I've recently been treating the world as my very own personal decompression chamber. Decompression from what, though, is the question. I suppose that the obvious answer is my life as a grad student/slave-to-the-written word, but unlike most slaves, I chose my bondage. So I feel as if I can't really complain about that. And though it was a lot of reading and writing and thinking, more often than not, it was a good time. Good people were met. Good writing happened. Good drinks were drunk. Darn tootin'.
As a part of my learn-how-to-be-out-in-public-again-without-thinking-about-work rehibilitation, I went to see X-Men yesterday with Russ, Christina, and Emilio. It's a great movie, complete with momentous battles where the fate of humans and mutants alike balance on a very thin precipice and things could really go either way. What I like most is that I never know quite whom I'm rooting for to win these battles. On one hand, I, of course, want the X-men to win, since they're advocating that mutants and humans live in harmony and equality. And it'd be great for them not get a knock on their doors every 2-3 years, where a know-it-all Senator or Biologist stands on the other side, digging his toe into the ground and asking if the mutants can come out and play-aka-get-annhilated. That's just a pain. But on the other hand, I sympathize with the mutants who are tired of being persecuted and want their equality any way they can get it, even through violence. I know Magneto, the archvillian of the series, was a prisoner of a Nazi concentration camp when he was a child and is tortured by the thought of all the people he could've saved if he had just known his powers. I understand why he's so sensitive when the odious talking heads start blabbing on national TV about "curing the mutant problem" or "cataloguing and separating all mutants." I understand Professor X, too, who just wants to help the general population understand mutants. I understand his hope that a peaceful existance, and if necessary, resistance, is not just the dream of a daisy wielders and most Canadians.
There's nothing like getting lost in a good fantasy. I've been a fan ever since I picked up Grimm's Fairy Tales as a seven year old and read The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Could there be a more glamorous fairy tale, beautiful women secretly getting in rowboats and dancing all night until the soles of their shoes were worn clear through? Now I realize that it was only a fantastical version of night life in Spain, but at the time, this chubby Midwestern girl didn't know anyone who stayed out past 8:00 on school nights. But as with X-Men, I wasn't sure whether I was rooting for those rebellious dancing girls or the simple guy-off-the-street-turned-investigator, who not only wanted his life spared, but one of the King's comely dancing daughters as a wife. It wasn't an either/or proposition.
In both cases, evil isn't particularly "evil" (the daughters just like to dance; Magneto is trying to save the world, albeit in an imperfect way), nor is good without flaws and weaknesses. I like my fantasy tinged with a bit of reality; in a sense, the essence of flaws and moral ambiguity makes the particulars that much more fantastical. Brad Bird said something to that effect on disc 2 of The Incredibles (my current obsession), that animating characters isn't about recreating reality, but distilling it.
And, as I think about it, that's why I need to decompress a little bit. As the odds-and-ends people in my life find out that I've just graduated, they all want to know what's next. And I tell them that besides my plans to go to a movie or finish some writing, I don't really know. Maybe it's why I'm hungering for fantasy lately and feel the urge to watch The Incredibles for the fiftieth time or tumble into the upside-down worlds of Murakami. In those worlds, you don't have these strict seperations between grad school and real life, nor do you get either/or propositions. It's both/and propositions that rule. Now that I've graduated, I don't want to feel limited by my choices -- I want to explore and expand into places that I might not otherwise. This is my time to distill reality.
In fantasy, everything is possible. Even it doesn't happen, the possibility that it might still exists. Maybe that's what hope is -- the culmination of possibility, even if it means ignoring logic for a while. Because logic is the opposite of superheroes and mutants and women who dance through the soles of their shoes.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Trying Not to Mistake Coincidence for Fate
In the novel I'm working on right now, the main character has an encounter in which she finds a stray German Shephard and mistakes it for the dog she grew up with -- one that's been dead for a very long time. I thought long and hard about a good dog name - I'm terrible at naming animals - and decided, in the end, that I would call this dog Roxie. I still wasn't sure, but I just went with it because as a writer, one of my fatal flaws is that I spend way too much time thinking up names. I obsess over them (so thanks, Jon, for the random name browser).
The other day, I was walking Tanya down a street I try not to walk her down too often because there's a huge dog that barks and snarls and throws itself against the fence when it sees other dogs. It's a German Shephard. When I walked by the other day and the dog started its mean routine, I heard the owner yell, "Roxie!" He yelled it again several more times, so I know I wasn't hearing things.
The dog in my novel is nothing like this dog, the complete opposite sort of dog, in fact, but it was still like some sort of cosmic connection to hear that the only German Shephard in my neighborhood is also named Roxie. And confirmation that I really do pick great animal names.
The other day, I was walking Tanya down a street I try not to walk her down too often because there's a huge dog that barks and snarls and throws itself against the fence when it sees other dogs. It's a German Shephard. When I walked by the other day and the dog started its mean routine, I heard the owner yell, "Roxie!" He yelled it again several more times, so I know I wasn't hearing things.
The dog in my novel is nothing like this dog, the complete opposite sort of dog, in fact, but it was still like some sort of cosmic connection to hear that the only German Shephard in my neighborhood is also named Roxie. And confirmation that I really do pick great animal names.
Monday, May 22, 2006
A Super Sweet Two Grand Proposition
I once knew a guy who had notoriously bad breath. I mean, really notorious. Alfred Hitchcock notorious. One day, as a group of us were walking upstairs to our lockers after second period, the guy behind him, out of the blue, said, "Dude - what stinks? Did you just fart?" He was waving his hand in front of his nose, as if it would disperse whatever foulity was in the air. The notorious guy turned around and smiled. "That's not a fart, man, that's my breath." At that, we all "oohed" and almost fell on the stairs laughing because let's face it, he said what we all knew. And in high school, that kind of self-awareness was funny.
During my junior year, I ended up sitting next to this notorious guy in study hall. This was before the evil reign of our study hall monitor Mrs. Kingsbury, who, though a real peach of a woman outside of class, made my afterschool life a living hell with all the clapping erasers I had to do for whispering without permission during her class. Back in the day, though, we had a study hall monitor who was always on the edge of insanity because of her racist, Nyquil-addicted kids. (That's a story for another day.) She was the sort of who sat there, looking out at us, wringing her hands and smiling politely, as if she was afraid we were on the verge of mounting up and slitting her throat. So not a lot of work took place in her study hall. The notorious guy and I were the only two juniors in the whole room and we ended up sitting next to each other. I got to know him a little bit, beyond the breath. He introduced me to bands like the Sex Pistols, the Stooges, and Husker Du -- he even gave me the CDs to take home and listen to on my own. When I popped in the Sex Pistols' Nevermind the Bollocks for the first time, I almost had a heart attack. This was during my obsessed-with-the-Steve-Miller-Band phase, so I wasn't quite prepared for the slurry electric pop of God Save the Queen. I hated it. I thought it sucked bollocks. (It took a few more years for me to learn what "bollocks" were -- at the time, I thought it was the British form of barracks, you know, where soliders sleep.)
The notorious guy had great taste in music, years ahead of most of my Ace of Base listening classmates. He tried to get me to come along for the musical ride, but I resisted and instead, bought myself a Hootie and the Blowfish album and bought him tubes of Tic-Tacs. Like me, many of my classmates - at least the ones I've kept in touch with - do not remember a whole lot about this guy now, apart from his horrible breath. We still tell the fart-breath story, as well as the story when, attempting to get a few laughs and pledge his undying respect for our science teacher, he wore a weightlifting body suit and passed out during the lecture. But I'll always remember him as the guy who introduced me to the Sex Pistols.
I've been thinking about him lately mostly because I spend a lot of time watching high schoolers on Mtv while at the gym. A lot of the shows - My Super Sweet 16, Once Upon a Prom, Tiara Girls - center on high schoolers, usually ones behaving badly. Very badly, in fact. My Super Sweet 16 has to be one of the most wretched shows ever to cross the airwaves, a show where cameras follow spoiled wealthy kids who throw tantrums if they don't get Eminem AND Beyonce to perform at the sixteenth birthday party. They throw tantrums for any reason, really -- these kids are very imaginative that way. At least once or twice during the show, I have to turn to the empty stairstepper next to me and make a face of total disgust. Just to show God or the cool trainer working out behind me that though I'm watching, I'm also repulsed by what I'm seeing and hearing. But I keep watching it because I get interested in figuring out these pissy little brats.
When I was sixteen, I'm not sure anyone I knew had a sweet sixteen party and if they did, it was just at their house or at its most flamboyant, Luigi's Pizza. So it totally blows my mind to watch sixteen year olds, complicit with their enabling parents, drop $100,000 on a party, not including the Mercedes or BMW convertible that most of them inevitably get at the end of the evening. I'm incredulous when they design themes for their parties like EVERYTHING'S-PINK! and then spend $500 dying their two poodles pink or yell at the longsuffering dressmaker (making them a $900 dress or $1100 suit) for being an idiot and a clod. I feel embarassed for them when they gather their whole school to hand out 100 invitations and then, the people who weren't invited have to stand there, feeling humiliated -- granted, they know these people are totally lame, but it still hurts to be shown on camera as someone who didn't make the cool cut. I look at these shuffling teenagers, trying to shrug it off, and I see the notorious guy. I see the girl who fell three times during her dance routine at a pep rally, exposing her clumsiness and red bloomers to the whole school. I see the kooky guy who'd always say, "Up in this piece" and sing Hootie and the Blowfish until we'd all yell at him to shut up. I see N, the coolest girl in the class, with her two-toned bowling shoes and cat-eyed sunglasses and jar of bubbles. I'm sure I'm in there somewhere, too, curly blonde frizz and wearing the plaid pajama pants that I wore during gym class. Or that super cool County Seat sweater.
One of the recurrent themes I've noticed in my Super Sweet 16 viewing experience is this: "I want to throw the best party ever, so that everyone will always remember me and talk about me forever." Or to that effect. (One never knows how exactly to paraphrase teenagers.) These parties are not just for a good time or - imagine it! - to gather friends to celebrate an American coming of age a-la-Molly-Ringwald. Every single person on the shows I've seen has said they hope to throw a party that will be remembered. For-e-ver. They want everyone's memories of high school to be bound up in their killer bash. They, like so many before them, are looking for immortality and right now, it's appearing viable in the form of a very expensive birthday party. But that kind of notoriety is always a cosmic cream pie in the face. You don't have to read the horoscopes or listen to Bob Dylan to know that much.
I can very palpably imagine the attendees of these parties sitting around in ten years and raving about that party what's-her-name threw for her 16th birthday. Isn't she a broke hooker now? Or a chain smoking Mom of three? That part of the conversation will be quick and uninteresting, like ripping off a bandaid. But minutes, hours even, will be spent talking about when her heel broke, when he stuck a finger into the cake on a dare, when her friend finally found the nerve to ask that one guy to dance. But its host? A footnote...at best.
No one can force notoriety. I'm sure that the girl who fell three times in the pep rally wishes that all of us in the audience would forget her red bloomers forever. I'm sure the notorious guy hopes that we're not all still talking about the time he passed out in science class. I'm sorry to break it to them, but these are probably the moments I'll take to my grave. We all have those moments, I think, no matter how cool we were. I sometimes wonder if my eighth grade crush, Matt Nadelhoffer, tells people the story of the girl sitting next to him at an ice cream social who farted during the prayer. (Yes, I'm talking about me.) But those non-cool times, the moments when people fell apart, hit emotional iceburgs, were unabshedly their complicated, quirky selves -- that's what I'll remember. FOR-E-VER. Maybe I should tell the bratty kids that. And that you don't have to spend two grand to learn about the Sex Pistols.
During my junior year, I ended up sitting next to this notorious guy in study hall. This was before the evil reign of our study hall monitor Mrs. Kingsbury, who, though a real peach of a woman outside of class, made my afterschool life a living hell with all the clapping erasers I had to do for whispering without permission during her class. Back in the day, though, we had a study hall monitor who was always on the edge of insanity because of her racist, Nyquil-addicted kids. (That's a story for another day.) She was the sort of who sat there, looking out at us, wringing her hands and smiling politely, as if she was afraid we were on the verge of mounting up and slitting her throat. So not a lot of work took place in her study hall. The notorious guy and I were the only two juniors in the whole room and we ended up sitting next to each other. I got to know him a little bit, beyond the breath. He introduced me to bands like the Sex Pistols, the Stooges, and Husker Du -- he even gave me the CDs to take home and listen to on my own. When I popped in the Sex Pistols' Nevermind the Bollocks for the first time, I almost had a heart attack. This was during my obsessed-with-the-Steve-Miller-Band phase, so I wasn't quite prepared for the slurry electric pop of God Save the Queen. I hated it. I thought it sucked bollocks. (It took a few more years for me to learn what "bollocks" were -- at the time, I thought it was the British form of barracks, you know, where soliders sleep.)
The notorious guy had great taste in music, years ahead of most of my Ace of Base listening classmates. He tried to get me to come along for the musical ride, but I resisted and instead, bought myself a Hootie and the Blowfish album and bought him tubes of Tic-Tacs. Like me, many of my classmates - at least the ones I've kept in touch with - do not remember a whole lot about this guy now, apart from his horrible breath. We still tell the fart-breath story, as well as the story when, attempting to get a few laughs and pledge his undying respect for our science teacher, he wore a weightlifting body suit and passed out during the lecture. But I'll always remember him as the guy who introduced me to the Sex Pistols.
I've been thinking about him lately mostly because I spend a lot of time watching high schoolers on Mtv while at the gym. A lot of the shows - My Super Sweet 16, Once Upon a Prom, Tiara Girls - center on high schoolers, usually ones behaving badly. Very badly, in fact. My Super Sweet 16 has to be one of the most wretched shows ever to cross the airwaves, a show where cameras follow spoiled wealthy kids who throw tantrums if they don't get Eminem AND Beyonce to perform at the sixteenth birthday party. They throw tantrums for any reason, really -- these kids are very imaginative that way. At least once or twice during the show, I have to turn to the empty stairstepper next to me and make a face of total disgust. Just to show God or the cool trainer working out behind me that though I'm watching, I'm also repulsed by what I'm seeing and hearing. But I keep watching it because I get interested in figuring out these pissy little brats.
When I was sixteen, I'm not sure anyone I knew had a sweet sixteen party and if they did, it was just at their house or at its most flamboyant, Luigi's Pizza. So it totally blows my mind to watch sixteen year olds, complicit with their enabling parents, drop $100,000 on a party, not including the Mercedes or BMW convertible that most of them inevitably get at the end of the evening. I'm incredulous when they design themes for their parties like EVERYTHING'S-PINK! and then spend $500 dying their two poodles pink or yell at the longsuffering dressmaker (making them a $900 dress or $1100 suit) for being an idiot and a clod. I feel embarassed for them when they gather their whole school to hand out 100 invitations and then, the people who weren't invited have to stand there, feeling humiliated -- granted, they know these people are totally lame, but it still hurts to be shown on camera as someone who didn't make the cool cut. I look at these shuffling teenagers, trying to shrug it off, and I see the notorious guy. I see the girl who fell three times during her dance routine at a pep rally, exposing her clumsiness and red bloomers to the whole school. I see the kooky guy who'd always say, "Up in this piece" and sing Hootie and the Blowfish until we'd all yell at him to shut up. I see N, the coolest girl in the class, with her two-toned bowling shoes and cat-eyed sunglasses and jar of bubbles. I'm sure I'm in there somewhere, too, curly blonde frizz and wearing the plaid pajama pants that I wore during gym class. Or that super cool County Seat sweater.
One of the recurrent themes I've noticed in my Super Sweet 16 viewing experience is this: "I want to throw the best party ever, so that everyone will always remember me and talk about me forever." Or to that effect. (One never knows how exactly to paraphrase teenagers.) These parties are not just for a good time or - imagine it! - to gather friends to celebrate an American coming of age a-la-Molly-Ringwald. Every single person on the shows I've seen has said they hope to throw a party that will be remembered. For-e-ver. They want everyone's memories of high school to be bound up in their killer bash. They, like so many before them, are looking for immortality and right now, it's appearing viable in the form of a very expensive birthday party. But that kind of notoriety is always a cosmic cream pie in the face. You don't have to read the horoscopes or listen to Bob Dylan to know that much.
I can very palpably imagine the attendees of these parties sitting around in ten years and raving about that party what's-her-name threw for her 16th birthday. Isn't she a broke hooker now? Or a chain smoking Mom of three? That part of the conversation will be quick and uninteresting, like ripping off a bandaid. But minutes, hours even, will be spent talking about when her heel broke, when he stuck a finger into the cake on a dare, when her friend finally found the nerve to ask that one guy to dance. But its host? A footnote...at best.
No one can force notoriety. I'm sure that the girl who fell three times in the pep rally wishes that all of us in the audience would forget her red bloomers forever. I'm sure the notorious guy hopes that we're not all still talking about the time he passed out in science class. I'm sorry to break it to them, but these are probably the moments I'll take to my grave. We all have those moments, I think, no matter how cool we were. I sometimes wonder if my eighth grade crush, Matt Nadelhoffer, tells people the story of the girl sitting next to him at an ice cream social who farted during the prayer. (Yes, I'm talking about me.) But those non-cool times, the moments when people fell apart, hit emotional iceburgs, were unabshedly their complicated, quirky selves -- that's what I'll remember. FOR-E-VER. Maybe I should tell the bratty kids that. And that you don't have to spend two grand to learn about the Sex Pistols.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
A Musical Question of Great Importance
Sheryl Crow is on almost every musical tribute and/or collection honoring other musicians.
Why?
Why?
Thursday, May 11, 2006
On My Mind Tonight:
I have a dog on my right typing arm, so this will probably be short...
How come headlights in the rearview mirror have suddenly become so aggressive? I feel like I'm being flashed continuously these days. Every headlight feels like an assault on my night-time driving. Russ says it's because there's a new kind of headlight, but I think people are becoming more and more jerky on the freeway.
Jesse Gloyd is right. Family Guy, regardless of its popularity, is not all that funny nor original. South Park, on the other hand, rules. So does Conan. But he's not animated.
I went to Claim Jumper last night, despite my strict No-Claim-Jumper, No-Cheesecake-Factory policy. Turns out, they serve good tap water. Darn.
A short piece of mine has been submitted to a neat collection. I'll keep you posted whether or not I get in.
The Bob Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, is rockin'. I find myself wanting to illegally download all his albums now. But I'll refrain -- I'll wait until I get a job and/or money in the form of a contract, and then, indulge my Dylan-mania.
I will not see the DaVinci Code movie. I read the book and it sucked. Honestly, how many times did Dan Brown forget about the developing love-relationship between Sophie and Langdon and just stick in a random sentence about it at the most awkward times? I read the last chapter to my creative writing class and they laughed. And they were all just beginners. It says a lot about intuition, a la Blink.
Movies I do want to see: Brick, Friends with Money, Thank You For Smoking, Art School Confidential. But I don't want to see them badly enough to get my ass to the theater. I'm feeling happy to Netflix everything these days and stay home. I think that means I'm getting a.) old and b.) lame.
RipRap 28 turned out AMAZING. Props to Chad, Lee, Eitan, and me. But mostly Chad. Get your copy now. The reading was one of those events where every reader kept outshining the one before him/her. It made me so glad to be a writer, who might spend the rest of her life attending these reading thingys. Also, I must give extra props to Chad on his bold myspace song choice. Cry, indeed.
The Target food court is a suprisingly cool place to hang with a good friend. Thanks for the memories, Kristan.
Russ's birthday was on Tuesday and I took him to an amazing restaurant. As we sipped champagne, we got into a really passionate conversation about play and invention. I'm sure everyone around us, including the waiters, thought we were total posers.
His birthday hike is on Saturday. We're going to picnic in Monrovia Library Park. I'm going to administer the famous "Russell" quiz, but hopefully not humiliate him this year as I did last year. Want to know more? You'll have to email me.
I am tired. Tonight I had good wine. I might get to bed at a decent hour.
Or not.
How come headlights in the rearview mirror have suddenly become so aggressive? I feel like I'm being flashed continuously these days. Every headlight feels like an assault on my night-time driving. Russ says it's because there's a new kind of headlight, but I think people are becoming more and more jerky on the freeway.
Jesse Gloyd is right. Family Guy, regardless of its popularity, is not all that funny nor original. South Park, on the other hand, rules. So does Conan. But he's not animated.
I went to Claim Jumper last night, despite my strict No-Claim-Jumper, No-Cheesecake-Factory policy. Turns out, they serve good tap water. Darn.
A short piece of mine has been submitted to a neat collection. I'll keep you posted whether or not I get in.
The Bob Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, is rockin'. I find myself wanting to illegally download all his albums now. But I'll refrain -- I'll wait until I get a job and/or money in the form of a contract, and then, indulge my Dylan-mania.
I will not see the DaVinci Code movie. I read the book and it sucked. Honestly, how many times did Dan Brown forget about the developing love-relationship between Sophie and Langdon and just stick in a random sentence about it at the most awkward times? I read the last chapter to my creative writing class and they laughed. And they were all just beginners. It says a lot about intuition, a la Blink.
Movies I do want to see: Brick, Friends with Money, Thank You For Smoking, Art School Confidential. But I don't want to see them badly enough to get my ass to the theater. I'm feeling happy to Netflix everything these days and stay home. I think that means I'm getting a.) old and b.) lame.
RipRap 28 turned out AMAZING. Props to Chad, Lee, Eitan, and me. But mostly Chad. Get your copy now. The reading was one of those events where every reader kept outshining the one before him/her. It made me so glad to be a writer, who might spend the rest of her life attending these reading thingys. Also, I must give extra props to Chad on his bold myspace song choice. Cry, indeed.
The Target food court is a suprisingly cool place to hang with a good friend. Thanks for the memories, Kristan.
Russ's birthday was on Tuesday and I took him to an amazing restaurant. As we sipped champagne, we got into a really passionate conversation about play and invention. I'm sure everyone around us, including the waiters, thought we were total posers.
His birthday hike is on Saturday. We're going to picnic in Monrovia Library Park. I'm going to administer the famous "Russell" quiz, but hopefully not humiliate him this year as I did last year. Want to know more? You'll have to email me.
I am tired. Tonight I had good wine. I might get to bed at a decent hour.
Or not.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Breaking Through Blocks, Part 2, or "Si, Se Puede!"
I have never been much of a protestor, a disturber of the status quo. I attribute this, in part, to the fact that as a child, I was taught never to blow my nose in public nor rest my elbows on the table. I was told to soften my voice in public all the time and at home, told to talk louder because my mom and later, my grandma, couldn't hear me. My dad was very particular about sweeping the wood floors in our house without lifting the broom bristles from the floor and if I didn't (and he happened to be watching), he would let out a sigh and show me the right way to do it again. It never seemed that much different than how I was doing it, but I digress.
By the time I was twelve, I had this whole set of properlies to worry about and no time to think about larger issues, like say, the Gulf War or the Watts Riots. I was constantly concerned with how I did things, like eat a peanut-butter sandwich or run in gym class, and whether I was doing it correctly. I think my family was just trying to spare me the humiliation of doing these things in front of other people, people who really mattered, but they should've realized my twelve year old disposition, eager-to-please, self-conscious, and already an overthinker, only made this list of rules a neverending radio stream of "Shit -am I doing this right?" in my mind.
One of the first times I saw a confrontation in the locker room was in eighth grade. It was between Niki Walsh and Latoya Williams, two end-of-the-alphabet girls like myself, who I often sat by in classes or assemblies. They were arguing about racism and our school and, I think, but can't quite remember, accusing the other race of being too sensitive and of misunderstanding everything the other one did. They argued over the red benches and I sat at the end, barely breathing, watching out of the corner of my eyes while pulling on my socks very, very slowly. I remember feeling scared. I'd been taught not to fight (though my dad did advocate fist fighting), to keep quiet, to mind my manners, to be polite to people. I didn't know how to raise my voice like that. Girls and boys in the books I read always did, but I never connected that literature to my own life until I watched Niki and Latoya verbally go at each other until the bell rang.
Yesterday, I marched with with about 400,000 other people down Wilshire Blvd, protesting the fact that a group of people has been treated without much dignity, celebrating the fact that they are lifting their voices in protest about it all over the country. I feel a little bit proud that the two cities with the largest turnouts, Chicago and L.A., are the two places I hail from at this point in my life. I grew up around a lot of second generation Mexican-Americans whose parents didn't even bother to teach them Spanish. My aunt Fanny is from Mexico City, and though she is married to my uncle Billy and thus, a citizen, I believe that there was a point in her life in America where she was an immigrant without papers. The guys Russell works with, family guys, nice guys, hard workers, have no official papers; they are from a poor, agricultural part of Mexico and are here to work and to try and make life better for their kids rather than for themselves.
Speaking of these guys, I went to a birthday party for one of their daughters last summer. A lot of them are working on their English, and Russ and I are always trying out our lame Spanish, so we would talk in one language badly, then another. Some of them are already fluent and some of the husbands aren't even Latino -- one was from Iran and spoke four langugaes. After menudo, a comedian-clown, and fantastically sugary birthday cake, they turned up the music and all the adults began to dance. Young and old alike hopped out on the dance floor (the driveway) and started to salsa and sashay. The oldest guy, the patriarch of the family, is named Ephraim and I watched as he took his wife out on the dance floor and did a sort of salsafied box step with her, smiling and shy. Russ and I had to go soon after the dancing started, and before we went, Russ introduced me to Ephraim and his wife. He speaks no English at all, and neither does his wife, so there was a lot of hand gesturing, but somehow, we got the idea that he wanted us to dance. He wanted to see us. The others around him who heard him say this wanted us to dance, too, dance, dance, dance! they almost chanted. Immediately, my own little alarm bells went off. I'm not a great dancer and especially not with great dancers watching me. I shook my head and smiled, with that old thought that to do things, you have to do them correctly to avoid embarrassment.
And that's what was so great about the march yesterday. "Si se puede." Roughly translated, yes we can or yes it can be done. I marched and shouted and pronounced some of my Spanish words wrong, I bumped into people, I started conversations that I didn't know how to continue, and generally did a lot of things out of step. But for all the things I did wrong, I marched on and worried not about myself for once, but about something much larger.
Here are some of my favorite shots from yesterday. (I've posted all the shots from yesteday on my flickr account.) Enjoy.
By the time I was twelve, I had this whole set of properlies to worry about and no time to think about larger issues, like say, the Gulf War or the Watts Riots. I was constantly concerned with how I did things, like eat a peanut-butter sandwich or run in gym class, and whether I was doing it correctly. I think my family was just trying to spare me the humiliation of doing these things in front of other people, people who really mattered, but they should've realized my twelve year old disposition, eager-to-please, self-conscious, and already an overthinker, only made this list of rules a neverending radio stream of "Shit -am I doing this right?" in my mind.
One of the first times I saw a confrontation in the locker room was in eighth grade. It was between Niki Walsh and Latoya Williams, two end-of-the-alphabet girls like myself, who I often sat by in classes or assemblies. They were arguing about racism and our school and, I think, but can't quite remember, accusing the other race of being too sensitive and of misunderstanding everything the other one did. They argued over the red benches and I sat at the end, barely breathing, watching out of the corner of my eyes while pulling on my socks very, very slowly. I remember feeling scared. I'd been taught not to fight (though my dad did advocate fist fighting), to keep quiet, to mind my manners, to be polite to people. I didn't know how to raise my voice like that. Girls and boys in the books I read always did, but I never connected that literature to my own life until I watched Niki and Latoya verbally go at each other until the bell rang.
Yesterday, I marched with with about 400,000 other people down Wilshire Blvd, protesting the fact that a group of people has been treated without much dignity, celebrating the fact that they are lifting their voices in protest about it all over the country. I feel a little bit proud that the two cities with the largest turnouts, Chicago and L.A., are the two places I hail from at this point in my life. I grew up around a lot of second generation Mexican-Americans whose parents didn't even bother to teach them Spanish. My aunt Fanny is from Mexico City, and though she is married to my uncle Billy and thus, a citizen, I believe that there was a point in her life in America where she was an immigrant without papers. The guys Russell works with, family guys, nice guys, hard workers, have no official papers; they are from a poor, agricultural part of Mexico and are here to work and to try and make life better for their kids rather than for themselves.
Speaking of these guys, I went to a birthday party for one of their daughters last summer. A lot of them are working on their English, and Russ and I are always trying out our lame Spanish, so we would talk in one language badly, then another. Some of them are already fluent and some of the husbands aren't even Latino -- one was from Iran and spoke four langugaes. After menudo, a comedian-clown, and fantastically sugary birthday cake, they turned up the music and all the adults began to dance. Young and old alike hopped out on the dance floor (the driveway) and started to salsa and sashay. The oldest guy, the patriarch of the family, is named Ephraim and I watched as he took his wife out on the dance floor and did a sort of salsafied box step with her, smiling and shy. Russ and I had to go soon after the dancing started, and before we went, Russ introduced me to Ephraim and his wife. He speaks no English at all, and neither does his wife, so there was a lot of hand gesturing, but somehow, we got the idea that he wanted us to dance. He wanted to see us. The others around him who heard him say this wanted us to dance, too, dance, dance, dance! they almost chanted. Immediately, my own little alarm bells went off. I'm not a great dancer and especially not with great dancers watching me. I shook my head and smiled, with that old thought that to do things, you have to do them correctly to avoid embarrassment.
And that's what was so great about the march yesterday. "Si se puede." Roughly translated, yes we can or yes it can be done. I marched and shouted and pronounced some of my Spanish words wrong, I bumped into people, I started conversations that I didn't know how to continue, and generally did a lot of things out of step. But for all the things I did wrong, I marched on and worried not about myself for once, but about something much larger.
Here are some of my favorite shots from yesterday. (I've posted all the shots from yesteday on my flickr account.) Enjoy.
Monday, April 24, 2006
An Age Old Question, Maybe Answered
Russ was scheming this weekend about how exactly to set up two friends of ours whose paths wouldn't cross unless we helped them along. I poked holes in all his hopes by informing him that the guy was already dating someone.
"Man - why do married people like setting up their single friends so much?" he asked. "It's not like it's bad to be single or something."
"Because," I said, "it harkens back to our childhood playing Memory. You find the cards that go together and the more you match, the more points you get."
"Man - why do married people like setting up their single friends so much?" he asked. "It's not like it's bad to be single or something."
"Because," I said, "it harkens back to our childhood playing Memory. You find the cards that go together and the more you match, the more points you get."
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Breaking Through Blocks, Part 1
Tonight, my friend Jeremy hit a cement block with his hands and I watched as it broke neatly down the center. As he set up another block, he explained why some kung-fu schools, especially traditional ones, don't teach how to break with both hands - it has to do with energy and the body - and then, he looked out at us and said, "But my school does," and broke the second block with his opposite hand. It was amazing.
He offered to let me try before he smashed through them, and a few people laughed because I made a face and waved my hands, as in, no, no no. I'm not the sort of person who could remotely hope to smash blocks with my hands. I miserably failed my high school defense class because when it came down to the physical test, I couldn't escape my (female, high school) attacker. I was the only girl in my class who failed self-defense. Granted, my attacker was a very large girl. But the point is, even if she was a large girl, it still could've yelled "pinch and twist, pinch and twist!" and the girl would've let me go instead of roughly pushing me to the ground.
My friend Diana had a few years of karate -- I think she was a higher-up belt, perhaps brown, when she decided to quit. I don't remember why she did, but I do remember the picture of her in her uniform, posed, her belt bright around her waist. She looked so tough, so accomplished. The only lessons I got as a child was piano, which Diana also got, but I had to beg to take piano lessons from my aunt's roommate, Melinda. I never played in a recital or took the opportunity to display anything I'd learned. At one point, we stopped pianoing and Melinda taught me how to make dresses. I made myself two plaid jumpers, a la Mary Anne in the Babysitters Club series, and wore them with turtlenecks until I realized that they made me look like a fat Catholic schoolteacher, not a cute, willowy babysitter.
While I still enjoy the piano, I have never been a great seamstress. I don't have the patience for it. Unlike Jeremy, who is up to 60 kung fu poses and can probably hold them all for hours, I have trouble clearing my mind for a 60 minute yoga class at the gym. Perhaps it's because I lie on my mat knowing that even if I have a minute of clarity, that minute will soon be crowded out by dog walking and novel reading and multiple, possible storylines that will hit me at moments when I have nothing with which to write these brilliant ideas down. I'm a bit better at praying, since it requires thinking of people and situations and needs and wants -- focusing for several moments on one thing is easier than focusing for several moments on nothing. But I still find it very difficult. Sewing is the same ball of wax. First, there's the choosing of the pattern and then, a material that will work with the pattern. Then, the meticulous cutting out of the pattern pieces, complete with darts, and then, cutting the material around the pattern and darts and pinning it all together so that you remember which material goes with which pattern piece. Then, there's the threading of the machine and the bobbin and my fingers always feel bricky when I'm working with bobbins and thread. Then, there's the working with the machine's pedal and making sure that you go at the right pace, with the right stitch. For me, there's a lot of mistakes, a lot of sewing pieces together that shouldn't be sewn together, and thus, a lot of seam ripping and re-sewing. It's a lot of work. And sure, I might end up with a piece of clothing that I love, but after all that struggle, it seems a lot easier just to head down to the Macy's sale rack.
I remember making curtains with my college roommate Jenn (to block out the eastern exposure on our faces every morning, not for cutesy-type shits and giggles) and how her curtains came out perfectly, with neat stitches and perfect proportions, while mine came out with crooked stitches and gaps where I'd ripped and resewn. We put them both up, above each of our beds, and every time I walked into the room, I compared the two sets of curtains. I could see the precision, the time, and above all, the discipline that she put into her curtains.
I recently finished a memoir that tells the ten interrelated, but not chronological, stories that bring the writer, James Brown, to the realization that he needs to quit drinking and using, and when I try to imagine his life now, those same words comes up. Discipline. Precision. Time. Patience. Sewing and piano and self-defense never came easily, but unlike James Brown, whose sobriety saves his life everday, it has never been a life-or-death issue for me.
He offered to let me try before he smashed through them, and a few people laughed because I made a face and waved my hands, as in, no, no no. I'm not the sort of person who could remotely hope to smash blocks with my hands. I miserably failed my high school defense class because when it came down to the physical test, I couldn't escape my (female, high school) attacker. I was the only girl in my class who failed self-defense. Granted, my attacker was a very large girl. But the point is, even if she was a large girl, it still could've yelled "pinch and twist, pinch and twist!" and the girl would've let me go instead of roughly pushing me to the ground.
My friend Diana had a few years of karate -- I think she was a higher-up belt, perhaps brown, when she decided to quit. I don't remember why she did, but I do remember the picture of her in her uniform, posed, her belt bright around her waist. She looked so tough, so accomplished. The only lessons I got as a child was piano, which Diana also got, but I had to beg to take piano lessons from my aunt's roommate, Melinda. I never played in a recital or took the opportunity to display anything I'd learned. At one point, we stopped pianoing and Melinda taught me how to make dresses. I made myself two plaid jumpers, a la Mary Anne in the Babysitters Club series, and wore them with turtlenecks until I realized that they made me look like a fat Catholic schoolteacher, not a cute, willowy babysitter.
While I still enjoy the piano, I have never been a great seamstress. I don't have the patience for it. Unlike Jeremy, who is up to 60 kung fu poses and can probably hold them all for hours, I have trouble clearing my mind for a 60 minute yoga class at the gym. Perhaps it's because I lie on my mat knowing that even if I have a minute of clarity, that minute will soon be crowded out by dog walking and novel reading and multiple, possible storylines that will hit me at moments when I have nothing with which to write these brilliant ideas down. I'm a bit better at praying, since it requires thinking of people and situations and needs and wants -- focusing for several moments on one thing is easier than focusing for several moments on nothing. But I still find it very difficult. Sewing is the same ball of wax. First, there's the choosing of the pattern and then, a material that will work with the pattern. Then, the meticulous cutting out of the pattern pieces, complete with darts, and then, cutting the material around the pattern and darts and pinning it all together so that you remember which material goes with which pattern piece. Then, there's the threading of the machine and the bobbin and my fingers always feel bricky when I'm working with bobbins and thread. Then, there's the working with the machine's pedal and making sure that you go at the right pace, with the right stitch. For me, there's a lot of mistakes, a lot of sewing pieces together that shouldn't be sewn together, and thus, a lot of seam ripping and re-sewing. It's a lot of work. And sure, I might end up with a piece of clothing that I love, but after all that struggle, it seems a lot easier just to head down to the Macy's sale rack.
I remember making curtains with my college roommate Jenn (to block out the eastern exposure on our faces every morning, not for cutesy-type shits and giggles) and how her curtains came out perfectly, with neat stitches and perfect proportions, while mine came out with crooked stitches and gaps where I'd ripped and resewn. We put them both up, above each of our beds, and every time I walked into the room, I compared the two sets of curtains. I could see the precision, the time, and above all, the discipline that she put into her curtains.
I recently finished a memoir that tells the ten interrelated, but not chronological, stories that bring the writer, James Brown, to the realization that he needs to quit drinking and using, and when I try to imagine his life now, those same words comes up. Discipline. Precision. Time. Patience. Sewing and piano and self-defense never came easily, but unlike James Brown, whose sobriety saves his life everday, it has never been a life-or-death issue for me.
Monday, April 17, 2006
What'd Snoopy Ever Do To You?
While on an Easter walk, Christina noticed and photographed this:
Since it was such a funny Easter find - much better than a colored egg - I asked her to take a picture of me with the sign. As you can see, I put on my toughest "626" face:
Yes, I know. Not tough at all. But I had to try.
Now I've been racking my brain for the last day and half and I still can't figure out what exactly makes Snoopy a dick. Sure, he was sort of silently snarky to Charlie Brown at times, but didn't Charlie Brown ask for it with his simplemindedness and constant complaining? He smooched Lucy and winked at the cute girls. And he went toe-to-toe with the Red Baron -- he was defending the free world (with the help of a small yellow bird)! Not exactly small potatoes, I think.
So why the animosity toward Snoopy?
Since it was such a funny Easter find - much better than a colored egg - I asked her to take a picture of me with the sign. As you can see, I put on my toughest "626" face:
Yes, I know. Not tough at all. But I had to try.
Now I've been racking my brain for the last day and half and I still can't figure out what exactly makes Snoopy a dick. Sure, he was sort of silently snarky to Charlie Brown at times, but didn't Charlie Brown ask for it with his simplemindedness and constant complaining? He smooched Lucy and winked at the cute girls. And he went toe-to-toe with the Red Baron -- he was defending the free world (with the help of a small yellow bird)! Not exactly small potatoes, I think.
So why the animosity toward Snoopy?
Friday, April 14, 2006
Who's The Smart One?
Last night, I helped Russell learn his Tree Identification flashcards through grade school-like quizzing. It was, "Okay Russ, here's the common name, you give me the botanical name. Ready? Catalina Cherry. Coast Live Oak. London Plane Tree." I prefaced my quizzing by saying that he'd have to forgive me if I, in any way, became condescending. Because I know it's oh so easy to feel that way when someone else has the cards and is giving you hints, with that "It's-so-easy-if-you-just-use-half-your-brain" look. That's when I, at least, become a serious hater.
As Russ was getting tired and frustrated and I was trying to devise helpful hints using words like lactate, I noticed that I'd put on my nightgown backwards.
"Why didn't you tell me that I had it on backwards?" I asked him.
But he was laughing too hard to answer. I have the feeling the irony of the seeing me, the quizzer, in the backwards nightgown each time he looked up made it a lot easier to listen to my stupid hints without shame. So I left it on backwards and he learned all his tree flashcards.
I think this is exactly what our premarital counselor meant when he talked about an egalitarian marriage.
As Russ was getting tired and frustrated and I was trying to devise helpful hints using words like lactate, I noticed that I'd put on my nightgown backwards.
"Why didn't you tell me that I had it on backwards?" I asked him.
But he was laughing too hard to answer. I have the feeling the irony of the seeing me, the quizzer, in the backwards nightgown each time he looked up made it a lot easier to listen to my stupid hints without shame. So I left it on backwards and he learned all his tree flashcards.
I think this is exactly what our premarital counselor meant when he talked about an egalitarian marriage.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Christina and Sarah's Excellent Adventure (Except We Never Went to Waterloo)
Christina and I, revelling in our spring breaks, decided to go explore some areas of L.A. that we either hadn't seen before or were not well acquainted. This is something that we both like to do -- familiarize.
We studied maps beforehand, looked up information on Wiki and the Los Angeles Times, but decided any kind of timeline would negate the fun of doing something on spring break. With a glorious sun shining, we set off west (because just about everywhere in L.A. is west of Pasadena). I was driving, Christina was navigating and from hence, she will be known as Christina-of-the-Divine-Map-Reading-Skills. She got us everywhere using one of my maps, not one of hers that she had studied before this trip. Yep, she's that good.
Places We Saw (or at least drove past) and Brief Thoughts (All Photos by Christina):
* The Fashion District: Very different than I thought. Not warehouses stocked with cool clothing, textiles, and flowers available to, but not really for, the general public. More like shops named "Guccy" and "Pretty Pink." All the clothes seemed to be in plastic bags. Now I now where the high school students I used to teach shopped for their clothes and their prom dresses. As we drove by, we saw lots of people out shopping, but no stores that really caught either of our eyes -- because every store looks like the same incarnation of first, just with a different name. Christina and I decided that if you were in the market for flowers or textiles, it would be more worth a stop.
* Lesson #1 - Even if we'd wanted to stop in the Fashion District, it was all meters and we had no change. This was a trend we saw all over L.A. Bring change for meters.
* Korea Town: We got on Olympic and headed west over to Koreatown, where I had never been, but Christina had been on occasion with an past roommate. Again, there were mostly meters and very crowded streets. The biggest draw of Koreatown has got to be the food. There seem to be delicious places to eat on every corner, both Latino and Korean. In addition to the Latino and Korean populations, we learned, Koreatown is the new destination for young "hipsters" who can no longer afford the prices in Los Feliz and West Hollywood. There were thousands of little shops that we could've ducked into, but we drove instead, looking for a Korean grocery store that Christina remembered. We finally found it, The California Market, on the corner of 5th and Western. A good place to stop in for sweet potato noodles, undecodable cookies, and freshly slain fish in ice buckets. Cool.
* Lesson #2 - Cute neighborhoods = expensive shops
* Larchmont Village was our next stop and it is summed up by lesson #2. Cute neighborhoods. Neat houses. Beautiful landscaping.
While the main drag had some cute shops, a spa of note called La Petit Retreat, and a neat wine shop and deli, where everyone in town seemed to be eating lunch, most of the boutiques had very unfortunate price tags. Christina and I soon tired of $375 shoes and jumped back in the car, headed down Larchmont Blvd. where it dead-ended into Melrose.
* Melrose East (which I consider to be East of Fairfax) is one of my new favorite places in L.A. One of our first tastes of the quirkyness that is Melrose was a store called "The Never Open Store." Observe.
We ate lunch at Evan Kleiman's fantastic Angeli Caffe, which I would highly recommend. I'd never been there for lunch and Christina had never been there, but we both agreed it was a great choice for a lunch stop. We got a table right in front of the window, so we got to watch all the eclectic passerbys that is Melrose East -- lots of tats, piercings, some hipsters, some punk rockers, and some teenagers. But then again, I also saw countless women in middle aged women in stretchy pants, which just shows that Melrose takes all kinds. Christina and I both scored some great items at a little store called Gossip a few blocks west of Angeli. We had a great time in this old vintage t-shirt shop that had funny shirts in decent shape. I had some addresses of touted clothing stores from a recent Lucky Magazine, so we kept walking west to see what these stores were like. The walk, the noticing, was half the fun.
Much more fun, in fact, than being in the aforementioned stores.
Lesson #3 - Never shop Melrose west of Fairfax unless your bank account has at least 10 zeros.
We got the feeling that some of the salespeople - not all, but definitely some - wanted us out of their stores as quickly as possible. So, we headed back down East, where people are funky and laid-back and not-glarey. We got some energy via iced coffee and headed off for Atwater Village.
* Atwater Village can be summed up by Christina and I looking around for it, driving a certain loop a few times over, getting there and saying, "This is worth all the hype?" It is the home of the Beastie Boys' indie record label, though, and you gotta love the boys. Oh, and there's an India Sweets and Spices on Los Feliz Blvd.
* From Atwater Village, we took Glendale Blvd. (which later turns into Colorado Blvd.) through Silverlake, Los Feliz (cool downtown, which I had never seen), Eagle Rock (another cool downtown), and across the beautiful Colorado bridge back into Pasadena. We decided to go to Aardvark's for a little more cheap shopping and we both scored with some neat purchases with the hefty price tage of $5 p/item.
It was amazing -- we had driven all over the city and only used the freeway once. Impossible, some would say.
I was watching a Sex and the City episode filmed in L.A. a few days ago, one in which they're driving up a hill and Carrie, trying to handle the stick shift, is not doing so well. "I thought L.A. was supposed to be flat," she whines, and Miranda replies, "I think they mean culturally." That is just one of the subtle barbs that pervades the general public's thinking about L.A. Everyone thinks the place is nothing but a big freeway, or one big drive-by, or perhaps one big movie star playground, but that really is just one big stereotype. Not only is L.A. rounded culturally by its history, architecture, and artrs, most of its people are rounded, too. We're - shock! - real, mostly non-pretentious types, especially (I think) over on the East side.
Leaving the freeway system is great fun, something that everyone should spend a day doing. Your orientation becomes enlightened. You finally figure out that all these freeway exit streets indeed have a role beyond being freeway exits. They actually go places. Once you know some of the main streets, Western, Wilshire, Olympic, Melrose, Los Feliz, Colorado, you begin to see all the little connections between the neighborhoods and as Dr. Sarah Arroyo always says, it's all about the connections. Because figuring out the connections between things inevitably leads to your own involvement in them.
Adele Griffin once wrote, "All it takes is one chum to shrink the world to a comfortable size." And, I would add, one good map.
We studied maps beforehand, looked up information on Wiki and the Los Angeles Times, but decided any kind of timeline would negate the fun of doing something on spring break. With a glorious sun shining, we set off west (because just about everywhere in L.A. is west of Pasadena). I was driving, Christina was navigating and from hence, she will be known as Christina-of-the-Divine-Map-Reading-Skills. She got us everywhere using one of my maps, not one of hers that she had studied before this trip. Yep, she's that good.
Places We Saw (or at least drove past) and Brief Thoughts (All Photos by Christina):
* The Fashion District: Very different than I thought. Not warehouses stocked with cool clothing, textiles, and flowers available to, but not really for, the general public. More like shops named "Guccy" and "Pretty Pink." All the clothes seemed to be in plastic bags. Now I now where the high school students I used to teach shopped for their clothes and their prom dresses. As we drove by, we saw lots of people out shopping, but no stores that really caught either of our eyes -- because every store looks like the same incarnation of first, just with a different name. Christina and I decided that if you were in the market for flowers or textiles, it would be more worth a stop.
* Lesson #1 - Even if we'd wanted to stop in the Fashion District, it was all meters and we had no change. This was a trend we saw all over L.A. Bring change for meters.
* Korea Town: We got on Olympic and headed west over to Koreatown, where I had never been, but Christina had been on occasion with an past roommate. Again, there were mostly meters and very crowded streets. The biggest draw of Koreatown has got to be the food. There seem to be delicious places to eat on every corner, both Latino and Korean. In addition to the Latino and Korean populations, we learned, Koreatown is the new destination for young "hipsters" who can no longer afford the prices in Los Feliz and West Hollywood. There were thousands of little shops that we could've ducked into, but we drove instead, looking for a Korean grocery store that Christina remembered. We finally found it, The California Market, on the corner of 5th and Western. A good place to stop in for sweet potato noodles, undecodable cookies, and freshly slain fish in ice buckets. Cool.
* Lesson #2 - Cute neighborhoods = expensive shops
* Larchmont Village was our next stop and it is summed up by lesson #2. Cute neighborhoods. Neat houses. Beautiful landscaping.
While the main drag had some cute shops, a spa of note called La Petit Retreat, and a neat wine shop and deli, where everyone in town seemed to be eating lunch, most of the boutiques had very unfortunate price tags. Christina and I soon tired of $375 shoes and jumped back in the car, headed down Larchmont Blvd. where it dead-ended into Melrose.
* Melrose East (which I consider to be East of Fairfax) is one of my new favorite places in L.A. One of our first tastes of the quirkyness that is Melrose was a store called "The Never Open Store." Observe.
We ate lunch at Evan Kleiman's fantastic Angeli Caffe, which I would highly recommend. I'd never been there for lunch and Christina had never been there, but we both agreed it was a great choice for a lunch stop. We got a table right in front of the window, so we got to watch all the eclectic passerbys that is Melrose East -- lots of tats, piercings, some hipsters, some punk rockers, and some teenagers. But then again, I also saw countless women in middle aged women in stretchy pants, which just shows that Melrose takes all kinds. Christina and I both scored some great items at a little store called Gossip a few blocks west of Angeli. We had a great time in this old vintage t-shirt shop that had funny shirts in decent shape. I had some addresses of touted clothing stores from a recent Lucky Magazine, so we kept walking west to see what these stores were like. The walk, the noticing, was half the fun.
Much more fun, in fact, than being in the aforementioned stores.
Lesson #3 - Never shop Melrose west of Fairfax unless your bank account has at least 10 zeros.
We got the feeling that some of the salespeople - not all, but definitely some - wanted us out of their stores as quickly as possible. So, we headed back down East, where people are funky and laid-back and not-glarey. We got some energy via iced coffee and headed off for Atwater Village.
* Atwater Village can be summed up by Christina and I looking around for it, driving a certain loop a few times over, getting there and saying, "This is worth all the hype?" It is the home of the Beastie Boys' indie record label, though, and you gotta love the boys. Oh, and there's an India Sweets and Spices on Los Feliz Blvd.
* From Atwater Village, we took Glendale Blvd. (which later turns into Colorado Blvd.) through Silverlake, Los Feliz (cool downtown, which I had never seen), Eagle Rock (another cool downtown), and across the beautiful Colorado bridge back into Pasadena. We decided to go to Aardvark's for a little more cheap shopping and we both scored with some neat purchases with the hefty price tage of $5 p/item.
It was amazing -- we had driven all over the city and only used the freeway once. Impossible, some would say.
I was watching a Sex and the City episode filmed in L.A. a few days ago, one in which they're driving up a hill and Carrie, trying to handle the stick shift, is not doing so well. "I thought L.A. was supposed to be flat," she whines, and Miranda replies, "I think they mean culturally." That is just one of the subtle barbs that pervades the general public's thinking about L.A. Everyone thinks the place is nothing but a big freeway, or one big drive-by, or perhaps one big movie star playground, but that really is just one big stereotype. Not only is L.A. rounded culturally by its history, architecture, and artrs, most of its people are rounded, too. We're - shock! - real, mostly non-pretentious types, especially (I think) over on the East side.
Leaving the freeway system is great fun, something that everyone should spend a day doing. Your orientation becomes enlightened. You finally figure out that all these freeway exit streets indeed have a role beyond being freeway exits. They actually go places. Once you know some of the main streets, Western, Wilshire, Olympic, Melrose, Los Feliz, Colorado, you begin to see all the little connections between the neighborhoods and as Dr. Sarah Arroyo always says, it's all about the connections. Because figuring out the connections between things inevitably leads to your own involvement in them.
Adele Griffin once wrote, "All it takes is one chum to shrink the world to a comfortable size." And, I would add, one good map.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
My Life as a Playlist
It was my friend Rebekah's birthday the other day and I did what I try to do for any special occasion -- I began to compose a playlist for her in iTunes.
Russell and I like to make up games and just a few months ago, we made up a new one. It's called "My name is --- and I ---" What this means is that you identify who you are and then name something by which you identify that person. For instance, I usually do Russell, so I'll say something like, "My name is Russell and I only drink rice milk." You say funny things or odd things -- the object is to try to make the other person laugh with recognition, as in, "Am I really like that?" The answer is mostly yes, I really am that odd and other people notice it. Then you get to think about it in private later, and maybe, if you're prone to obsess, lay awake pondering the series of events that made you such an oddball who still manages to function somewhat normally in society.
We only get on a roll once in a great while, but the last time we were, one of Russ's was, "My name is Sarah and I spend hours and hours making playlists for my iPod." I laughed, not only because it was true, but because it was the first time it occured to me that perhaps not everyone else I know sits around at 11:30 at night, composing a playlist for her car ride or walk to the local post office the next day.
I once whimsically dubbed myself "Sar-Mix-A-Lot," a name I still associate with my unreal perception that I could in some parallel, upside-down universe, be a good DJ. Unfortunately, in my current life, I'm scared of standing in any loud room for too long because hearing loss runs in my family. I spent my childhood yelling at my mom, who wears a hearing aide, and then, being told to speak more quietly in all public arenas. Already, sometimes I worry that my hearing is slipping -- today, while walking downtown, a woman asked me how many blocks south "muffle-muffle-muffle" was. I had no idea what she said, but instead of being normal and asking her to repeat it, my fear manifested itself in the form of a lie: "Two blocks down," I said.
But there's nothing imaginary about my playlist habit. All one has to do is glance at the extremely long list of them in my iTunes and they'll see that I'm always creating, rearranging, and once in a while, destroying out of complete frustration, sets of songs. Like most creative work, they're a case study in evolution. I'll design one for a car ride and upon listening to it, figure out that the transition between Belle and Sebastian's "I'm a Cuckoo" and Bruce Springsteen's "Rosalita" doesn't quite work. Likewise, it's such a rush when I discover that the transition between Solomon Burke's "Don't Give Up On Me" and Shelby Lynne's "Jesus on a Greyhound" rolls from one to the other with the greatest of ease. If Russ happens to be with me, I'll say, "Damn! Did you hear that?!" and sometimes, based on the sheer power of good pairings, I find myself a little misty-eyed.
Perhaps some reading this might think that it's just a manifestation of my love of Nick Hornby and Rob Fleming, that I'm one of those people who once read a book/saw a movie and decided that it was going to be my new personality. But seriously, I was making Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith mix tapes before he ever flirted with the idea of writing a book about his obsessive love of the Arsenals. Besides, Nick doesn't own the market on obsessive. A good part of my junior high was spent shut away in my room and if I wasn't contemplating the universe in my journal - not a journaly-journal, but a spiral bound $2 notebook - then, I was busy arranging and recording new mix tapes of my favorite artists. I had mix tapes for every occasion -- for doing homework, for stretching, even for when me and my sister played "business office" in the basement. Because Lord knows, every business office has a soundtrack composed of Christian Top 40 from the late 1980's.
When I was a senior in high school, I rode down to a college in Kentucky that I was contemplating attending - I didn't sign up because they had an 11:00 curfew - and my English teacher at the time had this awesome Indigo Girls mix, with a little Edie Brickell thrown in for good measure. And two things dawned on me: 1.) I loved this Indigo Girls band and had to buy one of their CDs when I got back home and 2.) My high school English teacher, who I thought was sleek and cool, made mixes, too. It meant that I was sort of cool, by association. I began to share my mixes, first with Rebekah, who loves music as much as I do, and then, later on, with other friends.
That was the year that Rebekah and I learned every single Indigo Girls song on "12:00 Curfews" and the harmonies. It was also the year that I rode around with my bare feet hanging out the window until a policemen called out, "Nice toes" at a stop sign.
With the advent of iTunes, my mixing life has been made even easier, one of the many reasons that I'm insanely devoted to my Mac. But ease of creation doesn't necessarily equal successful mixes. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always successful. Christina has been my hardest friend to mix for at this point, mostly because we have a very different musical aesthetic, though there are a few bands for whom we share a mutual love. Best summed up, I'm a little bit country and she's a little bit rock-n-roll. And I don't care for Throwing Muses. I stream Morning Becomes Eclectic, she streams Woxy. But I like hearing what she likes because it expands my musical consciousness. She reminds me that there's a lot out there, infinite mixable possibilities, and to not only keep my ears open for myself, but for music I think my friends might like.
I think when it all comes down to it, my own creation complexes aside, I love mixing because it's doesn't end up being only for myself. If I make a great mix, one that I'm proud of, then I inevitably want to share it, whether I have to send it a few thousand miles or simply turn it on in my car. I get to give my friends an insider glimpse into what's pushing my musical buttons, whether it's Eleni Mandell or Ozomatli or Randy Newman. It really is a rush. I'm sure that Jefferey Steingarten feels the same way when one of those crazy food experiments of his works out beyond his wildest dreams and even his long-suffering wife proclaims it to be good.
Russell and I like to make up games and just a few months ago, we made up a new one. It's called "My name is --- and I ---" What this means is that you identify who you are and then name something by which you identify that person. For instance, I usually do Russell, so I'll say something like, "My name is Russell and I only drink rice milk." You say funny things or odd things -- the object is to try to make the other person laugh with recognition, as in, "Am I really like that?" The answer is mostly yes, I really am that odd and other people notice it. Then you get to think about it in private later, and maybe, if you're prone to obsess, lay awake pondering the series of events that made you such an oddball who still manages to function somewhat normally in society.
We only get on a roll once in a great while, but the last time we were, one of Russ's was, "My name is Sarah and I spend hours and hours making playlists for my iPod." I laughed, not only because it was true, but because it was the first time it occured to me that perhaps not everyone else I know sits around at 11:30 at night, composing a playlist for her car ride or walk to the local post office the next day.
I once whimsically dubbed myself "Sar-Mix-A-Lot," a name I still associate with my unreal perception that I could in some parallel, upside-down universe, be a good DJ. Unfortunately, in my current life, I'm scared of standing in any loud room for too long because hearing loss runs in my family. I spent my childhood yelling at my mom, who wears a hearing aide, and then, being told to speak more quietly in all public arenas. Already, sometimes I worry that my hearing is slipping -- today, while walking downtown, a woman asked me how many blocks south "muffle-muffle-muffle" was. I had no idea what she said, but instead of being normal and asking her to repeat it, my fear manifested itself in the form of a lie: "Two blocks down," I said.
But there's nothing imaginary about my playlist habit. All one has to do is glance at the extremely long list of them in my iTunes and they'll see that I'm always creating, rearranging, and once in a while, destroying out of complete frustration, sets of songs. Like most creative work, they're a case study in evolution. I'll design one for a car ride and upon listening to it, figure out that the transition between Belle and Sebastian's "I'm a Cuckoo" and Bruce Springsteen's "Rosalita" doesn't quite work. Likewise, it's such a rush when I discover that the transition between Solomon Burke's "Don't Give Up On Me" and Shelby Lynne's "Jesus on a Greyhound" rolls from one to the other with the greatest of ease. If Russ happens to be with me, I'll say, "Damn! Did you hear that?!" and sometimes, based on the sheer power of good pairings, I find myself a little misty-eyed.
Perhaps some reading this might think that it's just a manifestation of my love of Nick Hornby and Rob Fleming, that I'm one of those people who once read a book/saw a movie and decided that it was going to be my new personality. But seriously, I was making Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith mix tapes before he ever flirted with the idea of writing a book about his obsessive love of the Arsenals. Besides, Nick doesn't own the market on obsessive. A good part of my junior high was spent shut away in my room and if I wasn't contemplating the universe in my journal - not a journaly-journal, but a spiral bound $2 notebook - then, I was busy arranging and recording new mix tapes of my favorite artists. I had mix tapes for every occasion -- for doing homework, for stretching, even for when me and my sister played "business office" in the basement. Because Lord knows, every business office has a soundtrack composed of Christian Top 40 from the late 1980's.
When I was a senior in high school, I rode down to a college in Kentucky that I was contemplating attending - I didn't sign up because they had an 11:00 curfew - and my English teacher at the time had this awesome Indigo Girls mix, with a little Edie Brickell thrown in for good measure. And two things dawned on me: 1.) I loved this Indigo Girls band and had to buy one of their CDs when I got back home and 2.) My high school English teacher, who I thought was sleek and cool, made mixes, too. It meant that I was sort of cool, by association. I began to share my mixes, first with Rebekah, who loves music as much as I do, and then, later on, with other friends.
That was the year that Rebekah and I learned every single Indigo Girls song on "12:00 Curfews" and the harmonies. It was also the year that I rode around with my bare feet hanging out the window until a policemen called out, "Nice toes" at a stop sign.
With the advent of iTunes, my mixing life has been made even easier, one of the many reasons that I'm insanely devoted to my Mac. But ease of creation doesn't necessarily equal successful mixes. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always successful. Christina has been my hardest friend to mix for at this point, mostly because we have a very different musical aesthetic, though there are a few bands for whom we share a mutual love. Best summed up, I'm a little bit country and she's a little bit rock-n-roll. And I don't care for Throwing Muses. I stream Morning Becomes Eclectic, she streams Woxy. But I like hearing what she likes because it expands my musical consciousness. She reminds me that there's a lot out there, infinite mixable possibilities, and to not only keep my ears open for myself, but for music I think my friends might like.
I think when it all comes down to it, my own creation complexes aside, I love mixing because it's doesn't end up being only for myself. If I make a great mix, one that I'm proud of, then I inevitably want to share it, whether I have to send it a few thousand miles or simply turn it on in my car. I get to give my friends an insider glimpse into what's pushing my musical buttons, whether it's Eleni Mandell or Ozomatli or Randy Newman. It really is a rush. I'm sure that Jefferey Steingarten feels the same way when one of those crazy food experiments of his works out beyond his wildest dreams and even his long-suffering wife proclaims it to be good.
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Toast of New York
Last night, I got to meet Christina's good friend, Hillery - whose blog I read occasionally - and hear the hilarious and often mortifying stories from her time as an editor at a well-regarded New York publishing house. She told the story of one man, perhaps the self-proclaimed toast of the unpublished online literati, who has posted the rejection letter that she wrote him regarding his novel. The rejection letter without context makes her look like a nasty bitch who enjoys eating aspiring writers for snacks, but remember, that's because it's out of context. She's not the sort of person who tells every writer that they should go work at McDonald's because their book sucks and will never get published. She's the sort of person who tells a writer that after he's written her and said that perhaps, he may work at McDonald's in order to fund his writing aspirations. So, Mr. Online Feisty, let's not fault publishers with responding personally and in step with the original query letter.
All I had to do was google Hillery's name and this guy's name magically appeared. Apparently, he's partially responsible for the slowly changing rules about sending manuscripts to publishers via email because of his loud, loud online voice constantly raising in protest. His website is one of those places that's probably a haven for writers who have just gotten their first or fifth or twenty-seventh rejection letter and feel the much-earned need to express a little bitterness and/or rage at the publishing machine. He's like an online bread-and-roses who writes non-publishable fiction.
Later on, Christina, Emilio, Hillery and I played Beyond Balderdash, a game I've owned for almost five years and never played. It was not one of my shining moments in game history. In fact, I downright got my ass kicked. All three of my fellow players - especially Christina - kept making up these amazing, Websterian definitions that I was duped by again and again. In fact, all three of them were fairly close as far as their position on the Balderdash ladder goes. I think in the first game, I moved maybe four spaces. I had a few things going against me, most important being that if someone has made up a really funny but clearly false definition, I'm always tempted to go with it just to show my aprpeciation. So for instance, who designed the original flag? The answer was Johann someone. But the answer I remember was Emilio's "Betty Croc." I didn't vote for it - I was by that time attempting to close the staggering gap and maintain some of my respectability - but it's not an answer I'll soon forget. Likewise, I was tempted to vote for one of my own answers, even though I knew it was clearly wrong -- but when the question is "Who invented the paper clip" and you write, "Al Gore," it's almost too hard to resist.
All I had to do was google Hillery's name and this guy's name magically appeared. Apparently, he's partially responsible for the slowly changing rules about sending manuscripts to publishers via email because of his loud, loud online voice constantly raising in protest. His website is one of those places that's probably a haven for writers who have just gotten their first or fifth or twenty-seventh rejection letter and feel the much-earned need to express a little bitterness and/or rage at the publishing machine. He's like an online bread-and-roses who writes non-publishable fiction.
Later on, Christina, Emilio, Hillery and I played Beyond Balderdash, a game I've owned for almost five years and never played. It was not one of my shining moments in game history. In fact, I downright got my ass kicked. All three of my fellow players - especially Christina - kept making up these amazing, Websterian definitions that I was duped by again and again. In fact, all three of them were fairly close as far as their position on the Balderdash ladder goes. I think in the first game, I moved maybe four spaces. I had a few things going against me, most important being that if someone has made up a really funny but clearly false definition, I'm always tempted to go with it just to show my aprpeciation. So for instance, who designed the original flag? The answer was Johann someone. But the answer I remember was Emilio's "Betty Croc." I didn't vote for it - I was by that time attempting to close the staggering gap and maintain some of my respectability - but it's not an answer I'll soon forget. Likewise, I was tempted to vote for one of my own answers, even though I knew it was clearly wrong -- but when the question is "Who invented the paper clip" and you write, "Al Gore," it's almost too hard to resist.
Tanya, or General Disarray
Tanya has a knack for making canine enemies everywhere she goes. In the last few days, no less than three dogs have tried to kick her ass. She was pinned by a Jack Russell Terrier who was not just "feisty," as one adoring man commented, but bloodthirsty. The dog who lives in front of us knocked down two of the wooden fence boards yesterday. I believe his most enduring wish is to free himself from the crappy backyard in which he lives and go pawtiteeth with her.
There's something about Tanya that makes big dogs want to spend a lot of time torturing her. She reminds me of one of the characters on the great show, Freaks and Geeks, possibly Neal. She's cute, sort of sharp, and totally unable to defend herself against the blows of others.
There's something about Tanya that makes big dogs want to spend a lot of time torturing her. She reminds me of one of the characters on the great show, Freaks and Geeks, possibly Neal. She's cute, sort of sharp, and totally unable to defend herself against the blows of others.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Current Obsessions
#1. I can't stop talking like the Amy Adams character in the movie Junebug. It's North Carolina at its finest and I'm a sucker for a twangy N.C. accent. Russ says I'm pretty good at it. My favorite quoteables: "I wonder what she looks like. I bet she's skinny. She probably is. She's skinnier'n me and prettier too. Now I'll hate her" and "You ever go to college, I bet you did." I can tack that phrase, "I bet you did" on the end of any sentence, probably to the annoyance of anyone who has to spend more than a few moments with me.
#2. Organization (A life long project).
#3. Trying to get out of getting my wisdom tooth pulled tomorrow. We'll see if I can worm out of it last minute. Not because I'm scared. No, really.
#4. Taco salad. So simple, yet so genius.
#5. While helping Russ clean out our studio/office today, I noticed the mounds of journals I have stashed all over my bookcases. I think I've bought maybe three or four journals my entire life and the other thirty-two have been gifts. Why do people always get writers journals? Are they thinking, "Oh, she's a writer, she'd love a journal"? This is the kind of thinking that gets me stuck with thirty-some journals that I don't use -- I'm a typer. I love typing. True, pencil and ink hold an important place in the Writing Hall of Fame as contributors to literary greatness, but I love me a good keyboard. The louder the keys, the warmer my heart. So, if you know a writer out there, take it from me and don't, don't, don't get them a journal. Even if it's the most awesomest journal in the whole world and would stop traffic if it had legs and could walk across Hollywood and Highland. Because the truth is, even the awesomest journal will just go into the journal-mush-pile where it will get divied up between White Elephants, Regifts, and a dusty life on an studio/office bookcase.
That's all. Enjoy your own obsessions.
#2. Organization (A life long project).
#3. Trying to get out of getting my wisdom tooth pulled tomorrow. We'll see if I can worm out of it last minute. Not because I'm scared. No, really.
#4. Taco salad. So simple, yet so genius.
#5. While helping Russ clean out our studio/office today, I noticed the mounds of journals I have stashed all over my bookcases. I think I've bought maybe three or four journals my entire life and the other thirty-two have been gifts. Why do people always get writers journals? Are they thinking, "Oh, she's a writer, she'd love a journal"? This is the kind of thinking that gets me stuck with thirty-some journals that I don't use -- I'm a typer. I love typing. True, pencil and ink hold an important place in the Writing Hall of Fame as contributors to literary greatness, but I love me a good keyboard. The louder the keys, the warmer my heart. So, if you know a writer out there, take it from me and don't, don't, don't get them a journal. Even if it's the most awesomest journal in the whole world and would stop traffic if it had legs and could walk across Hollywood and Highland. Because the truth is, even the awesomest journal will just go into the journal-mush-pile where it will get divied up between White Elephants, Regifts, and a dusty life on an studio/office bookcase.
That's all. Enjoy your own obsessions.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wallin Means "Valley Dweller" in Swedish
Yesterday, I went "Beyond Blond" by drinking wine and listening to a panel discussion presented by the Swedish Consulate and PEN USA on outsider-dom and literature. The Swedish consulate puts on a month long celebration between March and April every year celebrating All Things Swedish. The event yesterday was quite posh, though as always, just when you're feeling cool and hip at the Swedish Consulate General's awesome pad on the top of a Santa Monica hill overlooking the Pacific, something happens to knock you on your reality again.
Yesterday, that something was twofold. The winds were blowing so hard that my hair, which I actually spent a good amount of time fixing, was quickly whipped out of shape and ended up looking like a bad Jennifer Lopez nightmare. So shaking hands with the Swedish Consulate General and literary who's-who lost some of its charm when I caught a reflection of myself in the glass, with hairs going every which way. Then later on, after two glasses of wine (Was it two? Hmm.), I was sitting out on the front porch with Chad, Hale, and Lee, and this very cool L.A. singer named Lola Stenger (I think), and while trying to make room for her on our writer-outsider bench, I dropped my wineglass. It shattered on the ground, just when the poetry reading started inside the house and everyone was quiet. I didn't look, but I could imagine everyone staring, wondering who the uncouth yokel on the porch was. And it was me: writer, frequent literature discusser, slight tipsy wine glass breaker.
All embarrassments aside, it made me want to fully embrace my Swedish roots. I was waiting for the parade of Swedish foods that I was sometimes subjected to around Christmas in my youth in order to get myself on the fast track of this re-Swedenization. Sadly - or maybe thankfully - there were no meatballs, akvavit, or Lutefisk for hardcore Swedenization. Instead, I ate my Ceasar salad and remained a valley dweller only on the East side of L.A.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Only Person on Earth Who's Not Exactly Looking Forward to Spring Break
Back in February, when I last visited my dentist for a six-monthly-teeth-and-gum-scraping, I was once again told that I needed to have my one and only wisdom tooth removed. Now I could've ignored it, like I've been doing to all dental advice ever since high school. My high school dentist recommended that I have the surgery to stop gum deterioration, where they remove skin from the thigh or butt and graft it into the mouth, at the receding gum line. As a a high schooler, you can imagine my reaction was something along the lines of, "Eww, gross me out." I was horrified at the thought that someone I knew might find out I had skin from my butt plastered into my mouth. What would life be like then? Names posted on my locker, written in pen on those cheesy locker stickers that the pom squad made for the cheereleaders. Instead of "Go Sarah," it would be, "Go Butt-Mouth" or "Get 'Em Ass-Gums." I would be even more undesireable than girls who spent their weekends working on Trig homework and coming up with little math jokes to impress our teacher. But really, it wasn't the potential name-calling that made me recoil in horror, but the thought of surgery, even minor surgery. Someone cutting me up and sewing me back together. I'm cursed with a vivid imagination, only intensified by nights spent watching old sci-fi movies with my dad, so I have a lot of semi-gruesome images and scenarios that I can call up on demand.
Needless to say, I sidestepped this surgery with clever excuses, a sort of dance that has defined my life with dentists. It's a complicated pattern, sort of akin to Billy Flynn's song-and-dance routines in the musical Chicago. The dentist tell me I need this -- I tell her that it sounds great, really, but I have final exams or can't take a break from teaching or am planning to go to Vegas that weekend, but I'll schedule it next time I have a check-up. It's not a lie-lie, in the sense that I usually do have final exams or a tough teaching schedule or a trip planned, but I am technically lying in the sense that I could probably find plenty of time to squeeze in a minor outpatient surgery. It's always worked well for me as a mode of operation.
Unfortunately, as I recently discovered, my current dentist and his staff don't fall so easily. Dr. Joe is jovial, but rarely listens to what I say, so not only does he ask me where I work and who my husband is every single time I come in, but when I tell him my usual I-can't-make-it-anytime-soon-we'll-try-again-next-time, he smiles at me and tells his office manager to schedule me an appointment to get my wisdom tooth pulled. I figure that I can worm my way out of it with the office manager, but she's an elderly Brit, sort of like a gray-haired Mary Poppins, and when I told her that I didn't see being able to get it done for a while, she just looked at me, searchingly, and then said, "Well, surely, you have spring break, dear. When is it? We'll schedule a time for you then, nice and quick." It crippled my defenses completely and the "dear" only sealed my defeat. So finding myself in unfamiliar territory, I leaned in confidentially over the desk and said, "The truth is, I'm sort of scared to have the surgery."
She smiled right away and said, "Oh dear, don't you worry. We'll take very good care of you." And that's how I ended up with a wisdom tooth extraction on the first day of spring break.
Needless to say, I sidestepped this surgery with clever excuses, a sort of dance that has defined my life with dentists. It's a complicated pattern, sort of akin to Billy Flynn's song-and-dance routines in the musical Chicago. The dentist tell me I need this -- I tell her that it sounds great, really, but I have final exams or can't take a break from teaching or am planning to go to Vegas that weekend, but I'll schedule it next time I have a check-up. It's not a lie-lie, in the sense that I usually do have final exams or a tough teaching schedule or a trip planned, but I am technically lying in the sense that I could probably find plenty of time to squeeze in a minor outpatient surgery. It's always worked well for me as a mode of operation.
Unfortunately, as I recently discovered, my current dentist and his staff don't fall so easily. Dr. Joe is jovial, but rarely listens to what I say, so not only does he ask me where I work and who my husband is every single time I come in, but when I tell him my usual I-can't-make-it-anytime-soon-we'll-try-again-next-time, he smiles at me and tells his office manager to schedule me an appointment to get my wisdom tooth pulled. I figure that I can worm my way out of it with the office manager, but she's an elderly Brit, sort of like a gray-haired Mary Poppins, and when I told her that I didn't see being able to get it done for a while, she just looked at me, searchingly, and then said, "Well, surely, you have spring break, dear. When is it? We'll schedule a time for you then, nice and quick." It crippled my defenses completely and the "dear" only sealed my defeat. So finding myself in unfamiliar territory, I leaned in confidentially over the desk and said, "The truth is, I'm sort of scared to have the surgery."
She smiled right away and said, "Oh dear, don't you worry. We'll take very good care of you." And that's how I ended up with a wisdom tooth extraction on the first day of spring break.
Monday, April 03, 2006
A Very Special Episode of This Blog
That's the phrase that turned me off to E.R. forever.
Russell and I have been listening to the new Belle and Sebastian CD, and then, because it sorta-kinda reminded us of T. Rex's Electric Warrior, we've listened to that a few times as well. The only song that ever hit the top of the charts in the U.S. is the song "Get It On (Bang a Gong)." Now, though this album was released in 1971, it feels very 1960's montage to me. As in: "It was a crazy summer -- we were young and had our whole lives in front of us. The possibilities felt endless. But what we didn't know was that it was the summer everything would change forever." And on and on. Now imagine that in tandem with images of youthful twenty-somethings protesting injustice and shouting for peace. They're singing in a circle around a fire, with eyes closed. They're shaking fists indignantly at squareish law officials. Some of the images are from a handheld camcorder and so, you get all these shots of funny, scrunched faces, rock-on fingers, and random moonings.
When I mentioned this to Russ, he argued that 1971 was not about peace signs and bra burnings. He said it was Led Zepplin territory and by that time, all the protesters had gotten tired or pregnant or plain apathetic. Which could be true. My aunt Nancy, who was in high school in the 70's, told me that her class didn't even have a class president because no one bothered to vote.
But I still argue that "Get It On" is a total montage-worthy, handheld camcorder shaking, corny voice-over type of song. Just listen to a sample on iTunes or Amazon and tell me if I'm totally off-base here. I'd like to be right on this one, just so I can for once na-na-na-na-na in Russell's historically accurate face.
Russell and I have been listening to the new Belle and Sebastian CD, and then, because it sorta-kinda reminded us of T. Rex's Electric Warrior, we've listened to that a few times as well. The only song that ever hit the top of the charts in the U.S. is the song "Get It On (Bang a Gong)." Now, though this album was released in 1971, it feels very 1960's montage to me. As in: "It was a crazy summer -- we were young and had our whole lives in front of us. The possibilities felt endless. But what we didn't know was that it was the summer everything would change forever." And on and on. Now imagine that in tandem with images of youthful twenty-somethings protesting injustice and shouting for peace. They're singing in a circle around a fire, with eyes closed. They're shaking fists indignantly at squareish law officials. Some of the images are from a handheld camcorder and so, you get all these shots of funny, scrunched faces, rock-on fingers, and random moonings.
When I mentioned this to Russ, he argued that 1971 was not about peace signs and bra burnings. He said it was Led Zepplin territory and by that time, all the protesters had gotten tired or pregnant or plain apathetic. Which could be true. My aunt Nancy, who was in high school in the 70's, told me that her class didn't even have a class president because no one bothered to vote.
But I still argue that "Get It On" is a total montage-worthy, handheld camcorder shaking, corny voice-over type of song. Just listen to a sample on iTunes or Amazon and tell me if I'm totally off-base here. I'd like to be right on this one, just so I can for once na-na-na-na-na in Russell's historically accurate face.
Friday, March 31, 2006
...Out Like A Lamb
It's almost April and I've spent the whole week in sweaters and knee socks. It's been cold and rainy, in short, very un-L.A.-like. Also, not very lamby.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful
It's raining outside right now, so hard that the windows are no longer transparent. I have my workshop on Tuesday nights and it seems that every Tuesday night this semester, it has either rained on my way to or from school. I have taken advantage of this afternoon with a heating pad on my feet and by reading. Not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon.
This is sort of a cop-out. Not the reading, but the fact that I have paperwork up to my ears that I have justified putting off until the last minute. Getting older has not curbed any of my last minute tendencies, as I once figured it would. Russell says that my saving grace is that I'm extremely organized and quick, so I can put things off until the last minute and still turn out something good. He shakes his head at this, since he works very differently. Anyway, I have a lot of things to do -- paperwork for scholarships, grants, and any other sort of writing people might want to pay me to do. I've been getting great feedback on my novel by people who have nothing to gain by being nice to me, and thus, I think, are probably being truthful. That's a good feeling. I wonder if my potential agent in Atlanta, who read the first chapter and then asked for the entire manuscript, is drumming her fingers on her desk, wondering where it is because she has to know what happens next. Okay, probably not, but isn't it fun to dream?
Tomorrow night might be a close-to-all-nighter. If so, I'm sure that you'll get it in blogging.
This is sort of a cop-out. Not the reading, but the fact that I have paperwork up to my ears that I have justified putting off until the last minute. Getting older has not curbed any of my last minute tendencies, as I once figured it would. Russell says that my saving grace is that I'm extremely organized and quick, so I can put things off until the last minute and still turn out something good. He shakes his head at this, since he works very differently. Anyway, I have a lot of things to do -- paperwork for scholarships, grants, and any other sort of writing people might want to pay me to do. I've been getting great feedback on my novel by people who have nothing to gain by being nice to me, and thus, I think, are probably being truthful. That's a good feeling. I wonder if my potential agent in Atlanta, who read the first chapter and then asked for the entire manuscript, is drumming her fingers on her desk, wondering where it is because she has to know what happens next. Okay, probably not, but isn't it fun to dream?
Tomorrow night might be a close-to-all-nighter. If so, I'm sure that you'll get it in blogging.
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