Coldest Winter. It's heartbreaking. This album is going to sell like nobody's business. Vulnerability in a single dose from a man who has made his career on ego. It's so sad how fascinating that is.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fall Back
San Francisco is sweltering tonight. The clingy, slightly suffocating, heat that envelops the city during Indian summers feels like it's invaded my body, pulsing my arms and legs while it pushes at the seams to escape. Even though it is 1am and a work night, the city is vibrant. From the street below my kitchen window, I hear laughter and drunken banter as the bar on the corner reaches capacity. People too inebriated to leave are now hanging over the side of an elongated open window that stares out on Sutter street, and very likely, they are all smoking cigarettes. In this greenest of hippiest of most sensitive cities, there are smokers who are dirty, loud and don't hesitate to ask for a hand out; and often, they are proud of it. This is especially true when you live daringly close to a neighborhood where a stretch of piss-stained sidewalk is valuable real estate both night and day.
Yet in spite of all that below me, I am here, sitting on my bed in an apartment I love, admiring the smirk on Reese Witherspoon's face as she stares at me from the cover of this month's Vogue. I never thought I would read Vogue, I never thought I would attempt being a writer, and I never thought I would embrace complexity and uncertainty in the ways that I do now. But I don't regret any of it, and I am happier that I am trying and somewhat succeeding at taking chances, even if I will fail in the near future. One day, I'm going to look back on these lively, enigmatic days, and tell my daughter that in order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself a little bit first.
Oh, and I'm also going to tell her that living on the top floor of an older building is all sunshine and rainbows until you realize that everyone can hear every breath and move that you make, and that those flights of stairs may be cute now, but they'll be your worst enemy at the end of a long day in heels.
S brought me pomegranate seeds tonight in a bowl, and left them for me on my desk while I was chatting on the phone. It reminded me of Poppa, and how he'd cut melons, apples, pears, any fruit and leave it for me on my desk after dinner, every night, without fail. I would sit in my room with my face pressed against the computer screen, listening to the gentle swish swish of his slippers approaching on the parquet floor. All I'd hope for was that he wouldn't want a long drawn out conversation with me; but I was such an introverted adolescent by then, he knew better than to try and engage me. Instead, he would smile and lean towards me with an outstretched arm placing the bowl safely on my desk, a napkin tucked neatly underneath.
"Here you go, kiddo."
As I would mumble thank you, he'd smile, then amble back down the hallway to his favorite chair in front of the TV. If he'd timed it right, Monday Night Football would just be returning from their half-time show.
Makes me wish I'd known a little better back then, about how quickly time passes and how much life can change. Hugs, love, cocoa puffs. Thanks for everything, San Francisco. It's your people that are making all the difference.
Yet in spite of all that below me, I am here, sitting on my bed in an apartment I love, admiring the smirk on Reese Witherspoon's face as she stares at me from the cover of this month's Vogue. I never thought I would read Vogue, I never thought I would attempt being a writer, and I never thought I would embrace complexity and uncertainty in the ways that I do now. But I don't regret any of it, and I am happier that I am trying and somewhat succeeding at taking chances, even if I will fail in the near future. One day, I'm going to look back on these lively, enigmatic days, and tell my daughter that in order to find yourself, you have to lose yourself a little bit first.
Oh, and I'm also going to tell her that living on the top floor of an older building is all sunshine and rainbows until you realize that everyone can hear every breath and move that you make, and that those flights of stairs may be cute now, but they'll be your worst enemy at the end of a long day in heels.
S brought me pomegranate seeds tonight in a bowl, and left them for me on my desk while I was chatting on the phone. It reminded me of Poppa, and how he'd cut melons, apples, pears, any fruit and leave it for me on my desk after dinner, every night, without fail. I would sit in my room with my face pressed against the computer screen, listening to the gentle swish swish of his slippers approaching on the parquet floor. All I'd hope for was that he wouldn't want a long drawn out conversation with me; but I was such an introverted adolescent by then, he knew better than to try and engage me. Instead, he would smile and lean towards me with an outstretched arm placing the bowl safely on my desk, a napkin tucked neatly underneath.
"Here you go, kiddo."
As I would mumble thank you, he'd smile, then amble back down the hallway to his favorite chair in front of the TV. If he'd timed it right, Monday Night Football would just be returning from their half-time show.
Makes me wish I'd known a little better back then, about how quickly time passes and how much life can change. Hugs, love, cocoa puffs. Thanks for everything, San Francisco. It's your people that are making all the difference.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Murakami and Eastwood
From the New Yorker Festival that just passed this weekend, a couple snippets of tastiness.
The first, words of wisdom (via the NYF blog) from Haruki Murakami on writing.
"He began by telling the story of a jazzman who, when accused of playing 'just like Charlie Parker,' handed his saxophone to his critic and said, 'Here—you try playing like Charlie Parker.' He said that we should draw three conclusions from this:
The first, words of wisdom (via the NYF blog) from Haruki Murakami on writing.
"He began by telling the story of a jazzman who, when accused of playing 'just like Charlie Parker,' handed his saxophone to his critic and said, 'Here—you try playing like Charlie Parker.' He said that we should draw three conclusions from this:
1. Criticizing somebody is fun and easy.
2. Meanwhile, creating something original is very hard.
3. But somebody’s got to do it.
He went on to reveal his writing secrets:
On inspiration: 'I became a writer all of a sudden. I don’t know why.'And the second -- well, everyone wants to be a little more like Clint Eastwood. Duh. Time to pick up a musical instrument! Did you know he composed the musical scores (including the theme of Mystic River) for many of his films? Me neither. Watch this clip of him playing piano at the Directors Guild of America. He plays a little ragtime, some honky tonk, and picks out a squeensy bit of what sounds like a Chopin Nocturne. Clint, if you hadn't won me over already with your serious directing chops, you definitely did when you had your way on stage with those ivories.
On the three essentials to literature: 'Reason. Harmony. Free improvisation.'
On momentum: 'I wanted to turn the pages, but there were no pages—I had to write them. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, so I write it. And then I don’t know what’s going to happen next, so I write it.'
On happiness: 'If the protagonist is happy, there’s no story at all.'
On the toughness required to be a writer: 'You have to be Rocky.'
On writing in general: 'It’s fun.'"
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sartorial-ish
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I'm no Sartorialist, but I saw this gentleman walking to work today and couldn't resist taking a picture. It might be a little hard to see (iphone cameras, no zoom, didn't want to look like stalker) but he was carrying the best 1960's style tan leather briefcase and sported that fabulouso cuban inspired hat. Not to mention, I had to give props for his ankle length trousers, donned without socks, and his dress shoes.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Tina Fey is my Favoritest
On SNL doing her Sarah Palin impression with Amy Poehler as the Hill. Maybe SNL isn't dead after all?
Thursday, September 11, 2008
In a Girl's Head
It's all complicated. Even for us. You know, there's all this blathering about your loved ones, and your not-so-loved ones, and about what you're wearing, and about how long you take in the shower, and omg I didn't do the write-up correctly for this meeting AGAIN. Generally, you're multi-tasking all the time, more so than men, and as soon as one of the many balls you have in the air drops you become overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety and worry.
To combat all the building concern, we use this handy tactic of discussion with our lady friends. Otherwise known as Girl Talk (thanks, NYtimes). It's how we've been socialized since we were little, sorry, boys. What few women realize, though, is how terrible too much talking can be. Science has happily named this overshare of feelings "co-ruminations," and let me say that post women's college, I can frankly say that this happens all too often. You spend so much time discussing one worry over and over again, that eventually you end up losing the original point while becoming mired waist-deep in depression. Whoops. Read to finally unravel why girls never. stop. talking.
Point of resentment: while this was a discussion of the brain, and the results of various psychological studies, somehow this entire article got placed in the "Fashion & Style" section. WTF, NYT?
To combat all the building concern, we use this handy tactic of discussion with our lady friends. Otherwise known as Girl Talk (thanks, NYtimes). It's how we've been socialized since we were little, sorry, boys. What few women realize, though, is how terrible too much talking can be. Science has happily named this overshare of feelings "co-ruminations," and let me say that post women's college, I can frankly say that this happens all too often. You spend so much time discussing one worry over and over again, that eventually you end up losing the original point while becoming mired waist-deep in depression. Whoops. Read to finally unravel why girls never. stop. talking.
Point of resentment: while this was a discussion of the brain, and the results of various psychological studies, somehow this entire article got placed in the "Fashion & Style" section. WTF, NYT?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Anxiety Can Kiss My...
fMRI! Wired Science does it again, delving into the nitty gritty fun stuff that everyone wants to learn about. Like, say, finding out whether it's possible to control anxiety and fear that people experience in touchy situations. Apparently you can be trained to manage the anxiety, and even better, it's possible to overcome your fears! It's an old concept, with a new brain-study twist a la Stanford's researching team that use fancy fMRI's to measure your responses. Fair warning, it's informative, but for the real deal, you'll have to wait for a book that's coming out in March '09.
Oh, gmail, thanks a lot for the heads up! I like how personalized that selection was for me. I just wish you wouldn't read my emails, and my chats, and basically everything that I do with such frequency and dedication to do that. It freaks me out. Thank goodness I haven't installed Chrome...yet.
Oh, gmail, thanks a lot for the heads up! I like how personalized that selection was for me. I just wish you wouldn't read my emails, and my chats, and basically everything that I do with such frequency and dedication to do that. It freaks me out. Thank goodness I haven't installed Chrome...yet.
Friday, August 29, 2008
well, that was unexpected
This morning, McCain chose Sarah Palin (Governor from Alaska! Hockey-mom of 5!) as his running-mate in an obvious attempt to pick up all the Hill supporters sitting on the fence about Obama.
Just because you have ovaries does not mean I will vote for you. Tidbit: if you stand for pretty much everything that Hillary was fighting against, why would I ever consider giving you my vote? I will definitely not vote for you if one of your goals is to overturn Roe v. Wade. I can understand being anti-abortion, however, I cannot understand how you think it is your right to decide every other woman's fate in the country.
I also find it vaguely offensive that she claims she wants to break the glass ceiling by putting a woman in the White House. I want a woman in there, yes, but I want it to be for the right reasons and at the right time. Bad reasons to end up in the White House: being chosen by a presidential candidate so you can strategically pull in the votes that he's lacking -- not based on your policies, or your achievements, or any other substantial reason, just because you're a woman. Otherwise known as, you are a giant tool. Literally. I don't want a pawn of the Republican party being called a force for women.
I would rather lick a syphilitic toilet bowl than hand over my country to you.
Just because you have ovaries does not mean I will vote for you. Tidbit: if you stand for pretty much everything that Hillary was fighting against, why would I ever consider giving you my vote? I will definitely not vote for you if one of your goals is to overturn Roe v. Wade. I can understand being anti-abortion, however, I cannot understand how you think it is your right to decide every other woman's fate in the country.
I also find it vaguely offensive that she claims she wants to break the glass ceiling by putting a woman in the White House. I want a woman in there, yes, but I want it to be for the right reasons and at the right time. Bad reasons to end up in the White House: being chosen by a presidential candidate so you can strategically pull in the votes that he's lacking -- not based on your policies, or your achievements, or any other substantial reason, just because you're a woman. Otherwise known as, you are a giant tool. Literally. I don't want a pawn of the Republican party being called a force for women.
I would rather lick a syphilitic toilet bowl than hand over my country to you.
Monday, August 25, 2008
For Your Ears
Tracks that deserve a little aural fixation:
T.I. -- Swagger Like Us (feat. M.I.A., Jay-Z, Kanye, and Lil' Wayne)
Ne-Yo -- Miss Independent (feat. Lil' Wayne, Kanye and Jay-Z).These boys love to work together. Talent magnetized to talent?
On a similar musical note, I am currently addicted to Pandora. I love the way it breaks down each song into its "musical genes." Like, R&B tones, syncopation, dissonance. It pulls out all the technical aspects of composition, puts it in layman's terms, and finds songs that have the same qualities and make-up as your suggested one. I was impressed that Pandora even managed to make up a Japanese channel off my "Utada" request. Well done, American company. Well done. They also have incredibly informative podcasts, if you're willing to take the time to listen. This one does a great job of breaking down dissonance and consonance, even if it is a little heavy on the technical music terminology.
I think I'd go crazy if I didn't have my music. Looks like your plan worked, Momma See.
T.I. -- Swagger Like Us (feat. M.I.A., Jay-Z, Kanye, and Lil' Wayne)
Ne-Yo -- Miss Independent (feat. Lil' Wayne, Kanye and Jay-Z).These boys love to work together. Talent magnetized to talent?
On a similar musical note, I am currently addicted to Pandora. I love the way it breaks down each song into its "musical genes." Like, R&B tones, syncopation, dissonance. It pulls out all the technical aspects of composition, puts it in layman's terms, and finds songs that have the same qualities and make-up as your suggested one. I was impressed that Pandora even managed to make up a Japanese channel off my "Utada" request. Well done, American company. Well done. They also have incredibly informative podcasts, if you're willing to take the time to listen. This one does a great job of breaking down dissonance and consonance, even if it is a little heavy on the technical music terminology.
I think I'd go crazy if I didn't have my music. Looks like your plan worked, Momma See.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Summer Loves
Watch: Mad Men. As if I even need to tell you about this, most likely
if you've watched any television, read any online news source, or
turned on any radio, you'll have heard what an amazing show this is.
Nominated for 17 Emmys (and already winners of 2
Golden Globes) this show is like intellectual crack. For a glimpse
into 1960's society (and, let's just put it out there, our current day
society) this show delves into all the stuff you didn't think possibly
existed, but did, and all the stuff you wish you knew more about, but
don't. It's painfully ambiguous in regards to relationships, pasts,
and futures -- and reflects so amazingly our reality that you can't
help but see a little bit of yourself in every character. Second
season premiered a little more than a week ago, hop on the bandwagon
already so you don't hear all the juicy spoilers ahead of time.
if you've watched any television, read any online news source, or
turned on any radio, you'll have heard what an amazing show this is.
Nominated for 17 Emmys (and already winners of 2
Golden Globes) this show is like intellectual crack. For a glimpse
into 1960's society (and, let's just put it out there, our current day
society) this show delves into all the stuff you didn't think possibly
existed, but did, and all the stuff you wish you knew more about, but
don't. It's painfully ambiguous in regards to relationships, pasts,
and futures -- and reflects so amazingly our reality that you can't
help but see a little bit of yourself in every character. Second
season premiered a little more than a week ago, hop on the bandwagon
already so you don't hear all the juicy spoilers ahead of time.
-- Sidenote: The Hills season 4 premieres on August 14th. I don't
watch it. I just, you know, read about it whenever I see an article
about it. Or, um, try to catch re-runs. Or, umm...whatever. It's a
cultural phenomenon. Don't judge me.
Listen: The latest addition to Timba's team, Izza Kizza, just dropped
his mixtape last Wednesday for free on his myspace page. While my
opinion of Girl Talk's Feed definitely improved over time, I'd say
that the first listen through of Kizza's album was on the same level
as my initial reaction to Night Ripper. HELL OF GOOD! My favorite
track so far is Don't Stop Go! but, each track grows on you the more
you listen to it. Zomg, the buttery hip-hop goodness even made me
groove at my desk. Embarrassing? Yes. Uncontrollable? Unfortunately.
Read: Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. This is possibly the biggest
pop-culture drop that I've done in a long while (minus aforementioned
Hills premiere), but after her big appearance at Comic Con with juicy
tidbits about the film version's development, even I got suckered in.
Plus, it's August, and who wants to read about Vampires around
Halloween? That's so cliche. It's like the smutty romance novel you
don't want anyone to know that you're reading, but you can't detach
from your hand. I already read 200 pages, and I only bought it 36
hours ago. 18 of which I spent sleeping. Chew on that one. (Haha,
punny. I swear one day I'll recommend something of greater literary value.)
Buy: Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten at Steve and Barry's.
Everything is $8.98 (I'm not kidding) from jeans, to dress pants, to
tshirts. The line is surprisingly well-tailored, and while the
material is not the greatest (and I have yet to see how it handles
wear and tear) there is something incredible about slipping on a pair
of jeans that costs lest than $10 and watching them hug in all the
right places, and fall to just the right length. Plus, I can attest to the fact that their cotton tshirts can even withstand a sturdy round in the dryer and maintain its general shape and form even though you meant to hang dry it so it would never shrink.
Pop-culture overload brought to you by endless hours of internets and
lazy summer weekends. Gotta love it.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Ska-doosh
Also known as, holy mother bunk.
Space held for legitimate blog post TK (haaa) which involves coherent thought at TBD time.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Unstoppable Force, Immovable Object
I originally had a long-winded post about Dark Knight's midnight showing here. I was waxing poetic about the performances, and the complex story-telling, and the undeniably breathtaking cinematography -- but it really boils down to this.
Never has a movie rocked me to the core as much as this one. Three days later and I am still listening to the theme music, I'm still pondering the plot points, and I can still envision the sights and sounds of the climactic scenes. Perhaps because I have grown up loving and believing in Batman's morals, Bruce Wayne's dilemmas, his ultimately ludicrous and insane devotion to self-sacrifice -- but those should have been drawbacks in watching Dark Knight. I should have hated it, because I went in with the highest expectations I have ever had for a film. I went in hoping for more than I could possibly ask for, and the best part, is that I came out feeling like I'd gotten more than I could even have imagined. I don't do film analysis, I don't understand it well enough. All I'll tell you from a story-teller's perspective, is that Nolan and his cast have done an incredible job of creating multi-faceted, realistic characters who you understand so well and recognize so blatantly as echoing the darkest parts of yourself, that you will be afraid to blink lest they show up as the person sitting next to you.
If I can tell you nothing else, how about this.
Dark Knight makes me believe in men, after I so bitterly lost faith in them. Maybe not all men, (alas), but in the courage, in the strength, in the valor of the good ones. The Dark Knight makes me believe in love again. (This idea, less easily discernible from watching it, but we'll just say it's because my conception of Bruce Wayne as a little girl was brought to life by a man whom I have adored for a number of years.)
And that's only after my first viewing. At midnight. In less than optimal absorption mode.
Can you imagine what will happen after my second?
Never has a movie rocked me to the core as much as this one. Three days later and I am still listening to the theme music, I'm still pondering the plot points, and I can still envision the sights and sounds of the climactic scenes. Perhaps because I have grown up loving and believing in Batman's morals, Bruce Wayne's dilemmas, his ultimately ludicrous and insane devotion to self-sacrifice -- but those should have been drawbacks in watching Dark Knight. I should have hated it, because I went in with the highest expectations I have ever had for a film. I went in hoping for more than I could possibly ask for, and the best part, is that I came out feeling like I'd gotten more than I could even have imagined. I don't do film analysis, I don't understand it well enough. All I'll tell you from a story-teller's perspective, is that Nolan and his cast have done an incredible job of creating multi-faceted, realistic characters who you understand so well and recognize so blatantly as echoing the darkest parts of yourself, that you will be afraid to blink lest they show up as the person sitting next to you.
If I can tell you nothing else, how about this.
Dark Knight makes me believe in men, after I so bitterly lost faith in them. Maybe not all men, (alas), but in the courage, in the strength, in the valor of the good ones. The Dark Knight makes me believe in love again. (This idea, less easily discernible from watching it, but we'll just say it's because my conception of Bruce Wayne as a little girl was brought to life by a man whom I have adored for a number of years.)
And that's only after my first viewing. At midnight. In less than optimal absorption mode.
Can you imagine what will happen after my second?
Monday, July 14, 2008
Uh, what is that thing next to your keyboard?
CREEPY, is what it is. Think the 3D head of a person (ew) sitting on your desk as you work. Inside a plastic box. The technology is exciting, don't get me wrong, but why the blogger decided to comment on its abilities as a "significant other" reminder is beyond me. I love having 3D decapitated versions of people staring at me as I'm typing, don't you?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
One Small Step for Women...
A very small, itsy-bitsy, teeny... step.
Apparently some really awesome (?) peeps got together and decided to create a comparable "gadget" website to gizmodo or engadget for the ladies. Quaintly named Popgadget the site features all the latest and greatest in popular tech/somewhat useless information.
I think I feel degraded...ish. But alas, tis true that all those popular tech blogs probably appeal to more gents than ladies (blah, blah blah, but I read them, blah blah blah). So, I am grateful for a group of people who got together to try and inform les femmes about all the wicked cool gadget-y stuff out there.
Plus, they try and feature cute/pretty things. It's like a weird amalgam of cuteoverload and gizmodo. Which, I guess, I do kind of like. Ah! I've been niched into a demographic. Someone buy me an it bag and make me feel better. OR, I could just start looking for an outfit to wear to a friend's 2011 wedding in space.
Apparently some really awesome (?) peeps got together and decided to create a comparable "gadget" website to gizmodo or engadget for the ladies. Quaintly named Popgadget the site features all the latest and greatest in popular tech/somewhat useless information.
I think I feel degraded...ish. But alas, tis true that all those popular tech blogs probably appeal to more gents than ladies (blah, blah blah, but I read them, blah blah blah). So, I am grateful for a group of people who got together to try and inform les femmes about all the wicked cool gadget-y stuff out there.
Plus, they try and feature cute/pretty things. It's like a weird amalgam of cuteoverload and gizmodo. Which, I guess, I do kind of like. Ah! I've been niched into a demographic. Someone buy me an it bag and make me feel better. OR, I could just start looking for an outfit to wear to a friend's 2011 wedding in space.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Sick Beats Never Felt So Good
As Girl Talk's newest album. Feed the Animals dropped today, and in typical "I'm an awesome Artist" style, Gillis has made the album acquirable from donations of any amount (including 0).
Jury's out on whether this mix is better than Night Ripper, but I hate to say that from what little listening I've done so far, it's pretty good, but not as good. I'll have to wait till I've heard it on speakers. It gets pretty badass a little later, probably closer to 7-8 minutes in on the seamless mix -- which is opposite from Night Ripper in my opinion. NR starts out really strong, gradually loses steam through the middle, and ends a bit weak.
Anyone want to go to GT concert? If we combine our powers for good, maybe we can get tickets this time before they sell out immediately.
Jury's out on whether this mix is better than Night Ripper, but I hate to say that from what little listening I've done so far, it's pretty good, but not as good. I'll have to wait till I've heard it on speakers. It gets pretty badass a little later, probably closer to 7-8 minutes in on the seamless mix -- which is opposite from Night Ripper in my opinion. NR starts out really strong, gradually loses steam through the middle, and ends a bit weak.
Anyone want to go to GT concert? If we combine our powers for good, maybe we can get tickets this time before they sell out immediately.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Gotham Knight
Someone get this to me, pronto. Um, please.
So, this is pretty late news, especially since I heard it from Big Bro at dinner and, if Wired's already picked it up as a legit story on their blog with a Kevin Conroy interview, then it must have been all over the net for at least a week. Gotham Knights, the animatrix DVD derivative set to come out just before the release of Dark Knight on JULY 18th, is apparently loose in more palpable forms than occasional leaked photos. Wow, you know what would be cool? To work at Wired and be Scott Thill who got that packet of information plus DVD ahead of time. You know what would be cooler? ... I won't say it, but you all know I'm thinking it.
I pine. I perish. I... really want to see the movie and get this DVD already.
So, this is pretty late news, especially since I heard it from Big Bro at dinner and, if Wired's already picked it up as a legit story on their blog with a Kevin Conroy interview, then it must have been all over the net for at least a week. Gotham Knights, the animatrix DVD derivative set to come out just before the release of Dark Knight on JULY 18th, is apparently loose in more palpable forms than occasional leaked photos. Wow, you know what would be cool? To work at Wired and be Scott Thill who got that packet of information plus DVD ahead of time. You know what would be cooler? ... I won't say it, but you all know I'm thinking it.
I pine. I perish. I... really want to see the movie and get this DVD already.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Oh Me, Oh May
So many movies, so much music, so many life changes. Wait, those don't really relate, do they?
My absolute favorite part of traveling is, funny enough, the time in between places. Especially after work started, I rarely find time to journal. After regularly journeying from coast to coast, I always found my most soothing and contemplative moments squished into a center seat somewhere in Cattle Class; which is probably why I knee-jerk to pulling out my moleskin as soon as I've snapped my seatbelt into place. Maybe it's because I don't have the option of wi-fi. Actually, that's likely. Or, maybe it's because I just plug my music in and do nothing but put a pen on paper. No distractions, and no necessity to conduct inane conversation with the person next to me. Or, is it because leaving familiarity gives me a sense of freedom and quiet honesty? Probably some of the first unfiltered honesty I'll experience with myself in however long its been since my last trip. I'm always more creative, more adventurous, more alert and less inhibited when I'm not around everything that I know. But, isn't that everyone? That's what studying abroad was -- what happens in ______ stays in _______, right? What you think about on the plane, stays on the plane? Or, it trails behind you like cans on the Just Married car, clinking against the concrete, reminding you to take some time and untangle everything before you return home dragging that beat up metal crap. How quaintly existential of you, See. That was actually just a vague gesture at explaining why I've been a lazy bum and haven't posted in three weeks. But, you just got to Seattle, how can you possibly have been that busy before all this?
Oh, well just you wait for the daring exploits and tales of the city about our intrepid soon-to-be living in Nob Hill trio. Close read that one.
Upcoming topics for discussion:
1. Sex and the City. Three days till Thursday's premiere. I hope against all hope that it won't be the train wreck that Indy was last week, which might have been a better movie if I was deaf. Or blind. Or in a coma. I'll broach that later.
2. Gossip Girl (TV and Book version!) Reading the book at 23 makes me think Cecily von Zeigesar is a master of satire and irony. Thinking about how I would have read it at 14 makes me want to never have children. Or at least, if I do, sit down and have the birds and bees talk when they turn 8. No, wait, 4 1/2.
3. Summer albums are dropping everywhere we look. Usher. Coldplay. Chris Brown. Movin' mountains won me over since Raymond's hearkening back to his origins -- angsty love song ballades. For his upbeat siiiccckkk club sound: Play Me. (No pun intended...ish). Viva la Vida is going to be another Coldplay classic -- props to the group for integrating classical sounds with current day pop. They did it oh so long ago, but the best part is how they've kept it going. R.I.P. The Verve. Chris Brown, well, need I mention Forever? But, that's so 6 weeks ago. His now it song is Last 2 Know.
4. Rogan for Target's GO International line. Till June 28th. Saharan prints. Trendy. Cheap. Go buy it.
Till I'm back from my travels up north and more capable of structuring and writing a coherent entry, here's a little current music joy to partake of:
My absolute favorite part of traveling is, funny enough, the time in between places. Especially after work started, I rarely find time to journal. After regularly journeying from coast to coast, I always found my most soothing and contemplative moments squished into a center seat somewhere in Cattle Class; which is probably why I knee-jerk to pulling out my moleskin as soon as I've snapped my seatbelt into place. Maybe it's because I don't have the option of wi-fi. Actually, that's likely. Or, maybe it's because I just plug my music in and do nothing but put a pen on paper. No distractions, and no necessity to conduct inane conversation with the person next to me. Or, is it because leaving familiarity gives me a sense of freedom and quiet honesty? Probably some of the first unfiltered honesty I'll experience with myself in however long its been since my last trip. I'm always more creative, more adventurous, more alert and less inhibited when I'm not around everything that I know. But, isn't that everyone? That's what studying abroad was -- what happens in ______ stays in _______, right? What you think about on the plane, stays on the plane? Or, it trails behind you like cans on the Just Married car, clinking against the concrete, reminding you to take some time and untangle everything before you return home dragging that beat up metal crap. How quaintly existential of you, See. That was actually just a vague gesture at explaining why I've been a lazy bum and haven't posted in three weeks. But, you just got to Seattle, how can you possibly have been that busy before all this?
Oh, well just you wait for the daring exploits and tales of the city about our intrepid soon-to-be living in Nob Hill trio. Close read that one.
Upcoming topics for discussion:
1. Sex and the City. Three days till Thursday's premiere. I hope against all hope that it won't be the train wreck that Indy was last week, which might have been a better movie if I was deaf. Or blind. Or in a coma. I'll broach that later.
2. Gossip Girl (TV and Book version!) Reading the book at 23 makes me think Cecily von Zeigesar is a master of satire and irony. Thinking about how I would have read it at 14 makes me want to never have children. Or at least, if I do, sit down and have the birds and bees talk when they turn 8. No, wait, 4 1/2.
3. Summer albums are dropping everywhere we look. Usher. Coldplay. Chris Brown. Movin' mountains won me over since Raymond's hearkening back to his origins -- angsty love song ballades. For his upbeat siiiccckkk club sound: Play Me. (No pun intended...ish). Viva la Vida is going to be another Coldplay classic -- props to the group for integrating classical sounds with current day pop. They did it oh so long ago, but the best part is how they've kept it going. R.I.P. The Verve. Chris Brown, well, need I mention Forever? But, that's so 6 weeks ago. His now it song is Last 2 Know.
4. Rogan for Target's GO International line. Till June 28th. Saharan prints. Trendy. Cheap. Go buy it.
Till I'm back from my travels up north and more capable of structuring and writing a coherent entry, here's a little current music joy to partake of:
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Aww
Boys are so funny.
Not in the "wah, boys are such strange creatures that I don't understand!" whiney way that, yeah I know, I have lamented in the blog before. What I mean is guys are just funny. They are creatures of entertainment, and are quick to take every opportunity to crack an inappropriate joke, or make people squirmishly uncomfortable. They have comedic timing, usually, and they're witty, hilarious, and I swear they just get away with so much more shit than women do. Look, I just typed shit, twice. You know what I think when I write shit (thrice!) in one post? I think, damn, now I look really unlady-like. I think, well great, now I'm an uncouth female writer and I'm taking cheap shots because I ran out of the really melodic, lyrical bull that I'm used to putting out in the world. I think, I seem like freaking Amy Poehler, and I don't think she's funny. I think she's crass and a little disgusting and like I'd rather rub a dead rat on my hand than watch her on TV. When a guy swears in his writing, like say in another blog that I frequent written by a certain boyperson/coworker/I bet you won't notice this for a week does, the profanity comes off not only pithy and adeptly turned, but I swear to God sometimes it sounds brilliant. Like fuck was the greatest word ever invented, or shit was the best descriptor anyone has ever used. I have never had so much aggravated language in a blog post before, and I will brazenly admit that it feels both liberating and, well, twitchy. My leg is popping up and down now. Swearing in public turns me into the squirrel from Hoodwinked.
I was reading Marie Claire which, I still think, is one of the best women's magazines out there today. It's informed, intelligent, and it makes a damn good case for being an independent, free-thinking woman. All the important "IN" words for women. But, it's really just not funny. There are polite quips and banter here and there, and the recent article about dealing with the downside of wedding season (omg, totally do not give the same gift to every bride and groom you see this year) is supposed to be so funny because they include a sidebar on how to handle nasty 911 situations, like the bride being pregnant on her wedding day. Do NOT make jokes about her belly and how she's a mommy-to-be, FYI. Holy fuck (whoo! count 6) it's just boring. But it's the kind of humor that women are accustomed to and hits right in their comfort zone. Polite giggles with your hand held over your mouth, right ladies? Throwing your head back and laughing at a magazine would be, well, in poor taste. Boys get Maxim. Boys get Details. Boys get freaking Playboy. Not saying I want naked dudes linked in with my intellectual stimulation, but when women try to put it all together it just comes off smutty. Hello, Cosmo.
The Daily Show has all dudes, right? Are there any women? I'm not a habitual watcher, so I wouldn't know. And the Colbert Report, well, duh. Okay, but you have SNL. Or Mad TV. And Tina Fey made history by becoming the first lead SNL female comedy writer. She's funny! She wrote one of my favorite movies of all time, Mean Girls, and she's the featured celebrity (because every magazine has to feature a celebrity now) in the May issue of Marie Claire. Except, Tina Fey is one of a very few smart, witty women who have managed to retain some modicum of femininity while they stay true their inner hijinx. Cybil Shepherd comes to mind as a funny woman. Candice Bergen on occasion. And even so, in my mind, the perception of them is slightly masculine. They have a fairly mannish quality to them. Take That 70's show for example. Redhead Donna, hilarious, but with a definite air of masculinity. Brunette Jackie, laugh worthy but in such a hee-hee, airhead way. So, what, being funny means you're being like a dude?
I often wonder if I can identify a female writer or male writer just by their style. In fact, reading Marie Claire today I was trying to do that. Male, Female, Female, Female. And, perhaps pleasantly surprising enough, I was wrong a few times. But only, and get this, when it was a man writing. Men can adapt female writing, but then they seem, what, gay? Women can adapt male writing, but then they seem butch. But how many female writers are there for GQ? Or Maxim? I seriously considered applying to Maxim when I was looking for jobs, but would I be giving up my liberated woman views to work for them? Verdict: yes. Application killed. But, is that holding me back? Guys will write for a women's magazine, so, why shouldn't I try writing for a men's magazine? Because I don't ever feel like I could be funny in the way that they need. I could be cute funny, and that's what it all comes down to. Men can be laugh out loud, raucous, hilarious and completely inappropriate funny. Women can be laughable, adorable, and quaint. Fucking A.
Even at the tail end of this ranty post, all I can think is, "I read my writing and think, gee, I feel like flowers and clouds after reading this." I read other people's writing, mainly male writers, and think, "Yeah, that's it, get into the gritty shit. Do it." I can't even get myself to do it -- this entry is a definite stretch for me -- so if, as a women's college educated, independent, liberal female, I'm worrying about crossing the line, someone tell me how women in general can toe the line between funny and crass without getting shit on?
I've definitely heard at least a couple guys tell me that girls will never be as funny as boys. Is it because we aren't willing to take the chances? Or because taking the chances makes us look too much like one of the dudes. Freaking gender stereotypes. I am liberated. I've made "that's what she said" jokes, albeit like twice, but I've gone there and I've done that. I've done keg stands, watched videos I never should have watched with things in places they never should have been, and I've shot guns, I like comic books and I can beat you at Street Fighter II. And I still like pink, and high heels, and make-up and snuggling.
And the next time some asshole guy slams his arm into my shoulder because he thinks I'm a prissy bitch, I'm going to turn around and knee him in the balls or punch him in the face. Cause, you know what, I am a prissy bitch.
I just wish I could figure out how to do it all without feeling like I was giving up some special, delicate, flowery part of myself.
Not in the "wah, boys are such strange creatures that I don't understand!" whiney way that, yeah I know, I have lamented in the blog before. What I mean is guys are just funny. They are creatures of entertainment, and are quick to take every opportunity to crack an inappropriate joke, or make people squirmishly uncomfortable. They have comedic timing, usually, and they're witty, hilarious, and I swear they just get away with so much more shit than women do. Look, I just typed shit, twice. You know what I think when I write shit (thrice!) in one post? I think, damn, now I look really unlady-like. I think, well great, now I'm an uncouth female writer and I'm taking cheap shots because I ran out of the really melodic, lyrical bull that I'm used to putting out in the world. I think, I seem like freaking Amy Poehler, and I don't think she's funny. I think she's crass and a little disgusting and like I'd rather rub a dead rat on my hand than watch her on TV. When a guy swears in his writing, like say in another blog that I frequent written by a certain boyperson/coworker/I bet you won't notice this for a week does, the profanity comes off not only pithy and adeptly turned, but I swear to God sometimes it sounds brilliant. Like fuck was the greatest word ever invented, or shit was the best descriptor anyone has ever used. I have never had so much aggravated language in a blog post before, and I will brazenly admit that it feels both liberating and, well, twitchy. My leg is popping up and down now. Swearing in public turns me into the squirrel from Hoodwinked.
I was reading Marie Claire which, I still think, is one of the best women's magazines out there today. It's informed, intelligent, and it makes a damn good case for being an independent, free-thinking woman. All the important "IN" words for women. But, it's really just not funny. There are polite quips and banter here and there, and the recent article about dealing with the downside of wedding season (omg, totally do not give the same gift to every bride and groom you see this year) is supposed to be so funny because they include a sidebar on how to handle nasty 911 situations, like the bride being pregnant on her wedding day. Do NOT make jokes about her belly and how she's a mommy-to-be, FYI. Holy fuck (whoo! count 6) it's just boring. But it's the kind of humor that women are accustomed to and hits right in their comfort zone. Polite giggles with your hand held over your mouth, right ladies? Throwing your head back and laughing at a magazine would be, well, in poor taste. Boys get Maxim. Boys get Details. Boys get freaking Playboy. Not saying I want naked dudes linked in with my intellectual stimulation, but when women try to put it all together it just comes off smutty. Hello, Cosmo.
The Daily Show has all dudes, right? Are there any women? I'm not a habitual watcher, so I wouldn't know. And the Colbert Report, well, duh. Okay, but you have SNL. Or Mad TV. And Tina Fey made history by becoming the first lead SNL female comedy writer. She's funny! She wrote one of my favorite movies of all time, Mean Girls, and she's the featured celebrity (because every magazine has to feature a celebrity now) in the May issue of Marie Claire. Except, Tina Fey is one of a very few smart, witty women who have managed to retain some modicum of femininity while they stay true their inner hijinx. Cybil Shepherd comes to mind as a funny woman. Candice Bergen on occasion. And even so, in my mind, the perception of them is slightly masculine. They have a fairly mannish quality to them. Take That 70's show for example. Redhead Donna, hilarious, but with a definite air of masculinity. Brunette Jackie, laugh worthy but in such a hee-hee, airhead way. So, what, being funny means you're being like a dude?
I often wonder if I can identify a female writer or male writer just by their style. In fact, reading Marie Claire today I was trying to do that. Male, Female, Female, Female. And, perhaps pleasantly surprising enough, I was wrong a few times. But only, and get this, when it was a man writing. Men can adapt female writing, but then they seem, what, gay? Women can adapt male writing, but then they seem butch. But how many female writers are there for GQ? Or Maxim? I seriously considered applying to Maxim when I was looking for jobs, but would I be giving up my liberated woman views to work for them? Verdict: yes. Application killed. But, is that holding me back? Guys will write for a women's magazine, so, why shouldn't I try writing for a men's magazine? Because I don't ever feel like I could be funny in the way that they need. I could be cute funny, and that's what it all comes down to. Men can be laugh out loud, raucous, hilarious and completely inappropriate funny. Women can be laughable, adorable, and quaint. Fucking A.
Even at the tail end of this ranty post, all I can think is, "I read my writing and think, gee, I feel like flowers and clouds after reading this." I read other people's writing, mainly male writers, and think, "Yeah, that's it, get into the gritty shit. Do it." I can't even get myself to do it -- this entry is a definite stretch for me -- so if, as a women's college educated, independent, liberal female, I'm worrying about crossing the line, someone tell me how women in general can toe the line between funny and crass without getting shit on?
I've definitely heard at least a couple guys tell me that girls will never be as funny as boys. Is it because we aren't willing to take the chances? Or because taking the chances makes us look too much like one of the dudes. Freaking gender stereotypes. I am liberated. I've made "that's what she said" jokes, albeit like twice, but I've gone there and I've done that. I've done keg stands, watched videos I never should have watched with things in places they never should have been, and I've shot guns, I like comic books and I can beat you at Street Fighter II. And I still like pink, and high heels, and make-up and snuggling.
And the next time some asshole guy slams his arm into my shoulder because he thinks I'm a prissy bitch, I'm going to turn around and knee him in the balls or punch him in the face. Cause, you know what, I am a prissy bitch.
I just wish I could figure out how to do it all without feeling like I was giving up some special, delicate, flowery part of myself.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Clazziquai - Lover Boy
Really, music is sometimes so much better when you don't have to worry about insipid lyrics. Here's looking at you, Chris Brown. Also, see Clazziquai's song "Romeo N Juliet" which will pop up in the menu, on the far right, after this song finishes playing. They sucker me in with their Jazz sounds. Tricksters.
Fatigue?
Overly long post about being awake at 2a.m. has been reduced to this:
Type-A Friends, that's all of you, make sure you take time out to recharge. Meaning:
1. Spend a day/night doing absolutely nothing so you can clear out all the junk in your head (this does not include drinking. Drinking makes you more dumberererer). Get sleep.
2. Go see people. Do not stay locked at home doing mundane, silly, boringness because it feels easy and safe. Do something that will engage you socially and keep you invested in your existence not tied to an inanimate object. There are very worthwhile people to spend your time with, go be with them.
3. I sound like Stephen Covey, I'm going to stop.
Happy May! See above post for fun music. Also, go see Iron Man. If you can, sometime this weekend, when there are lots of people in the theater. Do not go for surprise plot twists (honestly, that's not why anyone watches a SuperHero movie nowadays). However, do expect snappy dialogue with healthy doses of banter, neat gadgets, and plenty of comic book references for adequate nerd-lovin'. Robert Downey Jr. makes the film laugh out loud funny, his timing and irreverence floating lines that would seem pedantic from another actor, and, for a man who's in his 40s, well, not a peep or complaint from my mouth about appearance and/or physical capabilities. Gwyneth Paltrow is luminous. Strawberry blonde hair, fabulous legs plus a killer backless azure dress (hrmm... who made that?) only highlight how well-suited she is to play a flustered, assertive, no wait, meek, no wait, feisty Pepper Potts with her demure half smiles fluttering boy hearts everywhere. Yada, yada, yada, go watch, be merry, enjoy spring.
Type-A Friends, that's all of you, make sure you take time out to recharge. Meaning:
1. Spend a day/night doing absolutely nothing so you can clear out all the junk in your head (this does not include drinking. Drinking makes you more dumberererer). Get sleep.
2. Go see people. Do not stay locked at home doing mundane, silly, boringness because it feels easy and safe. Do something that will engage you socially and keep you invested in your existence not tied to an inanimate object. There are very worthwhile people to spend your time with, go be with them.
3. I sound like Stephen Covey, I'm going to stop.
Happy May! See above post for fun music. Also, go see Iron Man. If you can, sometime this weekend, when there are lots of people in the theater. Do not go for surprise plot twists (honestly, that's not why anyone watches a SuperHero movie nowadays). However, do expect snappy dialogue with healthy doses of banter, neat gadgets, and plenty of comic book references for adequate nerd-lovin'. Robert Downey Jr. makes the film laugh out loud funny, his timing and irreverence floating lines that would seem pedantic from another actor, and, for a man who's in his 40s, well, not a peep or complaint from my mouth about appearance and/or physical capabilities. Gwyneth Paltrow is luminous. Strawberry blonde hair, fabulous legs plus a killer backless azure dress (hrmm... who made that?) only highlight how well-suited she is to play a flustered, assertive, no wait, meek, no wait, feisty Pepper Potts with her demure half smiles fluttering boy hearts everywhere. Yada, yada, yada, go watch, be merry, enjoy spring.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Suppression
I haven't really smoked in a long time. And by not really smoked, I'm not talking about the social smoking that happens over drinks on patios or huddled together beneath a single coat outside a bar. I'm talking about the way I used to enjoy a clove or two or four over multiple cups of tea with T and K: sitting in K's apartment, or in the Bug or the Jeep, or going back even further, behind Stone-D in those wretched plastic deck chairs as we philosophized and enjoyed the waning warmth of my first East Coast Fall.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
Growing up in Northern California gave me a perennial hatred of smoking. What was the point when there was so much clean air, so many healthy alternatives -- like biking! -- to give you a buzz instead of a cigarette? My father smoked for the majority of my (and his) life, and even as a little girl I did my damnedest to get him to quit. I still remember the first time I told Big Bro I was vaguely intrigued by it, as much as it disgusted me. I couldn't help but imagine the indefinable enjoyment that filling your lungs with a foreign substance would bring. By then, my father had quit smoking -- a result of medical problems brought on by his forty plus years inhaling carcinogens -- but, his last half full carton of cigarettes remained in the "Cabinet of Forbidden Things," just below the liquor. Big Bro grabbed an unopened pack, produced a book of matches and led me onto the patio with the single command to "smoke it." I remember blubbering on about tar in my lungs and envisioning black clouds floating morbidly in my chest. Instead of lighting up and inhaling, I stood awkwardly in front of my brother's stone cold stare and ran whatever crappy stoge my father owned beneath my nostrils while I forced myself to intake the raw, upchuck-inducing scent of tobacco. Later, I would cut that same cigarette open with my swiss army knife and sift through the leaves, trying to discern what made this otherwise mundane brown substance so life altering.
So obviously, it was rather a big deal when I picked up smoking in college. Initially it was experimental. Try it on for size and see if the inner bad girl in See would revel in it the way she'd enjoyed all the other debauchery I'd pointedly avoided in high school. Much to my disdain, I did, a lot. For the first month and a half of college I was hooked, and since then it's become both a stress and an escapist tendency which produces occasional unhealthy trysts when I'm feeling anxious, or in the case of senior year, full on semester long lapses. Since graduating though, and likely because I've spent so much more time in California living a much healthier existence, the habit has subsided and for the better part has dropped from my life completely. Unless, of course, a select few people or situations pop up which bring back the familiar yearning.
Earlier this week, Big Bro discovered an empty clove box in the glove compartment of his car. Perhaps a year ago that box would have been the inevitable unearthing of distressing anxiety levels, but funny enough this was just a forgotten remnant of this past Fall and T's visit. I have reserve boxes well hidden, but they haven't been touched since she left in October. I quit! I quit months ago and whatever flare ups there have been were negligible. For the better part I decided to leave the dirty addiction behind me and find more constructive ways to relieve tension. But since Big Bro mentioned it to me, I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Is it just because I've been a wee bit stressed and, when stressed, I crave the sweet aftertaste and momentary buzz of a clove (controlled escapism at its finest)? Or, is it because Big Bro brought an otherwise well suppressed tendency to the forefront of my mind? I've never really considered myself a smoker, and if someone asks I'll generally say no (perhaps with some addendums), but is it possible that the reality is I'm actually a smoker pretending to be a non-smoker?
When we've managed to suppress or control a desire, a tendency, or an otherwise unattractive aspect of ourselves that we loathe, that doesn't mean it's disappeared. It still exists, floating patiently in the tiny corner its been relegated to, and I assume, waiting for whatever previously created synapse to fire which will bring it to the surface. Arguably, these could be referred to as "gut reactions" or "instincts" right? If I wasn't talking about smoking, couldn't I just pass this off as genetic inclination? My father was a smoker, my quasi-addiction is just an instinctual development of some kind. Hrm, there's a claim that's going to garner a lot of smacks. From the few psych studies I've read, like this one in the nytimes, supposedly our knee-jerk responses, or "gut reactions," are from years of not only evolution but of our own personal experience. Which means we're simply taking situational and circumstantial evidence and instantaneously comparing it to a backlog of information we've stored in our brains. Your immediate response is based on years of conscious or unconscious observations. But what happens now, after we've learned how to suppress and ignore even the strongest reactions we feel? Doesn't it imply that, at a very basic level, we've taught ourselves as an entire race not to trust ourselves and therefore not to be ourselves?
While this may seem like some well-formed argument to start smoking again, it's not. It's just curious to think about all the daily reactions we -- okay, I -- have and whether or not many of them are unfounded. Of late, a lot of my knee-jerk responses have been unfortunately tuned incorrectly. What I believe is something similar to X situation from my past, is actually something entirely different, often times contrary to what I originally thought. Is this what growing up means? Questioning everything you know and wondering whether it's even remotely correct? Humans are so smart now they can outsmart themselves.
A wise friend told me the other day, it's not necessarily how we recognize something as good or bad, or even how long it takes us to recognize it; it's the actions we take after we've recognized it that define us. Cue Michael Cane and Christian Bale circa 2005. Smoke, yes? Smoke, no. Bitch-smack girl, yes? Bitch-smack girl, no.
Ah well, much though cloves kept me company throughout college, looks like they're going to stay stuck in their nasty little boxes hidden away for the rest of time. Or, you know, until I have a phenomenally large freak-out that reminds me of X so much, I can't control myself.
What? Like you've never given in before. Geeze.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Wicked Flipping Cool: HAF
First: Mad props to big bro for hopping a cab and venturing into the Presidio to try and get the clowntravelagency.com/ bag! Though it was fruitless, the adventure and adrenaline (for him and everyone around me at work) was well worth it. Whoever has devised the publicity/promotional/marketing plan for Dark Knight Returns is brilliant. Fanboys beware, you're predictable and easily excitable. (And yes, I'm totally on the bandwagon too.) I'll post the new trailer when it goes up, which, should be sometime by the end of today, hopefully.
Second: Oh, gmail. If only you had an auto-send feature for sending emails not super late at night so I don't look nuts when I finish work at 2am. Alas, instead you've only got custom time features. HAF!*
Third: I have decided to become an exotic dancer whilst using my artistic abilities to make elaborate macaroni necklaces to subsidize any living expenses and moral derailment.
Second: Oh, gmail. If only you had an auto-send feature for sending emails not super late at night so I don't look nuts when I finish work at 2am. Alas, instead you've only got custom time features. HAF!*
Third: I have decided to become an exotic dancer whilst using my artistic abilities to make elaborate macaroni necklaces to subsidize any living expenses and moral derailment.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Dear Jon Arbuckle,
You were vaguely pitiful when I read about you as a child and watched you talk to your snarky cat and your uh, interesting, dog. Now, you are classically schizo. If you haven't heard about this, well, you're just silly and have been living under a rock. Garfield minus Garfield is all the rage amongst net-junkies. But really, everyone who's nerd enough to have read about the site/googled it/heard about it, somehow feels like Jon brings a well-hidden, slightly neurotic facet of themselves to the surface. Sock puppet? Hand cramp? Or, in my case, conquer the world? Pretending you're oblivious to what I'm talking about doesn't help. You know exactly what I mean.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Pre-nups, Hookups and Breakups
Twenty-three is the most awkward, exhilarating, terrifying, gratifying, f-ing ridiculous time of my life (so far). I'd like to say that I always felt this way, heady uncertainty and excitement at every age and every maturity bend I rounded -- but that's just not true. Excitement about the unknown, yes, but there's this irksome belief now that I can conquer the world which makes everything seem different. I'm delusional now. I think I can accomplish anything with my meager skill and absurdly gargantuan ambition, so I go about trying to make it happen by tapping into as many opportunities as I can. However, in the process, have over-committed myself to my family, my friends, and my ambitions all while running my body and psyche down so I not only have a freaking half foot scar on my stomach to prove my insane devotion to sado-masochistic behavior, but also the constant ebb and flow of looming, swirling vertigo constantly nipping at my heels. And sometimes I still don't feel like I'm doing enough or making the most of my time. Yo, when did I get so freaking Type A?
I've had a series of interesting conversations recently: about men, about women, about ambition and accomplishment, about Sex and the City, about failure, and, of course, about relationships. I saw a picture recently that said "Someone should sue Disney for all the false hopes and dreams they gave little girls [and boys]." I want to say I disagree, but... I guess the more I'm bouncing along, the sadder and more cynical I'm becoming. Maybe twenty-three is characterized by all time high cynicism or maybe I'm prone to being twisted and unhappy because I want to be a writer? Maybe everyone around me is crazy, or maybe this is just life. (In which case, F#$&.) Yesterday, my very cynical and jaded friend Z spoke the best philosophical bullsh$% I've heard from him in years (paraphrased to the best of my ability):
"Even I know that all the work and ambition and crap that we go through doesn't mean anything if you don't have love. Because love is awesome, and love is worth living for and it's what makes everything worthwhile."
Good old golden glibbed Z. (Take that alliteration.) He stuck it to me good. The little idealistic part of See that stays safe and hidden beneath piles of drive and goals, but wants to believe every last word of it. I, in fact, do believe every last word. Especially due to the greater than handful of married friends and acquaintances. If they're not married, they will be married in the next year. Or, my fair share of single friends wending their way through pseudo-relationship and one night stand bliss. Or, even better, the unlucky few (or many) friends in the throes of mucky breakups. None of these people are under-accomplished or ambition-less. They're actually people I hold in high regard, and whom I admire. By textbook standards, they're the people who make the world go round, and are so busy making it happen they should have no time for matters of the heart. Yet, somehow, across the board I hear the same lament: Whaddafux up with Love? Lament, lament, rant, rant, boo, hiss, anger. All the smart people in the world, put together in a room, couldn't figure out the answer to that question. I know enough disgruntled, jaded, twenty and thirty (eek) somethings to start a small civilization based solely on irritation and unhappiness.
Except, that's why it's so strange. I've never felt more alive in my life. I've never felt more stimulated, and excited, and ready to face a new challenge. I'm terrified, but I'm open to anything. Somehow all the craziness of this age -- the mayhem I've attempted to quietly mask as organization, stability and ambition -- is making me believe in and appreciate love more whenever I find it. With my family, with my friends, and with all the little transient moments between people who have found a way to connect and understand each other. So maybe, in all of my attempts to understand "everlasting" and "enduring" love, I'm just realizing that it might not feel as pervasive and overwhelming as it did in uh, High School. But, it's perhaps even preferable in this form. The little nugget of happiness that nudges its way into my heart between breaths, when I take a moment to stop and remember all the fabulous people and relationships in my life. Plus, I figure, one day I'll be lying on a beach somewhere sipping a gin and tonic thinking, "all the turmoil was worth it."
HAHA, what a lie. Anyways, enough melodrama. Something to lighten the mood for a day of silly ruminations and writings:
This picture is amazing! So much for professionialism. This blog has made it into full-blown hilarity and inappropriateness.
I've had a series of interesting conversations recently: about men, about women, about ambition and accomplishment, about Sex and the City, about failure, and, of course, about relationships. I saw a picture recently that said "Someone should sue Disney for all the false hopes and dreams they gave little girls [and boys]." I want to say I disagree, but... I guess the more I'm bouncing along, the sadder and more cynical I'm becoming. Maybe twenty-three is characterized by all time high cynicism or maybe I'm prone to being twisted and unhappy because I want to be a writer? Maybe everyone around me is crazy, or maybe this is just life. (In which case, F#$&.) Yesterday, my very cynical and jaded friend Z spoke the best philosophical bullsh$% I've heard from him in years (paraphrased to the best of my ability):
"Even I know that all the work and ambition and crap that we go through doesn't mean anything if you don't have love. Because love is awesome, and love is worth living for and it's what makes everything worthwhile."
Good old golden glibbed Z. (Take that alliteration.) He stuck it to me good. The little idealistic part of See that stays safe and hidden beneath piles of drive and goals, but wants to believe every last word of it. I, in fact, do believe every last word. Especially due to the greater than handful of married friends and acquaintances. If they're not married, they will be married in the next year. Or, my fair share of single friends wending their way through pseudo-relationship and one night stand bliss. Or, even better, the unlucky few (or many) friends in the throes of mucky breakups. None of these people are under-accomplished or ambition-less. They're actually people I hold in high regard, and whom I admire. By textbook standards, they're the people who make the world go round, and are so busy making it happen they should have no time for matters of the heart. Yet, somehow, across the board I hear the same lament: Whaddafux up with Love? Lament, lament, rant, rant, boo, hiss, anger. All the smart people in the world, put together in a room, couldn't figure out the answer to that question. I know enough disgruntled, jaded, twenty and thirty (eek) somethings to start a small civilization based solely on irritation and unhappiness.
Except, that's why it's so strange. I've never felt more alive in my life. I've never felt more stimulated, and excited, and ready to face a new challenge. I'm terrified, but I'm open to anything. Somehow all the craziness of this age -- the mayhem I've attempted to quietly mask as organization, stability and ambition -- is making me believe in and appreciate love more whenever I find it. With my family, with my friends, and with all the little transient moments between people who have found a way to connect and understand each other. So maybe, in all of my attempts to understand "everlasting" and "enduring" love, I'm just realizing that it might not feel as pervasive and overwhelming as it did in uh, High School. But, it's perhaps even preferable in this form. The little nugget of happiness that nudges its way into my heart between breaths, when I take a moment to stop and remember all the fabulous people and relationships in my life. Plus, I figure, one day I'll be lying on a beach somewhere sipping a gin and tonic thinking, "all the turmoil was worth it."
HAHA, what a lie. Anyways, enough melodrama. Something to lighten the mood for a day of silly ruminations and writings:
This picture is amazing! So much for professionialism. This blog has made it into full-blown hilarity and inappropriateness.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My Coffee Shop
Around the corner from my office there's a coffee shop I've grown a bit attached to. It's your typical java joint, a few mismatched wood tables and chairs behind the peeling plastic letters of its name stuck on a window, coffee cannisters and flavored syrup bottles cramped together along the wall. It's one of those places you'd pass by without a second glance, stereotypical Store A in quintessential City B. They say that familiarity breeds attraction, a gradual acquaintance eventually chipping away the walls of trepidation and hesitancy, and I have to admit, little JS wooed me in spite of myself. But let's back up for a second, because to properly understand my attachment to JS, you have to understand the long-drawn out history I have with coffee shops.
For years, I'd wanted to find a neighborhood shop I could go to read, to chat, to frequent. Maybe because romantic images of The Writers from the Lost Generation sitting at tables in Paris were etched into my brain; maybe because I wanted to feel brilliantly inspired by coffee fumes; maybe because I just like sitting with a book in a corner and have been trying to find a way to legitimize it for years. Regardless, it took a long time to feel even mildly inspired that I would sniff out a place that resonated with me. Edinburgh was the first city I lived in that gave me hope. The classic, cobble-stoned streets and hearty Scottish mentality had me searching all over Old Town, even hitting up JK Rowling's favorite haunts, cause if it's good enough for JK, then it would be damn good for me. But, shop after shop turned out to be a disappointment, nothing quite fitting my palate. So, little See left the UK jones-ing for a place she could happily call her place.
Then, during Senior Fall, the cafe down the street from K's apartment in Boston is seeming like a great candidate. The vibe seemed right, the food was nummy, and I had a grudging affection for the regular customers. In fact, I was a regular customer, popping in to pick up tea and grub on my daily trot back to the permanent dent I'd left on Apartment #2's couch. I even found myself donning an apron and smiling pretty behind the counter as an employee, buoyant as can be when friends stopped by to say hello, unforgettable shared misery during busy brunches with co-workers who would later introduce me to amazing friends, and a hint of romance as I watched someone special walk by the window and in the door. Yet, something about PF still didn't sit right -- which, in retrospect, might be due to the unsolicited advances of my boss.. hrm -- and while it left a deep mark on my heart, I had my doubts. Or, maybe, I just wasn't ready to dub a coffee shop with such a heavy title, at least not until I felt like I knew that kind of connection was mutual. But, let's be fair, PF left a caffeine addiction that even on my best days, hits me at my core. A couple espresso shots a day for a semester will do that to you. And now, I think about PF and how it still holds a special place in my heart, even if I pretend that I don't.
So, more than a year later and a few coffee shops down the line, I'm feeling pretty numb. No more coffee shops for See. Most of them are pretty negligible and the ones that seemed promising... well perhaps those were worse than being negligible cause those ended in disillusionment with coffee shops period.
Then, something happened at JS this morning. The owner, who at this point has seen me in various states of disarray, handed me my bagel and coffee with a smile. Smiles are underrated. After a few days of serious emotional roller coasters, a smile from an acquaintance-stranger gave me a feeling of warmth I normally wouldn't expect. There I was, scrounging through my wallet for the extra five cents that I needed to pay, feeling like an idiot picking through an unfortunately large load of pennies. And, perhaps sensing my unease, he said, "whatever you have is just fine." It's rare to find shop owners who aren't so tight-fisted they could say something like that. But, add to that a decor I like, my growing affection for the Mission, and my unquestioned appreciation for good service, and... out of nowhere I'd found my coffee shop.
This entry actually isn't about me. It's really more of an allegory, shall we say, for my dear friend, Rysiebops.
So, good sir, here is what I'll tell you. The caffeine addiction never really goes away, I don't think. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but sometimes there are wounds that never really close. That shop, the one that sticks with you no matter what, the one that made you want to show up first thing in the morning even when you were utterly exhausted you liked it so much... that shop will always be with you, and the only person who ever has the power to take away its meaning, is you. Especially, if that shop feels the same way about you. Maybe you'll find another coffee shop that makes you feel the way this one does, but maybe you'll just find a way to make this coffee shop the only coffee shop you ever deemed worth of the title Rysiebops Place. I'm a romantic at heart, so I believe that some coffee shops are just meant to be. Gros bisous.
For years, I'd wanted to find a neighborhood shop I could go to read, to chat, to frequent. Maybe because romantic images of The Writers from the Lost Generation sitting at tables in Paris were etched into my brain; maybe because I wanted to feel brilliantly inspired by coffee fumes; maybe because I just like sitting with a book in a corner and have been trying to find a way to legitimize it for years. Regardless, it took a long time to feel even mildly inspired that I would sniff out a place that resonated with me. Edinburgh was the first city I lived in that gave me hope. The classic, cobble-stoned streets and hearty Scottish mentality had me searching all over Old Town, even hitting up JK Rowling's favorite haunts, cause if it's good enough for JK, then it would be damn good for me. But, shop after shop turned out to be a disappointment, nothing quite fitting my palate. So, little See left the UK jones-ing for a place she could happily call her place.
Then, during Senior Fall, the cafe down the street from K's apartment in Boston is seeming like a great candidate. The vibe seemed right, the food was nummy, and I had a grudging affection for the regular customers. In fact, I was a regular customer, popping in to pick up tea and grub on my daily trot back to the permanent dent I'd left on Apartment #2's couch. I even found myself donning an apron and smiling pretty behind the counter as an employee, buoyant as can be when friends stopped by to say hello, unforgettable shared misery during busy brunches with co-workers who would later introduce me to amazing friends, and a hint of romance as I watched someone special walk by the window and in the door. Yet, something about PF still didn't sit right -- which, in retrospect, might be due to the unsolicited advances of my boss.. hrm -- and while it left a deep mark on my heart, I had my doubts. Or, maybe, I just wasn't ready to dub a coffee shop with such a heavy title, at least not until I felt like I knew that kind of connection was mutual. But, let's be fair, PF left a caffeine addiction that even on my best days, hits me at my core. A couple espresso shots a day for a semester will do that to you. And now, I think about PF and how it still holds a special place in my heart, even if I pretend that I don't.
So, more than a year later and a few coffee shops down the line, I'm feeling pretty numb. No more coffee shops for See. Most of them are pretty negligible and the ones that seemed promising... well perhaps those were worse than being negligible cause those ended in disillusionment with coffee shops period.
Then, something happened at JS this morning. The owner, who at this point has seen me in various states of disarray, handed me my bagel and coffee with a smile. Smiles are underrated. After a few days of serious emotional roller coasters, a smile from an acquaintance-stranger gave me a feeling of warmth I normally wouldn't expect. There I was, scrounging through my wallet for the extra five cents that I needed to pay, feeling like an idiot picking through an unfortunately large load of pennies. And, perhaps sensing my unease, he said, "whatever you have is just fine." It's rare to find shop owners who aren't so tight-fisted they could say something like that. But, add to that a decor I like, my growing affection for the Mission, and my unquestioned appreciation for good service, and... out of nowhere I'd found my coffee shop.
This entry actually isn't about me. It's really more of an allegory, shall we say, for my dear friend, Rysiebops.
So, good sir, here is what I'll tell you. The caffeine addiction never really goes away, I don't think. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but sometimes there are wounds that never really close. That shop, the one that sticks with you no matter what, the one that made you want to show up first thing in the morning even when you were utterly exhausted you liked it so much... that shop will always be with you, and the only person who ever has the power to take away its meaning, is you. Especially, if that shop feels the same way about you. Maybe you'll find another coffee shop that makes you feel the way this one does, but maybe you'll just find a way to make this coffee shop the only coffee shop you ever deemed worth of the title Rysiebops Place. I'm a romantic at heart, so I believe that some coffee shops are just meant to be. Gros bisous.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Barfity Bloggity wah?
Sometimes I write pretty well. No, honestly. At certain points in time there's the off chance that I'll write something witty, and pithy and generally enjoyable -- even to me. That's not to sound like a pompous ego-maniac, more to acknowledge my overwhelming self-deprecating manner. (Which, at this point, having spent a fair amount of time with other "writers," I've found is pretty standard. Oh man, I'm a cliche.) I blame Dave. Dear Dave, how could you help re-popularize this self-aware writing style that is predicated by making terrible self-referential jokes all the time? I like how many dashes I used in those words just now. Dashes make me feel smart.
But really, this entire post is just an attempt to stimulate my writing brain into working again. Here's a note about writing articles on topics you think you really care about: don't do it. I have at this point exhausted what I once felt was a lot to say about this topic -- I don't feel I can be all that honest, nor do I feel I'll say anything that people won't be angry about once heard. Alas, perhaps that's the point, I'm not supposed to say what's nice, I'm supposed to say what needs to be said. Be honest, be accurate -- but it doesn't always mean you can be fair. Case in point: I'm profiling a program I originally admired, and subsequently am incredibly disappointed by, having learned that some of its participants came away from their experience with a somewhat sour attitude. It's made me question whether I have real commitment to anything. The subject matter interests me, and I can't even finish the article. Technically, I should be able to write this without a ton of thought -- but I actually give a damn about the subject matter, so now I'm not writing at all because everything is coming out mean. Whoo, I'm a commitment-phobe! But hey, I'm young, it's no big deal. I love being in my twenties. You can blame everything on youth, and inexperience, and on a desire to be a "free-spirit." No one will hold it against you, really, because hey, you're young! ::Light cigarette, take swig of vodka, frolic in otherwise inappropriate manner for a lady with any class::
So ends the writing wrant...and now I'm just procrastinating. Oh well. Rysiebops has passed this on to me, and there is relative joy to it, so I pass it to you. Even my blogging is uninspired. I'm putting someone else's vlog on my blog. Good lord.
But really, this entire post is just an attempt to stimulate my writing brain into working again. Here's a note about writing articles on topics you think you really care about: don't do it. I have at this point exhausted what I once felt was a lot to say about this topic -- I don't feel I can be all that honest, nor do I feel I'll say anything that people won't be angry about once heard. Alas, perhaps that's the point, I'm not supposed to say what's nice, I'm supposed to say what needs to be said. Be honest, be accurate -- but it doesn't always mean you can be fair. Case in point: I'm profiling a program I originally admired, and subsequently am incredibly disappointed by, having learned that some of its participants came away from their experience with a somewhat sour attitude. It's made me question whether I have real commitment to anything. The subject matter interests me, and I can't even finish the article. Technically, I should be able to write this without a ton of thought -- but I actually give a damn about the subject matter, so now I'm not writing at all because everything is coming out mean. Whoo, I'm a commitment-phobe! But hey, I'm young, it's no big deal. I love being in my twenties. You can blame everything on youth, and inexperience, and on a desire to be a "free-spirit." No one will hold it against you, really, because hey, you're young! ::Light cigarette, take swig of vodka, frolic in otherwise inappropriate manner for a lady with any class::
So ends the writing wrant...and now I'm just procrastinating. Oh well. Rysiebops has passed this on to me, and there is relative joy to it, so I pass it to you. Even my blogging is uninspired. I'm putting someone else's vlog on my blog. Good lord.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Who Needs a Brass Rat?
These rings are so much cooooolllleerrrr. Or should I say, so much nerdier. If this isn't a testament to fashion looking to all facets of life for inspiration, I don't know what is. I present to you rings by ITSNONAME, which are modeled after typical class/insignia rings... but as opposed to that Uni seal you'd expect, it's all about the periodic element that the rings are made of, with their elemental weight. Did I even say that correctly? I have completely removed myself from the scientific world, but hopefully some of you will find these enjoyable. Just don't tell anyone that the nerd in me secretly really wants one, deal?
Friday, February 29, 2008
Iron Man
Tony Stark. Is. Amazing. Perhaps this explains my fairly consistent interest a certain genre of gentlemen. Nothing is quite so attractive as a man who knows how to use his brain. And, knowing how to build and create stuff with your hands is pretty sexy too. If only I were joking. Anyways, in all of my comic book nerd glory, I present you with the new Iron Man trailer. Enjoy!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Are You a Hack?
Someone recently said to me that the reason they listen to foreign music, is so they can enjoy the song without thinking about the insipid lyrics. Twice the melodic enjoyment, half the soulless writing. That being said, is it actually the novelty of sound that entrances aforementioned person? Is it actually nothing to do with the words, just the expression of so-called "angst" and a momentary "catharsis" that entices them into the music? Essentially, the exoticism of the experience is actually what you crave, yet its exoticism is balanced by an idea that you are familiar with -- in this case a particular musical motif. The song construction is the same, it's just the words that provide that extra jolt of excitement. (I would have hurt myself if I wrote "je ne sais quoi" there -- it's such a cheap out for writers when they actually can't think of something. Try not to call me out for it when I actually use it in my writing since I couldn't think of something.)
So, here is the question: in appealing to the exoticism inherent in the story I'm being asked to tell, to the "extra something different and special," does that, in fact, make me a sell-out? Okay, okay, it has been pointed out that I'm not actually a "sell-out" because I make the grand sum of 0 dollars, therefore I can't technically sell-out. But, still --
am I basically exposing my writing "special parts" just to catch a break?
So, here is the question: in appealing to the exoticism inherent in the story I'm being asked to tell, to the "extra something different and special," does that, in fact, make me a sell-out? Okay, okay, it has been pointed out that I'm not actually a "sell-out" because I make the grand sum of 0 dollars, therefore I can't technically sell-out. But, still --
am I basically exposing my writing "special parts" just to catch a break?
Monday, February 25, 2008
Bump, Bump, Bump
I'm currently on a huge House/Techno music kick for some unknown reason. Although, if I can get my hands on this french album Le Bapteme by M (Mathieu Chedid) then there will be a quick deviation. However, until then, here are some joyful songs:
JJ Flores & Steve Smooth - Being in Love
Stellar Projekt feat. Brandi E - Get Up, Stand Up
Plumb - In My Arms
Gravity Rainbow Van She Remix - Klaxons
Yes, Plumb. Don't ask me how she went from pop to house, but she did. For a taste of the French album, see below post!
JJ Flores & Steve Smooth - Being in Love
Stellar Projekt feat. Brandi E - Get Up, Stand Up
Plumb - In My Arms
Gravity Rainbow Van She Remix - Klaxons
Yes, Plumb. Don't ask me how she went from pop to house, but she did. For a taste of the French album, see below post!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Waterboarding
Here's the serious post. This guy tries out waterboarding, on himself, to ascertain whether or not this is legitimately "torture." He votes yes. I trust him, because he's the idiot (?) who decided to try it. I don't even know what to say. The government is ridiculous. Americans are ridiculous. It'd be nice if I could blame only this country, but let's be real and acknowledge that this has gone on for centuries, and that other countries use even worse forms of torture and just generally say that human beings are capable of some nasty, heartless behavior. Ugh, disgust.
I do work...really.
Wicked awesome dress by T-Bags that has made my wish list. Since I don't think I can afford it at the moment, or that it will look as fabulous as it could on me, I am passing on the wealth of knowledge to others. If you can afford it... well, don't tell me because I'll go waterworks on you, instantly. Apparently I have no reservations about back cleavage, even though I'm not a big fan of over-exposing front cleavage. Does that make me a back-skank?
------
(10Q racked.com)Yeah, need to get back to more serious information. Soon, soon! Less silly thoughtlessness and focus on materialism! Eep.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Annoying Po-Mo Meta-fiction that No One Should Read, But was Fun For Me to Write
Scene:
Exterior of San Francisco's Marina District. Scott Street on a characteristically warm Northern California winter evening as neighborhood shops are closing. Shopgirls peek out as they shut doors, local residents amble down the sidewalk with flushed cheeks in their gym clothes. We focus on a floor to ceiling glass front of a trendy backlit restaurant filled with white walls and only curved furniture. A young 20-something woman (perhaps ethnic? of moderate attractiveness? no, this is not a self-reference, what are you talking about) strolls through the door and enters the restaurant, finding only an over-eager waiter and a well-dressed couple of middle-upper class upbringing. Unless one was actually brought up in say I dunno, East Oakland. But let's be serious, it's the Marina, no one from East Oakland likes the Marina.
Girl: (Thinking) Fuck. Bad idea.
The waiter dashes across the room, hrm... perhaps he bounds? yes, bounds, across the room to greet the young woman.
Waiter: How many?
Girl: Just 1, thanks.
Waiter: Just 1? To eat here? Alone?
Girl: (Pause to consider potentially slowed mental processes). Yes.
The couple, a woman and man (clarification necessary for San Francisco) halt their conversation to simultaneously peruse her.
Woman: (Thinking) Oh my god, poor thing. I am so glad that's not me. I have a boyfriend.
Man: (Thinking) Me likey.
As the young woman is seated, the couple resume conversing while the waiter bumbling pulls away the second place setting on the young woman's table.
** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: this part is boring, SKIP -- fast forward **
The girl is nestled in comfortably to her impressively curved seat with a book and her bowl of noodles (so not a personal reference, why are you looking at me like that) and attempting, rather awkwardly, to prevent oil splatter on the pages of the book by cautiously holding her napkin in front of it. Proving too difficult a task for a young padawan of noodle eating, she proceeds to replace her napkin on her lap and indiscriminately splash the pages of a book given to her by *INSERT VERY IMPORTANT PERSON'S NAME IN YOUNG WOMAN'S LIFE & CAREER HERE*. (see? not a personal reference. I would never splash oil on pages of books. Author's Note: Dear Dave, sorry about your book).
The woman, rather conspicuously, reaches across the table for the man's hand and strokes his fingers.
Woman: (Loud Whisper) Do you think she feels bad eating alone?
Man: (Louder Whisper) I think she can hear us.
Woman: (Actual Whisper) No way!
The woman shoots a sidelong glance at the girl -- who is still indiscriminately splashing oil on pages and eating her noodles in an incredibly sloppy, unlady-like manner. (sooooooo not me.)
Woman: (Loudly) Sweetie, I have to run the errands, you've got the check, right?
Man: (Coughs on noodle) Uh, yeah, no problem. Oh yeah, make sure you get milk. And, ya know... ya know?
Woman: Of course, pumpkin!
The woman stands and, after readjusting the shirt (?) that seems to be melted onto her moderately endowed chest, bends in Betty Boop to style to place a theatrical kiss on the man's cheeks. (You go girlfriend, hell yeah, you got a man. You got a man and he's paying for you. Shiiiiittttt.)
Woman exits.
Waiter: Thank you, sir, how was the soup?
Man: Oh, it was great thanks. Oh, you can stop pouring her water, she left to run errands. Left me with the check again, heh heh! Looks like I'm paying.
(Author's Note: Gentlemen, when left alone in a restaurant with only a waiter and a stranger, best not to let that one slip out. You look like a d-o-u-c-h-e. Everyone can hear you, despite your attempts at making your voice loud and booming. Ohhhhh, it was intentional! Okay, wait, you just are a d-o-u-c-h-e, my bad. Save the kiddies! Don't use bad words! Spell them!)
Waiter: Ha ha, yes, I bring you check now. (In case you haven't noticed, we are in an Asian restaurant. Yes, we are. The noodles were a tip. Left by me, the author. Good tip, right?)
Man: By the way, what's your name?
The man extends his hand to shake the waiter's. They maintain the shake for a significant amount of time.
Waiter: Heem. H-e-e-m.
Man: Him?
Waiter: Heeeeeeeem. Two E.
Man: Oh, right, okay, Heem. Nice to meet you, I'm Ka-ho.
They are still holding hands.
Waiter: Kaaah, ho?
Girl: (Thinking) A-hole?
Man: Ka-ho, fast, short.
Waiter: Ah, keho.
Man: Uh, yeah, close enough. It's very nice to meet you!
Still holding.
Waiter: Yes, so nice to meet you too!
Girl: (Thinking) Swap numbers! Fall in love! Start a domestic partnership! Buy a dog that will end up homeless, or halved, when you break up!
The waiter finally drops the man's hand and bounds, (yes, just like Tigger) into the backroom to write down his numb-- I mean, complete the cash transaction. While the man is left alone in the room with the girl, he gives her a full assessment, and straightens his clothes in a (mildly) pathetic attempt to preen and puff out his extremely masculine pectorals. The girl, garnering his glances using the feminine wiles of reading her book intently and eating noodles like a blind dog with the flu, remains slyly "unaware" of his position.
He strides to the table.
Man: So... tell me, why's a pretty girl like you eating alone in a restaurant?
Girl: (Mouth filled with noodles) Arfunugenheim?
Man: I love a girl who talks dirty.
Girl: (Mouth still filled with noodles) Ruffenorgenabu?
Man: Perfect. My place is on the corner. Meet me there in 10 minutes.
The waiter re-enters, bill in hand -- duhhh, smiley faces next to phone numbers at the bottom of checks are just excellent customer service.
Waiter: (Batting eyelashes) Thank you, sir. I hope to see you again soon!
Man: Uh, of course, yes, thank you Him.
Waiter: (Shifts uncomfortably) Yes. Nice to meet you.
Man: Nice to meet you.
The man awkwardly bows, assuming that all Asian cultures must bow. He saw it on an episode of Mash. And in, like, The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise is God cause he went nuts on Oprah. No one does that to Oprah. Unless they like, know everything.
** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: I'm bored. And sleepy. End. Also, what the hell were you thinking when you wrote this. It blows. You are le suck at writing exercises! **
Provided for a single day's entertainment and procrastination of others. This message will be (vehemently) destructed in 24 hours, because as stated: it blows. Thank you. P.S. Happy Valentine's Day.
Exterior of San Francisco's Marina District. Scott Street on a characteristically warm Northern California winter evening as neighborhood shops are closing. Shopgirls peek out as they shut doors, local residents amble down the sidewalk with flushed cheeks in their gym clothes. We focus on a floor to ceiling glass front of a trendy backlit restaurant filled with white walls and only curved furniture. A young 20-something woman (perhaps ethnic? of moderate attractiveness? no, this is not a self-reference, what are you talking about) strolls through the door and enters the restaurant, finding only an over-eager waiter and a well-dressed couple of middle-upper class upbringing. Unless one was actually brought up in say I dunno, East Oakland. But let's be serious, it's the Marina, no one from East Oakland likes the Marina.
Girl: (Thinking) Fuck. Bad idea.
The waiter dashes across the room, hrm... perhaps he bounds? yes, bounds, across the room to greet the young woman.
Waiter: How many?
Girl: Just 1, thanks.
Waiter: Just 1? To eat here? Alone?
Girl: (Pause to consider potentially slowed mental processes). Yes.
The couple, a woman and man (clarification necessary for San Francisco) halt their conversation to simultaneously peruse her.
Woman: (Thinking) Oh my god, poor thing. I am so glad that's not me. I have a boyfriend.
Man: (Thinking) Me likey.
As the young woman is seated, the couple resume conversing while the waiter bumbling pulls away the second place setting on the young woman's table.
** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: this part is boring, SKIP -- fast forward **
The girl is nestled in comfortably to her impressively curved seat with a book and her bowl of noodles (so not a personal reference, why are you looking at me like that) and attempting, rather awkwardly, to prevent oil splatter on the pages of the book by cautiously holding her napkin in front of it. Proving too difficult a task for a young padawan of noodle eating, she proceeds to replace her napkin on her lap and indiscriminately splash the pages of a book given to her by *INSERT VERY IMPORTANT PERSON'S NAME IN YOUNG WOMAN'S LIFE & CAREER HERE*. (see? not a personal reference. I would never splash oil on pages of books. Author's Note: Dear Dave, sorry about your book).
The woman, rather conspicuously, reaches across the table for the man's hand and strokes his fingers.
Woman: (Loud Whisper) Do you think she feels bad eating alone?
Man: (Louder Whisper) I think she can hear us.
Woman: (Actual Whisper) No way!
The woman shoots a sidelong glance at the girl -- who is still indiscriminately splashing oil on pages and eating her noodles in an incredibly sloppy, unlady-like manner. (sooooooo not me.)
Woman: (Loudly) Sweetie, I have to run the errands, you've got the check, right?
Man: (Coughs on noodle) Uh, yeah, no problem. Oh yeah, make sure you get milk. And, ya know... ya know?
Woman: Of course, pumpkin!
The woman stands and, after readjusting the shirt (?) that seems to be melted onto her moderately endowed chest, bends in Betty Boop to style to place a theatrical kiss on the man's cheeks. (You go girlfriend, hell yeah, you got a man. You got a man and he's paying for you. Shiiiiittttt.)
Woman exits.
Waiter: Thank you, sir, how was the soup?
Man: Oh, it was great thanks. Oh, you can stop pouring her water, she left to run errands. Left me with the check again, heh heh! Looks like I'm paying.
(Author's Note: Gentlemen, when left alone in a restaurant with only a waiter and a stranger, best not to let that one slip out. You look like a d-o-u-c-h-e. Everyone can hear you, despite your attempts at making your voice loud and booming. Ohhhhh, it was intentional! Okay, wait, you just are a d-o-u-c-h-e, my bad. Save the kiddies! Don't use bad words! Spell them!)
Waiter: Ha ha, yes, I bring you check now. (In case you haven't noticed, we are in an Asian restaurant. Yes, we are. The noodles were a tip. Left by me, the author. Good tip, right?)
Man: By the way, what's your name?
The man extends his hand to shake the waiter's. They maintain the shake for a significant amount of time.
Waiter: Heem. H-e-e-m.
Man: Him?
Waiter: Heeeeeeeem. Two E.
Man: Oh, right, okay, Heem. Nice to meet you, I'm Ka-ho.
They are still holding hands.
Waiter: Kaaah, ho?
Girl: (Thinking) A-hole?
Man: Ka-ho, fast, short.
Waiter: Ah, keho.
Man: Uh, yeah, close enough. It's very nice to meet you!
Still holding.
Waiter: Yes, so nice to meet you too!
Girl: (Thinking) Swap numbers! Fall in love! Start a domestic partnership! Buy a dog that will end up homeless, or halved, when you break up!
The waiter finally drops the man's hand and bounds, (yes, just like Tigger) into the backroom to write down his numb-- I mean, complete the cash transaction. While the man is left alone in the room with the girl, he gives her a full assessment, and straightens his clothes in a (mildly) pathetic attempt to preen and puff out his extremely masculine pectorals. The girl, garnering his glances using the feminine wiles of reading her book intently and eating noodles like a blind dog with the flu, remains slyly "unaware" of his position.
He strides to the table.
Man: So... tell me, why's a pretty girl like you eating alone in a restaurant?
Girl: (Mouth filled with noodles) Arfunugenheim?
Man: I love a girl who talks dirty.
Girl: (Mouth still filled with noodles) Ruffenorgenabu?
Man: Perfect. My place is on the corner. Meet me there in 10 minutes.
The waiter re-enters, bill in hand -- duhhh, smiley faces next to phone numbers at the bottom of checks are just excellent customer service.
Waiter: (Batting eyelashes) Thank you, sir. I hope to see you again soon!
Man: Uh, of course, yes, thank you Him.
Waiter: (Shifts uncomfortably) Yes. Nice to meet you.
Man: Nice to meet you.
The man awkwardly bows, assuming that all Asian cultures must bow. He saw it on an episode of Mash. And in, like, The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise is God cause he went nuts on Oprah. No one does that to Oprah. Unless they like, know everything.
** Po-Mo Meta-Fiction says: I'm bored. And sleepy. End. Also, what the hell were you thinking when you wrote this. It blows. You are le suck at writing exercises! **
Provided for a single day's entertainment and procrastination of others. This message will be (vehemently) destructed in 24 hours, because as stated: it blows. Thank you. P.S. Happy Valentine's Day.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
New York is Calling My Name
Okay, realistically, New York is calling to every 20-something with a dream and Type A personality; but the last couple weeks have been torture when I think about how close I could have been to the catwalks in Bryant Park (darn you, logic and maturity). Alas, I could not gaze upon the beauty that was Valentino's goodbye line, or Marc Jacobs venture into pastels, or the new fun that is Bandleader inspired coats. Uh, did I just say that? Dear former band geeks: you are vindicated. Thanks to the glory of the internet I bring you some pieces that j'adore. And no, they ain't Dior.
(thank you refinery29.com for the pom-pom worthy sets of photos -- L2R: Temperley, Robert Geller and Rag & Bone.)
(thank you refinery29.com for the pom-pom worthy sets of photos -- L2R: Temperley, Robert Geller and Rag & Bone.)The Rag & Bone is my favorite. Contemporary, but the clean lines and simplicity of the jacket will help it last beyond the trends of Fall/Winter 08. At least for a little while. Also, Orange (pumpkin?) is back and ready to whip some hiney, and it's joined by Emerald and Muted Gold.
(L2R: 3.1 Phillip Lim, Karen Walker, Halston)
Talk about killer color combos. Methinks the millennial decade will be characterized by females rolling in old-school glamour considering how glittery and glowing color palettes are these days. One day, I will actually make money and have financial stability so I can buy pieces like this. Until then, nose to the grindstone writing ridiculously inane pieces for publications and dreams of the beauty and glory that is to come whence I arrive in NYC. Le Sigh.
(L2R: 3.1 Phillip Lim, Karen Walker, Halston)Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Thank G-d Someone Noticed
Pianists are getting way out of control with their onstage showboating. (cough, Lang Lang, cough) So, thankfully, someone started talking about it. I don't have much patience for it -- a reason I've never gone to see Lang Lang in concert, and why I will vouch for Yundi Li even though he's an @$$ offstage -- but it's nice to see that Bernard Holland at the nytimes took note. <3 nytimes, <3 Bernard Holland. Musicians these days are so talented, and they're discovering and making use of that talent earlier and earlier; but, zomg do some of them not understand stage presentation. I have the utmost respect for well nuanced pieces, but like Holland makes reference to -- how can you expect to create the type of nuance needed for difficult pieces if you're too busy doing the macarena on stage? And I say this having gone through an awkward phase of "stage movement" after a summer with a bad teacher, so this isn't some unfounded critique of the musicians. You might be able to fake it well enough through overly bravado-ed passages of Liszt or Brahms, but you won't get very far in with subtle phrasing and color playing Chopin's Nocturnes or Ravel's Jeux d'eau rolling around on your bench like a playful river otter.
Rant, rant, rant. Nostalgic/happy post to come later!
Rant, rant, rant. Nostalgic/happy post to come later!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Singing in the Shower...
Is definitely one of God's kind gifts. Now, granted I have the glory of my own shower to revel in this opportunity, but that doesn't mean I won't still advocate that everyone, young and old, personal bathroom shower and res-hall shower(s), share in the joy despite their surroundings! Just don't blame me if you get yelled at. *insert non-committal smile here*
I haven't posted in awhile (cause at the moment I enjoy my day jobs and actually have some modicum of "work place respect" -- check back in a month, that may have changed) but I come blazing back with my recommended shower tunes for your enjoyment as V-day rounds the corner. Coupled or single, optimistic or cynical, belting these melodies at the top of your lungs makes all your woes fall to the wayside.
Classics:
Journey -- Don't Stop Believing
Tom Petty -- Free Falling
Neil Diamond -- Sweet Caroline
Fun New Stuff:
Fall Out Boy -- The Take Over, The Breaks Over
Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown -- No Air
David Guetta -- Love Is Gone
And, as a general not necessarily shower add-on, Timbaland's Shock Value still really whips booty. It's been almost a year since the album was released, and that man has still got me hooked. If you've tuned into a radio at all in the last couple months, you know Apologize is still running strong (read: overplayed). But there's a reason for it, and the rest of the album is pretty much of similar quality. Be sure to check out Bounce, One and Only, and Time. The last of which can be repetitive, but is perfect for running and working out.
If you know what I do daily -- cause let's be honest, I don't really want to put a name to the blog -- keep your eyes peeled for new pieces coming out soon. (Chinese New Year and V-day related) Wheeee exciting!
I haven't posted in awhile (cause at the moment I enjoy my day jobs and actually have some modicum of "work place respect" -- check back in a month, that may have changed) but I come blazing back with my recommended shower tunes for your enjoyment as V-day rounds the corner. Coupled or single, optimistic or cynical, belting these melodies at the top of your lungs makes all your woes fall to the wayside.
Classics:
Journey -- Don't Stop Believing
Tom Petty -- Free Falling
Neil Diamond -- Sweet Caroline
Fun New Stuff:
Fall Out Boy -- The Take Over, The Breaks Over
Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown -- No Air
David Guetta -- Love Is Gone
And, as a general not necessarily shower add-on, Timbaland's Shock Value still really whips booty. It's been almost a year since the album was released, and that man has still got me hooked. If you've tuned into a radio at all in the last couple months, you know Apologize is still running strong (read: overplayed). But there's a reason for it, and the rest of the album is pretty much of similar quality. Be sure to check out Bounce, One and Only, and Time. The last of which can be repetitive, but is perfect for running and working out.
If you know what I do daily -- cause let's be honest, I don't really want to put a name to the blog -- keep your eyes peeled for new pieces coming out soon. (Chinese New Year and V-day related) Wheeee exciting!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Laugh it up, Fuzzball : Round 2
Robert Friedman from the nytimes, a professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College, decided to give a little kick to the mid-life crisis. Color me amused. Proffy Friedman essentially bats the "mid-life crisis" out of the park, as he called it (often) nothing more than an excuse for (primarily) narcissistic men to come to terms with a lack of novelty in their lives. Yikes. Nothing like a good dose of reality straight to the sweet spot first thing in the morning.
Thoughts to come later, or potentially never, because the counterpoints that have sprung up in my head are numerous and complex, and coffee has made my brain run in circles. Feel free to comment on the article, though! Curious to hear what others have to say.
Thoughts to come later, or potentially never, because the counterpoints that have sprung up in my head are numerous and complex, and coffee has made my brain run in circles. Feel free to comment on the article, though! Curious to hear what others have to say.
Laugh it up, Fuzzball.
Note: Decided to actually post this since it elucidates my thought on the article more and... well, why not? Welcome to Version 1 of Fuzzball.
--------------------------------
This entry was originally a tad smug; it has since been amended to reflect merely a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. A professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College, Robert Friedman at the nytimes decided to give a little kick to the mid-life crisis. Color me amused. Proffy Friedman essentially bats the "mid-life crisis" out of the park, as he called it (often) nothing more than an excuse for (primarily) narcissistic men to come to terms with a lack of novelty in their lives. Yikes. Nothing like a good dose of reality straight to the sweet spot first thing in the morning.
So, this middle-aged freak out is some blazing realization that you're no longer 20 years old. As a current part of the "20 something" demographic, I'd just like to raise a hand and say how damned uncomfortable it can be. It's funny, as 40 and 50 somethings are wishing they were our age, everyone I know in their early adult years seems to be grappling with a fear/terror of the unknown and struggling to find an identity outside of X education. Is it just me, or do you always wish you're another age, another job, another something or other? Maybe nirvana is just a fancy way to describe happiness with one's situation. If only those having mid-life crises could remember that the excitement they nostalgically recall abounding in their 20s, were actually uncertainty and breathlessness, and they're pretty indiscriminate about when and how hard they hit you. In fact, based on what Friedman says, the mid-life crisis is basically the same as the 20ish life:
I won't deny that I can see how suddenly coming to grips with the concept of fatherhood and putting your life on a back burner for someone else, can be pretty terrifying. I just wonder why it "suddenly" snuck up on these guys. It's as if they hadn't already had, oh, 50 years to acclimate themselves to it prior to three kids, a mortgage and a wife who's left holding the bag. Here is See's pop-psychology analysis: since women who want to have children realize they're gonna be a walking baby habitat for 9 months, there's a fairly clear understanding that eventually your goals are gonna be put on hold, thus the mid-life crisis is smoothed into a gradual process throughout your adult life. But, it seems equal to what I'm observing to be the counterbalance in men: a gradual understanding/assumption of the "breadwinner" (pardon the feminist in me) and protector role. Ring fund, anyone? Apparently, though, the 'click' of all this has a delayed reaction time in some men. Ho hum, none of this growing up stuff seems too fun anymore.
Newsflash: women are afraid of commitment too, but somehow you don't hear about as many of them letting their flight response take over. Although, instead they get botox and buy lots of designer shoes and purses and ... oh crap, this looks kind of like a corner. Did I just walk myself here? Of course not. This is less a reflection on men and women, and more a momentary pause on what it's like to be 20ish and considering what it's like to be all growed up. To be honest, it seems like not much changes the older you get. The endless possibilities of this age are indeed appealing, though, and let it be kept in the record of See's ridiculous blog that 20 something women are afraid of losing novelty, excitement and adventure just like X aged men are. In fact, the fascination with the article comes from a fear of having just that: See's Happy Mid-Life Crisis. I can barely commit to what I'm eating for lunch, when does this whole "committing to a family" thing come into play? Yeesh.
Better make good use of my early adult life, hrm?
--------------------------------
This entry was originally a tad smug; it has since been amended to reflect merely a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. A professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College, Robert Friedman at the nytimes decided to give a little kick to the mid-life crisis. Color me amused. Proffy Friedman essentially bats the "mid-life crisis" out of the park, as he called it (often) nothing more than an excuse for (primarily) narcissistic men to come to terms with a lack of novelty in their lives. Yikes. Nothing like a good dose of reality straight to the sweet spot first thing in the morning.
So, this middle-aged freak out is some blazing realization that you're no longer 20 years old. As a current part of the "20 something" demographic, I'd just like to raise a hand and say how damned uncomfortable it can be. It's funny, as 40 and 50 somethings are wishing they were our age, everyone I know in their early adult years seems to be grappling with a fear/terror of the unknown and struggling to find an identity outside of X education. Is it just me, or do you always wish you're another age, another job, another something or other? Maybe nirvana is just a fancy way to describe happiness with one's situation. If only those having mid-life crises could remember that the excitement they nostalgically recall abounding in their 20s, were actually uncertainty and breathlessness, and they're pretty indiscriminate about when and how hard they hit you. In fact, based on what Friedman says, the mid-life crisis is basically the same as the 20ish life:
"Why do we have to label a common reaction of the male species to one of life’s challenges — the boredom of the routine — as a crisis? True, men are generally more novelty-seeking than women, but they certainly can decide what they do with their impulses.
But surely someone has had a genuine midlife crisis. After all, don’t people routinely struggle with questions like 'What can I expect from the rest of my life?' or 'Is this all there is?'"
Ding! Welcome to the joyous post-college dilemma. Except we have zero money and zero stability, not to mention the pesky realization that this is as much, or as little, as you want to make it. Possibility is nice when it embraces you, but when it's bear hugging you till you can't breathe, stability can look mighty kind.I won't deny that I can see how suddenly coming to grips with the concept of fatherhood and putting your life on a back burner for someone else, can be pretty terrifying. I just wonder why it "suddenly" snuck up on these guys. It's as if they hadn't already had, oh, 50 years to acclimate themselves to it prior to three kids, a mortgage and a wife who's left holding the bag. Here is See's pop-psychology analysis: since women who want to have children realize they're gonna be a walking baby habitat for 9 months, there's a fairly clear understanding that eventually your goals are gonna be put on hold, thus the mid-life crisis is smoothed into a gradual process throughout your adult life. But, it seems equal to what I'm observing to be the counterbalance in men: a gradual understanding/assumption of the "breadwinner" (pardon the feminist in me) and protector role. Ring fund, anyone? Apparently, though, the 'click' of all this has a delayed reaction time in some men. Ho hum, none of this growing up stuff seems too fun anymore.
Newsflash: women are afraid of commitment too, but somehow you don't hear about as many of them letting their flight response take over. Although, instead they get botox and buy lots of designer shoes and purses and ... oh crap, this looks kind of like a corner. Did I just walk myself here? Of course not. This is less a reflection on men and women, and more a momentary pause on what it's like to be 20ish and considering what it's like to be all growed up. To be honest, it seems like not much changes the older you get. The endless possibilities of this age are indeed appealing, though, and let it be kept in the record of See's ridiculous blog that 20 something women are afraid of losing novelty, excitement and adventure just like X aged men are. In fact, the fascination with the article comes from a fear of having just that: See's Happy Mid-Life Crisis. I can barely commit to what I'm eating for lunch, when does this whole "committing to a family" thing come into play? Yeesh.
Better make good use of my early adult life, hrm?
Monday, January 7, 2008
Strippers Write Good Too!
Happy New Year all! Blessings, good tidings, prosperity, longevity, um... suddenly I feel like a tweaked out fortune cookie.
Fresh back from a screening of Juno, and I must say, mad ups to Diablo Cody for her writing skills, and the cast for their tres bien performances. For anyone who doesn't know: Juno is the story of a hilariously caustic sixteen year old who decides to keep a child from an unplanned pregnancy. It documents the journey from her finding out, to her plans for adoption with a happy suburban couple, and the eventualities of her courageous and difficult decisions.
Diablo Cody, whose experience stripping is featured in her very own book, is the brilliant mind behind the screenplay. It's witty, snarky, and yet emotionally poignant in a non-cloying way. Shocking and unbelievable, yes I know. So many movies these days go for that hilarity and emotionality balance, and rarely manage to find it. (I may get blasted for this, but case in point, Superbad or Knocked Up). Somehow it always hits slightly off the mark. Cody's characters are three dimensional in a very human, likable way. I'd say it's fairly uncommon for almost all the characters to convey their vulnerability while maintaining witty banter. That is, of course, due much in part to the actors themselves. Ellen Page is stellar at portraying Juno. I'm such a huge fan of dry/witty comedic timing, and dang does this girl got some. Allison Janney, as always, holds her own with searing on screen tongue lashings. Anyone familiar with 10 Things I Hate About You (See shakes pompoms) will remember the turgid moments in the office with Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles. I could gush on and on about the film, but this should suffice and I'll just say this: go see it if you're in the mood for something that will make you laugh and make you think.
In other entertainment related news, Guitar Hero III is terribly addicting, but I recommend it to everyone. One of the many songs worth a listen to from their soundtrack is Superbus's Radio Song. Go French Rock! I publicize this, and not others, because that's one I'm sure most of us aren't too familiar with since the majority of the tracks are American Rock. Busy weeks ahead, so onwards we go into 2008 with many fortune cookie-like happy tidings from me to you. Here, I'll even put a smiley just to prove it. :)
Fresh back from a screening of Juno, and I must say, mad ups to Diablo Cody for her writing skills, and the cast for their tres bien performances. For anyone who doesn't know: Juno is the story of a hilariously caustic sixteen year old who decides to keep a child from an unplanned pregnancy. It documents the journey from her finding out, to her plans for adoption with a happy suburban couple, and the eventualities of her courageous and difficult decisions.
Diablo Cody, whose experience stripping is featured in her very own book, is the brilliant mind behind the screenplay. It's witty, snarky, and yet emotionally poignant in a non-cloying way. Shocking and unbelievable, yes I know. So many movies these days go for that hilarity and emotionality balance, and rarely manage to find it. (I may get blasted for this, but case in point, Superbad or Knocked Up). Somehow it always hits slightly off the mark. Cody's characters are three dimensional in a very human, likable way. I'd say it's fairly uncommon for almost all the characters to convey their vulnerability while maintaining witty banter. That is, of course, due much in part to the actors themselves. Ellen Page is stellar at portraying Juno. I'm such a huge fan of dry/witty comedic timing, and dang does this girl got some. Allison Janney, as always, holds her own with searing on screen tongue lashings. Anyone familiar with 10 Things I Hate About You (See shakes pompoms) will remember the turgid moments in the office with Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles. I could gush on and on about the film, but this should suffice and I'll just say this: go see it if you're in the mood for something that will make you laugh and make you think.
In other entertainment related news, Guitar Hero III is terribly addicting, but I recommend it to everyone. One of the many songs worth a listen to from their soundtrack is Superbus's Radio Song. Go French Rock! I publicize this, and not others, because that's one I'm sure most of us aren't too familiar with since the majority of the tracks are American Rock. Busy weeks ahead, so onwards we go into 2008 with many fortune cookie-like happy tidings from me to you. Here, I'll even put a smiley just to prove it. :)
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