this would be the "the writer of this blog wasn't a total loser" clause). Within that group that filled my little address book, I had a few that I was genuinely close with. How did I know I was close with them? Because I'd share my sketches of the logo and bassist from Guns n Roses with them. That's how you knew you were in the inner circle. But how did I know who to share my prized artwork with? Did they have to be a GnfnR fan? Of course not. But, like a Venn Diagram, enough had to intersect to make them worth my time. If not, I was happy drawing and writing songs (including the sleeper hit "I Think I'll Become A Nun") in my room, on my island of pink striped walls and flaming flourescent carpeting, thank you very much.

Some of my friends just "got" it. And they mostly proved to me that they did via their understanding of music that I liked. Now, I'm not gonna push it. I have and always will listen to Madonna on my own clock. But my best friend throughout high school is the one who laughed at Doctor Demento tapes with me to no end, pausing only to film our own video for "Dead Puppies (Aren't Much Fun)". She was alongside me as we listened to hours upon hours of 103.5, hard rock. She would walk in to my room and pass my posters of Sebastian Bach or Bret Michaels without flinching. Only she could duet with me just right on Tesla songs.

Music brought people together back in the day despite the geographical distances between them and the absence of technology to fill those gaps. We didn't have file swapping. What we had was tape dubbing and the US Fucking Postal Service. Once you made a friend in Boston or in Wisconsin or in Canada, you could stay in touch via loooong letters of painstaking detail (and design) detailing all the millions of minute details of your life, accompanied by a painstakingly assembled 60 or -- if you were so devoted -- 90 minute tape mix.

I still have my crate of tapes. Someone asked me the other day why I don't dump them, given that I own much of that same music on cd. But perfect digital sound isn't what I'm after. What good is an Aerosmith song to me if not labeled in Julia-from-French-camp-this-was-the-tape-she-made-when-I-visited-her-family-jumped-on-their-trampoline-and-accidentally-ate-venison handwriting? And what about all the punk rock that I just couldn't get in to, but Jon "we-were-in-the-same-Holland-American-cruise-clique" Barabash of Edmonton assembled and sent in a steady stream of persuasion? And what about Stacy's mixes for my international family vacations, in which she plugged a mic and entertained me with her random thoughts between the Doors and Blue Oyster Cult?

Today we make our friends for different reasons. The office brings people together. Blech. Prestige brings people together. Class seating brings people together. Because-we-have-a-friend-in-common brings people together. Desperation (often) brings people together. Back in the day, my criteria was tightly enforced. I would rifle through people's tape cases in search of a reason to believe we should be friends. I was efficient as a forensic expert at a stinky scene. In, find what I need to make my decision, and leave.

I had a conversation with a male friend as I was starting college to the effect that "Real Men Listen To The Beastie Boys". Well, our theory was tested out not too much later. I went on a few dates with Jake, a Nice Guy. Exactly. There wasn't anything wrong with him -- he was cute, smart, and pretty fun. But there wasn't anything really *right* with him either. The first time I was over at his house, I sat myself right in front of his CD tower. My eyes scanned the impeccably organized collection. "AC/DC..... AC/DC....Beatles." There it was. All I needed to know. I scanned with my eyes, once, twice more, to be sure they hadn't failed me. I was on the scene of a stinky crime. I told him nicely that I needed to leave, and I went to find my friend and go home.

Somewhere on the journey to adulthood, I hushed my Muse-Ical Instincts. They were telling me all along, no, screaming, that the guys I found myself adoring weren't right for me. There was the guy who listened to too much nn-cha nn-cha techno. The guy who made me a mix with Len's "Stealing My Sunshine" (Author's Note: I would *never* dis on a mix someone had made me, but in retrospect, this digression was simply unforgivable). The guy who, surpassing Those With Stinky Musical Taste, proved to be a Blank Slater. No musical taste whatsoever. Audially malleable. And thus, for me, boring.

I don't think I need to go on. I think my point has been made. There's something to be said for listening to your heart. And when your heart beats with music every moment of every day, you have all the reason in the world to listen especially hard.

Cheating?

Nothing sexy, nothing scandalous. Here it is:

I am a compulsive to-do list writer. Any time I have a few minutes to myself or I'm bored, I will pick up pen and paper and begin to commit myself to a list of items that I must accomplish and that will make me feel like a productive member of society (my society, Lillyville, population: 1).

So here's my question: Do you ever finish something, only to refer back to your to-do list and find out that it's NOT ON THERE? Then do you write it in and subsequently cross it out?

Don't accuse me. I'm just asking.

"Home, Home on the seventh floor........"

My roommate moved in today.

This is a really big deal. Like moving into the dorms. Except, when I was that innocent child of 17, I had no idea what I was getting in to. College was a big fat mystery, not to mention the anonymous women I would be thrown into close quarters with. This time, it's like getting a redo.

In the original version of Lilly Gets A Roommate, Princess Caroline, as we not-so-affectionately called her, moved in. That deserved its own sentence so that now I can devote sentence #2 to a shortlist of her transgressions: hanging religious symbols on our door, squeezing the remaining two of us into a space that equaled only 1/3 of the room, setting up a loft and then carving into it the dates of her sexual conquests (this was verified by a quick climb-and-peep, but it's all true), hanging dirty underwear off a perfume bottle in full view of guests to our room, stacking a cd case with music that included but was not limited to "John Tesh - Sax By The Fireplace". Did I mention that she would get up first thing, shower, and then lounge around the room naked? Thank God for the fact that I was already quite dependent on contacts to make out shapes. But what I saw, blurry as it may have been, was more than enough for this kid.

In the remake, I should start by saying that the role of Roommate will not be played by a human incarnation of an ostrich. Rather, she's a beautiful girl, and Persian to boot. I've never had a roomie from the motherland. That will put a fun twist on things. Like the episode where the parents come to town. We can dub that one in both languages. Plus, my roomie (aka "Rumi" because I'm ohsoclever) and I, by virtue of our shared common mother tongue, can talk about people behind their backs. But in front of them. So should someone come over and we find the need to be excessively rude, we can do so. Fun for the whole family!

In this issue of Roommate, she has a life. Not to say that Princess C's devotion to the chemistry fraternity at the University of Michigan wasn't proof enough that she was a socialite... but Roomie/Rumi has a career. She has a boyfriend. She does not, from what I have seen, own anything that even rhymes with "Tesh". And I love her for this.

Some people have asked me if it will be hard to adjust to having a roommate after two and a half years of living alone. To them I say this: one- you're just regretting the fact that you didn't crash in my extra room more often. Two, you're just jealous that I get to go through dorm life, minus the food, and you don't. Neener neener. Or maybe you're slightly envious that our antics will likely be deserving of its own website: 712isthebomb.com. I say: stop yer crying and start planning what you're bringing when we throw a Brand New Roomies party.

It just feels like time to do something new, and moving stuff around the house and, perhaps more importantly, moving new life into it, seems like the right thing. I know that the days, weeks, months (years?) to come are going to teach me things. I mean, I already learned something. I learned about NEEDS. You see, her boyfriend moved her in, while she was *out of town* (yes, guys, go back and read that again. Then recognize that the bar has been raised significantly) this weekend. And this made me come to terms with some deep-seated needs *I* have. Every woman has needs, right? Needs that should be satisfied, like... the need to reach the top shelf of my kitchen cupboard. The need to have someone capable of putting my closet door back on its tracks. The need for someone who isn't as scared of the dark as I am to shut off the lights.

Girls who are out there whining (writing, singing, thinking) about how they need a guy to fulfill them emotionally and make them whole are a mystery to me. What I've requested? That's the real deal right there. The basics of survival.

Simplicity is a beautiful thing.

Of Late Night Rite Aid Runs and Checkout Lines

"Is Bill Clinton dying?" screams one cheaply printed trash mag from beneath a glaring flourescent light in Rite Aid. I notice it because I am in a line of 57274 people awaiting the mercy of the sloooooooow clerk. My first reaction was that it was just mean. And that Republicans need to be more creative with their propoganda. My second reaction was "We all are." Ha ha, smirk smirk, gotcha. True, though, right? It made me feel better, because no one wants to think of Bill as anything but the healthy and sexually robust guy we all know and love. But it also got me thinking...

The truth is we all only have x amount of time. Not to be neurotic about how I spend my time, but a recent poll presents some unpleasant facts about my Usage of Time Allotted To Live:

1) watching "Strange Love", a spinoff reality show featuring Brigette Nielsen and Flava Flav = 30 minutes
2) checking email. compulsively = total 2.5 hours
3) lying in bikini top on balcony in constant stream of thought re: how much it would suck to live on the east coast = 45 min
4) prerusing magazines like Fitness, convinced that if I reread the exercises, I will be compelled to do them = 20 minutes
5) staring into the cupboard, convinced that something new will appear = 2 minutes
6) listening to Madonna warble "Imagine" on the tsunami telethon = approx. 4 minutes
7) spent bitching on the phone to friend that I had to endure Madonna singing "Imagine" = 1.5 minutes
8) spent bitching in person to friends over coffee that I had to endure Madonna singing "Imagine" = 45 seconds
9) spent reminding myself that 'harakiri' is not the answer to listening to Madonna sing "Imagine" = 10 seconds
10) watching tv show about celebrities and colonics = 20 minutes
11) explaining the mechanics of colonics ("intestinal vacuuming") to a friend via phone = 3 minutes
12) calculating the odds of having Brad Pitt as my operator if I called the tsunami telethon line = 4 minutes

And that was just today.

I'm not proud of these statistics. Although they do make me laugh. Because if you were to tally up the ways I waste my time, I'm not convinced that my more intellectual endeavours would outweigh. But I'm not sure where this great cosmic intelligensia scale is, so I'm not sweating it til I get there. Good thing one of my resolutions was to not be hard on myself or we'd be in some trouble. I guess making the most of your day is in the eye of the beholder. Because while I'd swap out some of the other choices I've made in the last 24, Flava Flav is a keeper...

That Last Ten Pounds

Whatever. As if. You really thought I was going to resolve to whittle myself into perfect shape yet again, for the 15th year in a row? Come on now. I got realistic this year. I decided to broaden the New Years Resolutions.

New Years Resolutions are an iffy subject with me. On the one hand, I want to make them, to join the legions of Americans who are promising to become their best selves in the next year. Then again, I feel like I should hold off until the first day of spring, launching my resolutions at the new year I genuinely celebrate, the Persian one. Or maybe I should have American resolutions for my American persona and Persian resolutions for my other persona? Examples: American persona vows to lose 10 pounds, be nicer person. Iranian persona vows to stop wishing ridiculous amounts of facial hair on fellow Persian females I don't particularly care for. And so on.

This year I decided not to think so far ahead (March = so far), so I racked up my resolutions. I wanted to learn conversational Italian, practice yoga more regularly, run 100 miles over the course of the year, finish Anna Karenina for once and for all... but the list looked so blah. And it wasn't much different than what I promise myself on a regular basis anyways. So I decided to "think big". To go more for thematic, quality of life-oriented decisions. Here they are:

1) To drop guilt. Jessica used to say that "guilt is a worthless emotion". I didn't understand. I heard her, but I didn't *get* it. I couldn't imagine getting rid of guilt any more than I could imagine letting go of my long hair or my eyeballs. Or my typing fingers, come to think of it.

I loved when she'd say it, because it was a comment usually aimed at my ex, or another guy on my Shit List of the Week. They'd push the wrong buttons, get on my bad side, realize they had taken me for granted (is there a patent on this procedure?), and then feel guilty about what they'd done. And Jess and I, suited up for a long walk through the hills of Westwood, would just tsk and say "Guilt? Guilt is a worthless emotion." And that would be that.

Guilt pervades many aspects of my life, and I'd like to clear it out and make room for other emotions I haven't explored that much. Like love. Or rage. Haven't felt much rage. Confusion? Nope. Know-it-alls don't go through that one very often. Euphoria. I'd like a bit of that.

Ultimate reason for dropping guilt: guilt IS worthless. It means there's a situation you're just dwelling on, without doing anything about it. It had never occurred to me, Miss Woman of Action, that this was a sticking point. You're not making the situation better, you're just feeling like shit about whatever has happened. Worthless. Consider it done.

2) To stop being so hard on myself. At least one friend has countered that I'm genetically coded for guilt by virtue of being Iranian. Hm. Is that a challenge? So far, I've spent 2005 eating cookie dough with abandon, taking a few days off work, no matter how many calls I've gotten or emails fester in my inbox, and refusing to be hard on myself about it (not to mention not feeling guilt about it). I can't imagine what a year without being cruel to myself about every aspect of my life will be like. So far, it's great. Like a daily vacation. Next year, I'm asking the annual gods for my own cabana boy.

So this is how the year begins. I've already been cosmically tested on both prongs of my New Years Resolutions (what, you thought it would be easy?), and I almost caved. But not quite. It's not easy work, sticking to these things. Halting yourself from writing a smooth-over email for the second time, or calling someone just to be sure that you don't have a reason to feel guilty. Ignoring the stack of paper that looms over you, casting a shadow over your desk.

Sometimes I think that, by comparison, ten pounds would be a cinch.

Home for the Holidays

Ah, such a dramatic title for what amounts to an 8 mile drive for me. But the holidays are more than a journey down the highway- they are a personal journey -- always. Aren't they? It's part of my ritual to watch the fabulous film Home for the Holidays, starring Holly Hunter and Lilly Downey Jr. -ahem, sorry - Robert Downey Jr. It taps in, with an all-star cast boasting Geraldine Chaplain and Anne Bancroft, no less, into the compelling mix of adoration and suffocation that fill the air at family gatherings.

Every year, the holidays are a chance to gauge how things have changed in the last 365 days. I suppose we do it, even unconsciously, this measuring of sorts. My brother has sprouted facial hair and height in mass quantities, and ducks out at intervals to go see his girlfriend. I made a lot of the Christmas presents I gave my family, helped cook dinner, and baked throughout the weekend (gag gag, hello domesticity). And so on. I try to remember what the holidays were like when we were 2, 9, and 11, but I can barely recall thanks to this crap memory of mine, mostly used up on song lyrics. I used to celebrate Christmas unfailingly. String the popcorn, make the paper chain, whatever. Now I sit back and enjoy our use of a holiday celebrating a savior our religion (not that we really have one) doesn't recognize as God's son. But boy oh boy do we loot.

I was showered with gifts I probably don't deserve. I mean, was I good kid? Let's see. I quit my job. That was fun, if slightly naughty. And this brings me to another question- we have to have been good all year, right Santa? But do we need to be good from January 1 to Christmas? Is this like taxes, on the calendar year? Because if so, as I see it, we need to raise holy hell from today (Dec 26) til Dec 31st. Maybe these are freebie days? And maybe we should work quickly. I don't know what I'd do even if I was give the free reign to misbehave. Maybe I'd send George Bush a rude email. Maybe I'd blow off some red lights. Maybe I'd get a tattoo. I regret that the rebellion gene seems to have missed me.

Anyways, back to the holidays. I suppose I expect everything to be pristine and perfect. I expect the reflection of Christmas ornaments to twinkle in our eyes as we share a meal. But this isn't how holidays go. That's not what they're for, I'm realizing. I suppose I'd always expected our family to live up to this Hallmark Holiday Special standard of "perfection". And yet that doesn't apply. Question as to whether it even exists.

I suppose I don't have the right to quote Tolstoy, given that I"m only halfway thru Anna Karenina (and that was 2 years ago, when I took a break and never picked it up again. oops). "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." I'm not sure I agree in breaking it down into happy or unhappy, but I suppose that each family, during the holidays, pulls together in its own way. Holidays are a trial. And if you make it through, well then, you're a family. Can you live through a few days under the same roof, eating leftovers and putting presents together and watching horribly crap television together? Can you share one computer with internet access? Can you coordinate mealtimes for 5 stomachs on different time zones, much less taste buds?

Reality television, anyone?

I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU...

I never can guess how that sentence will end. My recurring dreams led me to believe I'd marry the annoying (and creepy) friend on Mad About You. I had nightmares that I was arranged to be married to him; I wanted out, and my family was pushing me to just do it. Ah, such is the dreamlife of the Persian girl, I suppose. Then, as I grew up, I would have the very rare wedding dream. In it, I am in full bridal gear, but there isn't a groom. And in the dream, I know there's no groom. I guess it's just a "celebration of me" party.

Possessed as I may be with charm, wit, my mama's good looks, and a bad case of optimism, fade out the dream sequence and let's deal with some reality. I'm 27. Remember learning to estimate in elementary school? Yeah, that brings us to the big 3-0. I may *look* like I'm 16, but those are the biological facts, etched on these here uterine walls. I know I'm treading on genetic landmines. Someday, I have been told, I will wake up to a clammering biological alarm, and I will wonder what I've done with my life, why I'm not married, why I'm not surrounded by kids, etcetera etcetera. Yawn.

Enter THE BACKUP PLAN.

"backup plan", noun: Arrangement of convenience between friends, ensuring that, in the case of mutual singledom at a future point in time, they will marry and eschew a life of loneliness, chaos and/or disaster. Origin: film- My Best Friend's Wedding.

Here's what I see as the benefit of the Backup Plan. You know what you're getting into. How? Because you make this agreement with a friend you've known forever. There is little/no risk that you'll throw open his/her cd case in your marital love nest and be caught by the glare of John Tesh's "Sax by the Fireplace" ("Egads! Where is my suitcase?"). You know what they're like when they're drunk (they were probably drunk when you talked them into this scheme). You know their family (genetic map so no ugly surprises. And you can take a guess whether your inlaws will be assholes). You know what they're like at their worst, which is why they were your friend until now. You know the little things-- the things it takes 25 years of marriage to get down -- that they don't like to share their popcorn, they hate the taste of mint, and they sniff their drink before sipping. People complain that they marry people who end up being someone completely different than what they expected. Realize it or not, you've lived with your friend for years. You know the big stuff. No troubling surprises.

I say 'troubling' for a reason. The upside to marrying someone you're not mad crazy about is that your expectations are low. You're marrying for companionship, and you'll get it, just like you have for the past (fill in the blank) 3, 5, 10, 20 years. This is the Money-Back Guarantee of The Backup Plan. Whatever else you get out of the deal is purely bonus. The physical chemistry is on? Bingo! You start from the bottom and build up. You expect neutral and hope for the best. No one gets anything other than what they bargained for, which is: not to be 45 and single and being nagged at by their parents. Because, frankly, I don't know how many of us can take another 15-20 years of this.

Now, some people don't understand how you can have a backup plan when you're in a relationship. "Is that morally right?" they may ask. The official User's Guide to Backup Plans clearly states that your Backup should be "someone other than he or she whom you are dating". Let me pose the question back at you: Is it right that you attend movies alone til the ripe old age of 85? Is it right that you have no one to split chili fries at Robertos with at 2am on any given night? Is it right that you have no one to roll your eyes at when you need to 'express yourself'? Take a closer look at the Constitution, folks. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Good Company. It's right in there. I'm not saying whether you should or you shouldn't, but let's just say -- when you're eating healthy and exercising, you still want medical insurance, right?

I have a backup plan. If nothing else, for now it signifies to me that someone else gets just how damn exhausting this whole thing is. If you don't have one yet, rest assured. My matchmaking database is filling up. Hell, I may quit my job and do this for a living. To be alone is one thing. But loneliness? I don't believe in that martyr virtue. Drop me a line and let's get this thing going.

EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN LAW SCHOOL

1. "DON'T ASK A WITNESS A QUESTION YOU DON'T ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER TO".

I recognize that using legal analogies in my romantic life is a wretched slope to even begin to graze, much less slip down, but hey, it works. When you play it safe and according to the #1 rule of trial advocacy, there is no surprise, no embarassment, and you walk away with that amazing feeling that you know it all. This isn't to say that you shouldn't employ the various strategies of Discovery (to be explored in a later blog?), but that when it comes down to trial, know your shit. Oh, and wear a cute suit.

2. THERE IS A FINE LINE BETWEEN FUNNY AND REALLY NOT FUNNY.

This line is most frequently violated by first-year law students eager to use their newfound knowledge-slash-vocabulary. Case in point: three students are walking down a hallway and there is a spilled drink on the floor before them. "Tort! Tort!" they cry in gleeful chorus = not funny

3. CRISIS BRINGS PEOPLE TOGETHER.

Ask any of the people I didn't like in elementary school, junior high, high school or college. Because they heard from me, in long-winded emails as I sat bored to tears in my Professional Responsibility class. Backed against a shitty corner (read: the corner of a lecture hall at UCLA), I found it in my heart to forgive those who annoyed, betrayed, or bored me. I connected with them. I know the intimate details of their careers, married lives, and psychoses. Now that I'm out of school, I have another problem on my hands, but hey, ends justify the means.

4. "THE ONLY THING WE KNOW IS THAT WE KNOW NOTHING AT ALL."

My grades attest to this. Heavily. Seriously, though, did I need to spend three years in a doctorate program only to find out that there *are* no clear answers and that every situation has its own application? Um, apparently. Thanks for the tuition, Dad! I have this one covered. My degree proves it.


5. DON'T EAT THE CHICKEN PIZZA.

Pretty self-explanatory, I think.

Because Susie Told Me To

Stolen from MathisSexy:

(A) First, recommend to me:

1. a movie:
2. a book:
3. a musical artist, song, or album:

(B) I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want.

1.
2.
3.

(C) Then I want you to go to your journal and copy and paste this, allowing your friends to ask you anything.

Um. Thanks.

the lilly EP

So pretend for *just a minute* that you'd actually get up and leave your boring-ass desk job (the one that has you reading these pages at this exact moment). And you got to live out your rock star dreams (Hi Gene!). If your first album had to be a cover album, what would you do? If you said "True Colors", spank yourself. Not even Phil Collins can get away with that. (And before I go on, whoever points out that I myself sang True Colors onto a PRIVATE tape for my mom, which she then used AGAINST MY KNOWLEDGE as a soundtrack for a video she shows to guests now, you can KISS MY ASS.) If you are thinking of covering "I Drove All Night", you, Celine, can go back to your thirteen "bruvers and seeesters" in Canada, do not pass go, do not collect $200. I'm talking about covers that won't make us cringe, cry, or get self-abusively violent. Everyone has different ideas of what's an okay cover, but let's use the above as a baseline.

So here's the list I have so far:

1) "Stay" by Madonna, done in a slow smoky jazz bar style. I'm debating actually asking my friends to help me do this. One of my fave songs by her (along with Pretender). I choreographed the 50's-style backup singers already. No, I'm not joking. I'm very productive in the shower.

2) "Whoever" by Lewis Taylor. I'd do it as a duet, though, with me singing to him (duh), then him singing back (longingly. Obviously there would be a video as well) about how each has done the other wrong. Oh, don't I know that road. We'd get Stevie Wonder on piano just for the hell of it (Stevie "I may be blind, but I know when I'm with a fine woman, Lilly" Wonder, as he will thereafter be called). If not that, I'd gladly do a cover of his new song "Lovelight". As the token dance song for my album. How it is that we import Simon fucking Cowell and can't import some decent British music is beyond me.

3) "Dear Mr. Man" with Prince and his horn section (he can only join me on choruses, though. I'm not trying to get outshined). That's by far my favorite song on his new album, and one of my faves of him ever. I love the song "Adore", but can't imagine covering it (would rather have him sing it to me?). I could get into Dear Mr. Man. Full live crazy brass section, though, don't forget. Oh, and Sheila E. on percussion. Just because I could.

4) "Hello it's me" by Groove Theory. In my next life, I will have Amel Larrieux' voice (apostrophe s?) Or her face. God's gotta pull through on one or the other, no?

5) My EP is taking a distinctly r&b direction at this point. Should the label heads give me a hard time and want me to reach a wider audience (they are priming me for the big time in this fantasy), I'd cover "What You Give" by Tesla. What, you didn't know I was a heavy metal hoodrat? Didn't know? Now you know. I know deep down I'd want to cover GnR (GnFnR if you're in the know), but after Sheryl Crow did it, I'm afraid to. You know, the straw that broke the camel's back and all of that...

6) Speaking of which -- a surprise entry on my album would be "My Favorite Mistake" by Sheryl Crow. I think I could actually pull it off, it's a great girl anthem, etc. She did a version with just a keyboard and it sounded better than the full-blast one. I think I'd do it that way. I'd put, oh, Elton (John) on keys.

7) "Chloe Dancer/ Crown of Thorns" by MotherLoveBone. The Singles soundtrack. Can't go wrong. I love love love that song.

8) If I woke up with the ability to do glass-shattering vocal stylings, I'd take on "Alone" by Heart. Hell, I'll do it anyways.

I already know what some of you would do, via outings we've had to karaoke bars (some more recently than others) -- or, God help me - car rides with y'all. But entertain me with your list. I mean, I still have the desk job in the meantime. I've got all the time in the world.

YOU ARE THE ETERNAL SUNSHINE IN MY LIFE...

Why do people always ask if you want the good news first or the bad news first? More to the point, why do we always choose the bad news first? Everyone does it, the logic being that you're getting the disappointment out of the way. So you get your bad news and you sulk about it, and when the good news comes, it's never as good as what you expected (it never balances out, does it?) and usually your mind just goes straight back to the bad news. On the other hand, if we mixed things up a little bit and asked for the good news first, at least we could genuinely enjoy it. It wouldn't be poisoned by the bad news, and then when the bad news came, you'd experience that set of emotions. You'd probably worry a little bit, but if the good news is genuinely good, you could at least have the excitement about it. Thoughts?

**BREAK**

So Thanksgiving has come and is on its way out by the time I wrap this up (okay, and grammar check myself because I'm anal like that). Today was Morality Movie Day at the G household. Well, to pick up where I left off: "In the last episode of Thanksgiving At My House, Lilly's mom decided that she wasn't going to cook for the family. The only thing she was making was a reservation..." We ended up at Hotel La Jolla, a highrise with a gorgeous view of the cove. There was no waiting around for food to be prepared. No screaming down the halls for CJ to get off his computer. No whining to my dad to put down the Newsweek and start serving himself before it got cold. Mom wasn't an exhausted slave to the oven, watching 2 days of work be devoured in 15 minutes or less or your money back. And for me, the compulsive dishwasher, there was really nothing to do but to sit back. We had a great little lunchy lunch, complete with lounge pianist, and then headed home.

Fast forward- we began our movie-watching escapades today with "Elf". I'm not sure what the moral was, and it wasn't actually that funny. I guess the moral was that Santa does exist. Or that yellowbrick tights are a no-no. But we'll save that blog for another day. After a brief break where mom taught me the secrets of her apple crisp recipe (which I will use to win people over, just you wait and see. I plan to take full credit for it...), we adjourned and returned to our places on the couches.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind came next. The basic premise for anyone who hasn't seen it (in which case you'd have to be more film-ally stunted than me, and that's hard to be), it's about a guy who goes to get his memories of his girlfriend erased. Then, mid-process, he realizes he doesn't want to erase her, that there are beautiful and important memories -- even teensy ones -- in a relationship that later went to shit, and so he begins an internal process of reinvesting her into his other irrelevant memories. The cinematography was absolutely breathtaking unfuckingbelievably gorgeous. As might be predicted, they find each other again (both with 'spotless minds') and begin to fall for one another. Inevitable? The denouement (yay! wanted to use that word. Je parle francais! woo hoo!), involves them hearing their pre-operation tapes where they vent about the other's quirks and faults. They decide that yes, they will bore each other, and yes, they will do things that annoy and hurt each other, but that, shit, that's the ride, so, shit, let's do it (my eloquent paraphrasing, of course). It was such a weird, weird movie. But its colors and oddity and imbalances and back and forth and dizzying pace were right on par with life. Or what life should be. Or what *I* think life should be.

Would I erase my relationships? Nope. I mean, I've dated some real buttfaces, but the way I see it, if you don't learn from it, then you've wasted your time, and I'm all about efficiency. Your memories and experiences make you up. I've always thought people with scars are more interesting that people with perfect faces and bodies. Wear and tear is part of the game, babe. The object is to make it through, but if you make it through without some dirt on your face and a few kicks in the ass, you haven't *really* gotten game time. It does make you realize how much of life is about perspective. When I break up with a guy, I am pretty loathe to remember the nice things they did for me (did they do ANYTHING? see, like that) or kind things they said, or any sort of gushy moments. I'm an automated Spotless Mind in that way, I suppose. But what if I thought about the nicer moments and just moved along? What if I didn't need to feel disdain for Psycho Jobless Boyfriend or Workaholic Buster or Narcissism Embodied in order to move on? What if I just locked away the gentler memories and still had the benefit of finding Prince Charming Enough? Food for thought. Not turkey, but it's something.

But, as powerful and entertaining as it was, it made me sad to watch it. I found myself wishing I had been in love -- to go back to Elf, the "I'm in love and I don't caaaaaaare who knows!" twirling around in my elf suit love -- even just once -- so I could apply the film's philosophies more closely to my life. And then, not having been in love (but rather having had "a shitty romantic life" as my mom called it yesterday, always one to call a spade a spade, thanks Mom), I became very sad about being unlucky in love.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I just mean that it made me want to go back to Vegas...

SPLIT-SECOND TURKEY-RELATED THOUGHTS

Strikes are apparently the word of the day. I read that some tollworkers out somewhere (New Jersey?) are on strike, so tolls are free. The spirit of rebellion has touched home, however, as my mom is on a culinary strike. This wouldn't normally affect me, as I live on my own. But tomorrow, as some of you may know, is THANKSGIVING. The day upon which I give thanks for her secret stuffing recipe, her mashed potatoes with a touch of milk, and her marshmallows-and-yams combo.

This year I will be giving thanks to some pizza joint. She has decided that, since Susie isn't coming home, she isn't going to cook. On one hand, I can't fault her. She doesn't want to cook for 2.5 people. When I asked her who the half was, she said Cyrus. Which is probably inaccurate attribution, given that my *dad* is the one who eats like an engineering exchange student - ramen noodles, microwaved hot dogs, can of tuna, oh my! Any way she counted it, 2.5 people wasn't worth the effort. And I'm incapable of turkey-basting at this early stage of my budding cooking career, so that's the final word.

So the bottom line is that mom isn't making us turkey this year because of Susie's absence. Let me take a moment to note for posterity that SUSIE IS A VEGETARIAN. So that's some buuuullshit right there.

I keep reminding myself that Thanksgiving is a shitty holiday that was once characterized by betrayal and the passage of diseases, so it makes me want to celebrate that much less. But for real, NO MASHED POTATOES? sigh.

I Didn't Know How Lost I Was Until I Found...

The mic in my hand. Let me recap that for you. The last thing I clearly remember, I was doing sake bombs at Sushi Deli Two. Fast forward, and I'm onstage at Lamplighter, a bar in Hillcrest with a men's bathroom. Only. I'm up there, standing next to Des, our honorable Retired Sorority President, and we're belting out "Like A Virgin" to a wall-to-wall packed audience. Not singing, BELTING. Like you do in the shower, or in your car when you're on a late-night road trip and are too scared you'll fall asleep. I think I saw some people cringe. I must have gotten lost in my thoughts about this (during the "aw, can't you hear my heartbeat... for the very first time" stanza) -- because next thing I knew, Des was screaming at me -- into her mic [ because if anyone, sorority presidents know how to use those things] to "Sing, Lilly, SING!". I did. Like it was my job. Problem being that I have a totally hoarse voice today (and that's putting it nicely) so I was the real deal -- "Like a (Prepubescent) Virgin (Boy)". Think Peter Brady.

There's something liberating about singing in front of a crowd. It was definitely a test of my starpower, and I'm glad to say that the place was still full when we stepped off. No one threw anything, anyways. Well, nothing that hit the stage. Not that in my numb state I would have felt it. I suppose it's a cost-benefit analysis you do in these situations. Listen to girly girls belt out songs, bopping and looking at each other doing the white girl dance (although neither is white)? Or leave and risk never getting to sing *your* song? We're attention whores, the lot of us karaoke bar goers, aren't we?

We were hoping for Jon to show up so we could set him up by signing him up for "She Bangs", but alas, he was a no-show. That's always how it goes.

In any case, it was a good vibe. A good start to a weekend I wasn't feeling great about. The other day someone observed that San Diego is really a locals' town. You have to know the places to go, or otherwise it doesn't look like much is going on. If you do, it's awesome. That's true. But it's really also a smart peoples' town. Because, 5 years ago, I would have been shoveling a driveway until I cried with frostbite, cursing my life and my crystallized nostrils, all for the love of getting myself over to drink cheap beer in a sleazy local bar with friends. And once there, I'd hear who was pregnant, who'd gotten fat, who was ugly. The good, the bad and the ugly of Highland Park, 60035. Per usual, the highlight would be watching an elementary school friend's mom with an uncanny resemblance to Roseanne and a denim sleeveless shirt (just painting a picture for ya, folks) picking up greasy men in the corner. My how things change.

Let my thankfulness begin right there.

"WHAT DID YOU LEARN TODAY, LEO?"

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.