Re-vamp

So. I'm wondering what to do with this blog. Either leave it here and move to another one, or re-vamp this one in the new year to discuss what I really want to talk about. The question, however, is this: what do I want to talk about?

I, myself, right now, am all of the following:

a writer
a friend
a daughter
a girlfriend
a runner
a cyclist
a car-less Angeleno (but more so a Valley girl)
a dance freak
a reader
a gym rat
a reccesionista (hello, fashion)
a learner

I love to eat, go to museums, watch movies, go to concerts, garden, shop, play with patterns, analyze friendships/relationships/media, go to clubs. What in the world do I focus on?

Very few readers of mine, in this last week of 2009, I will figure it out. And in 2010, hopefully you will have some thick juicy content to use and inform others to your heart's content.

Soggy, unromantic me

There was a time when I considered rain to be romantic. When I was a little girl I used to wander out in our prone-to-flooding family backyard in waterproof boots and what - a nightshirt? Flannel pants? School clothes? - I'd often wade in the marshy portions of grass, whose organism count had risen with the inches of rainwater... and while everyone else in the neighborhood would be lining their abodes with sandbags, I would be in the grass, wondering what it would be like if John Malkovich as Mr. Hyde would spirit me away from the Valley to the wet, foggy streets of 19th century London to the life of God knows what unspeakable horror.

Yes, conveniently, I would have just watched "Mary Reilly" for perhaps the fourth or fifth time. So maybe I have major issues as to what I find romantic.

As a woman, I can admire greatly the typical idea of romance from afar. Not to say that, as a woman, I am a sentimental fiend, but I can appreciate the things that make one go "aww", since most of life's routine ins and outs don't behold that response. I'd say my favorite recollection of romance would be roses sent to a co-worker on her birthday. Who couldn't notice the contrast of golden yellow petals flecked with red, just sitting there against the grey-beige of her desk. I've never received roses at work before, and that's okay. I've received reciprocated rated-X text messages, but that's about it.

Friggin' romance: in conversations with others, it seems I'm a little jaded for my twenty-something profile when it comes to things like hand-holding, lip-locking, gift-giving, and interpersonal exchanges of words. It's beyond obvious how I'd like to think that romance isn't chocolates or diamonds or hand holding in public places. Whatever, however. Familiarity, camaraderie, in the muck with me. This is romance... unless I'm entirely mistaken?

Bonus round: What do you define as "romantic"?

I'm kinda busy (but not really)

It's not exactly been public knowledge, but I was laid off a week ago tomorrow. I'd known for about 3.5 months prior. Even still, it's been an interesting ride, the aftermath. Work, as much as I despised what the company I worked for became, was something that I did every day, something that I was good at, and something that I was thankful to bring a paycheck home from.

It's been nearly a week, and I've done all the things I wished I could've done from the confines of my cubicle: cleaned, done laundry, rode my bike, run, gone to the mall, to the movies, to the bank - hell, yesterday a friend and I went to City Hall for a meeting on cycling and transportation. I think I've done it all. Tomorrow I intend to meet my boyfriend for lunch and spend the better part of the weekend with him.

I've got so much time and I don't know what to do with it.

If anything, I hope in the next month to:

train my body to be accustomed to higher speeds on my bicycle
to write, write, write, no matter what it is
to ride, ride, ride, no matter where or for whatever reason
to help put together one of the floats for the upcoming Tournament of Roses
to organize my closet and donate whatever I don't want to the Salvation Army
and to learn to make meals to nourish both myself and my roommates, because why the hell not?

Other than that... I think that save for education, the internet, electricity, and other modern conveniences, I might go crazy.

/cry for help

Really?

I just wanted to say that I'm happy to be viewed as a writer by my friends and fellow writers and others who - dare I say - depend on feedback, on analyzation. I am thankful for retaining a pseudo-creative way in validating a bias without the one reading being the wiser. I am happy to promote those I want to see do well, so long as the favor is returned (credit on a first and last name basis, please). Despite my doubts about my work and my relative ability, something tells me that this is standard criteria, this distrust and disbelief in self. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe that so long as someone has the drive, most anything is possible.

Yeah, I said it.

Lacking the drive

So based on the way my blog has been booming in entries (not), it goes without saying that I've not been that inspired to let the world in on my opinions on the things that don't seem to matter so much in the greater scheme of things. That and I've just been too busy. Not recording a multi-platinum album or writing a best-selling novel brand of busy by any means. Pretty much, if it takes more than 140-160 characters to get across, it hasn't been that important. This, obviously, needs correcting.

Anyway, with that said, I had an observation this evening. My friend's been in New York for the last two weeks, and instead of his parking his truck at the airport for that length of time, I've been taking charge of its operations until he returns. Generally, since I take the bus, bicycle, or walk where I need to go, I've only driven it a handful of times since he's been away. This evening, however, I drove to my folks' house to pick up something, and on my way there I couldn't help but think that - even though I've driven very little since I got my driver's license - I'm a safe, cautious, practical driver. Never driving much over or under the speed limit, always using directionals, leaving a car length in front of me for each 10 mph when on the freeway, etc - what I consider to be reasonable rules of the road in which to avoid unnecessary accidents.

Living in Los Angeles, while it's not impossible to get by without the use of a vehicle, the majority of the population utilizes these readily available four-wheeled conveniences. Whether a personal, company, rented or borrowed vehicle, to have one at your disposal in order to get from Point A to Point B without relying on timetables is a nice feeling. As a result, nearly everyone in Los Angeles has a car. Nearly everyone.

I'm sitting here, wondering if I can get my point without actually offending anyone by coming out and saying it.

When something is exclusive - like a first class ticket, concierge services, a Club 33 membership - it usually means that some criteria must have been met prior to the red velvet rope having been set aside.

And while I understand that having a driver's license and driving a car don't necessarily mean the same thing, for purposes of this observation I'm going to pretend that it's the case. The requirements of having one's license are so low in comparison to what one actually learns on the road that it's like, why the formality? Especially when it seems that the supposed common sense doesn't kick in fast enough to avoid the making of a friggin' stupid move that does more damage than annoying the person in the vehicle behind you.

Peripheral vision is a godsend; if you don't know what it is, you shouldn't be driving. But rear-view mirrors, directionals, and easing up on the gas are also lovely ways to avoid erratic handling of self on the road. Being brake-happy is never a good thing. And hard stops (usually preceded by sharp cut-offs) are never necessary.

I just have to wonder if it's just me, or are people behaving more dumb as I get older? Or has it always been this way?

There's no nice way of saying someone is an idiot. One of these days, I will learn this.

Magic 8 ball

I love writing.

I had a great time in New York in September - frequenting museums, parks, and Brooklyn/Manhattan in general - but the best time spent was in my brother's studio, and being allowed to write. I was given the time, and the silence, and often the playlist accessibility slash alcohol content to enjoy it thoroughly. Ah, my brother; he has a wall about thirty feet long lined with books. For the time that I was there - aside from eating, sleeping, and making love to the city - I could do the two things that make me the most happy in the world: read and write. I read, and I wrote. Give me time off, and this is how I spend it.

In the real world, however, writing would first off involve being paid for it. Having spoken with many a friend and peering over their shoulders while looking for jobs, I am greatly offended by the Craigslist ads that offer experience, but no pay. Sure, name recognition and the experience can be considered gratifying, but only for so long. As for me, sure it'd be great to search elsewhere for more experience, but not at the risk of no pay. Not to toot my own horn, but finding out that a local venue's website refers to some of my write-ups for featured bands tickles my happy nerve. Receiving thanks and kudos from a band for a blurb or a detailed mention makes my day. I've been wanting to write something other than melodramatic poetry since I was thirteen years old, and here I am. Dream lived. And while there are still various kinks to work out, I've now a portfolio and references. I'm ready to be recommended. It's just that I expressly remember at least five years ago there being other opportunities for paid freelance work for those eagerly seeking it. And believe me, I know a lot of freelance writers eagerly seeking it.

School starts again next spring. I'll be going for my bachelor's degree and to be a credentialed teacher. Needless to say that I'm somewhat worried at how much time I will or will not have to put to what I love doing. Obviously I will not let throwing my opinion at anything that moves get in the way of any academic endeavors; still, I'm interested in seeing what will happen in the world of journalism, personal essays, entertainment reviews, etc., as - hopefully - the cut and paste function will cease to be a dependable option, and things will start dying on the reality television front.

If only - if only - I could predict the future.

Mmm.

It is 8:55pm on a Tuesday evening in southern California, and I cannot feel my toes.

Where and how are you?

In my universe, this is the middle-of-the-weekend. My boyfriend has safely returned from New York. For the last week we have forgone life's pleasures and have met at the center with food, life, and everything else in which to wish you and whoever chooses to read a safe and happy evening, wherever you may roam, conduct business, or otherwise.

ttfn

Ta Ta For Now

L.

A Brief "LA Candy" Dissection

So I'm reading New York Times Bestseller LA Candy, "written" by reality starlet turned fashion designer Lauren Conrad, and I felt it highly important to say a few brief things about it. Forgive me as I dive in headfirst:

a) The writing in itself is a good skeleton, but does not have enough meat to be desirable. It's all bones, and as attractive a slender figure can be, bony doth not feel good.

b) If it was in fact ghost-written, that ghostwriter should find another gig. If you're getting paid to make something better, it should actually be friggin' good, and friggin' good it ain't. It's alarmingly mediocre.

c) Elaborate where appropriate. Descriptions such as "the pretty brick building" or "the tall, industrial-looking light" are too simple, or rather, too vague. A little less cut-and-paste and a little more realism, perhaps, would bring life to the surroundings and not the object only.

d) The constant mention places and having to explain them to the reader is not an effective way of description and involvement. Describing something shouldn't be a laundry list of adjectives or adverbs. They should sing and perhaps lure the reader into conjuring up their own images. Keep the parantheses to a minimum. And, El Pollo Loco does not need explaining. "The Crazy Chicken" we know.

I'm just disappointed in that she got a three-book-deal, but even more so that I'm actually reading the first of them. I'll probably read them all as some sort of modern, silent torture.

In reading it, I must say that I'm actually worried - worried in that I could one day submit a book idea to someone so shoddily put together and watered-down for readers, thinking it was hot stuff, and being made fun of/criticized harshly because of it. Being a bestseller wouldn't matter. Being the best at making money doesn't mean success, or prestige, or real value. I'm sure there are plenty of monetarily advanced drug dealers and prostitutes out there, too.

I know that I'm not the best writer out there, but I'd like to think that I'm good at what I do. That I'm honest in whatever format is in front of me. I've got to hand it to anyone writing fiction; it's not easy. But when this brand of fiction is based loosely on your real-life experience - come now. It should be [relatively] gravy. Again, I guess that's what one gets when making their real-life experience "fiction" instead of non-fiction so as to avoid all the legal fees.

I really don't mean to sound so bitter.

"The Hills", or How Reality Television Killed the Writer

MTV's The Hills: reality show, soap opera, pop culture phenomenon. Starring Lauren Conrad, Heidi Montag, Audrina Patridge, Whitney Port and company, the show has refined the love of beautiful and expensive things while hiding under the guise of societal productivity. Having premiered in 2006, The Hills acted as a spin-off of MTV's Laguna Beach, an "experiment" of sorts with cameras and rich youth living in Southern California by the ocean (how Sunset Beach of them).

Laguna Beach launched the pseudo-career of Lauren Conrad, followed her all the way to her high school graduation, to her first year of college, all the while capitalizing on her tumultuous unrequited love triangle that contributed to one of the show's running storylines - for two seasons. The Hills picked up where Conrad had left Laguna Beach - driving down the freeway in her Mercedes en route to Los Angeles, "the city where dreams come true". As an intern at TEEN Vogue and full-time student at the Fashion Institude of Design and Merchandising (FIDM), Conrad had a lot on her plate to chew through and digest. Good thing her partner in crime - Heidi Montag, also to attend FIDM - was present to greet her poolside of their $3,000-a-month West Hollywood apartment complex.

Understanding the natural tendency to find other people's lives more interesting, The Hills has been successful to the Nth degree, having resulted in various spin-offs of its own (The City, starring Whitney Port working PR for Diane von Furstenburg in New York City, and soon, The Audrina Show - no guesses there). The more remarkable fact that remains is that none of this has consistently involved the continuous presence of a writer.

The situation comedy has been made obsolete by the reality and dating show format. Situation comedies considered to be hot stuff (ie Friends) weren't necessarily overly brilliant; however, despite the greed that infects any situation involving money, when things were good they were mutual between writers and actors. The experimental The Real World, on the heels or perhaps ankles of the universally-watched sitcom, was perhaps the first of its kind - a situation, comedic or otherwise, without the aid of a writer. It was with The Real World that shows like Laguna Beach - and eventually The Hills - were able to be inseminated into the womb of our subconscious.

As a teenager (albeit nineteen) I watched Laguna Beach, fascinated that the cameras could capture such drama and cattiness between blondes and brunettes alike. The dollar sign sheen on the BMWs, the Chanel shoes, and the unsupervised parties at suites overlooking the beach was brilliant as much as it was coveted. However, realizing that this money didn't belong to the onscreen participants themselves made the show in itself tolerable to watch. However, with what spin-offs such as The Hills have become - from relaxed somewhat contrived dinners at Luna Park then to "business meetings" at Salades De Provence now - it is clear that at least to an extent, much more than a release form has been signed. Something smells of lawyers present at various contract agreements ("her best angle") and salary negotiations (to the tune of, say $65K an episode for the lead).

Monsters are born, but they don't stay babies forever. Like the humans that bear them, eventually they learn to crawl, walk, talk, and feed themselves, always at their hosts' expense. There is no way to misunderstand something so much like ourselves when it is we the audience who keeps making it fat. Like the child of a loving parent, we will feed our children before we feed ourselves. The stars of The Hills seem to think that we forget certain things like times of day and when photos are taken along the timeline of the show's progression that contradict it continuously. Again, like the loving parents that we are, we realize that it would do no good to just kill the kid. Instead, we continue to indulge it, at least for one more season.

The Hills will air the second half of its fifth season later this month, and will now star Laguna Beach alum Kristin Cavallari, as Lauren Conrad has rather wisely decided to capitalize on more than her blonde hair and amazing wardrobe. Yes, even with all the broadcast trips to Mexico and Hawaii on private planes, and the numerous trips to the Warren Tricomi Salon, I still think give her props for doing so. Conrad has milked the teat for as long as she could latch onto it and now works relatively behind the scenes on a fashion line. While not the most inspiring gig, however, in the name of the monster who has led the way out of its controlled environment, others have come out of the woodwork - naturally, her replacement, Cavallari, and the most blatant of all, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt (aka Speidi).

Whores carry and conceal disease. Need I say more?

Outside of the television realm (executed and in production), there have been books, blogs, albums, TV appearances, even fitness plans have been made available to satiate admitted gluttony. As of Thursday night last week, my video iPod has made friendly with the fourth of The Hills' five seasons. There appears to be no stopping these young, rich, and "untalented". My purchase alone is proof in that our fascination isn't helping them. We're enabling them. And yet it seems as if they're the ones that are doing something right.

Are we that inclined to let the madness remain?

structured rant

I used to talk a lot when I was younger. I'm actually embarrassed by that. I'd like to think that this was because for a long time I didn't have much of a life. Being excitable and bright-eyed and really really young, I wanted everyone to like me. At seventeen, my life was a sterilized bubble of high school and religion. At eighteen I got a taste of something else, something completely different. Naturally I reverted back into the bubble for a year, but at nineteen I re-emerged. Of course, I still talked a lot because I still didn't have a lot going on, but with getting to know all sorts of people through work, school, and life in general, I've been able to channel whatever verbal word count I exceeded into print. It doesn't come nearly as easily, but there is the convenient benefit of self-editing.

I just don't like it when people talk a lot. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I often end up somewhere in the middle, wondering if they want me to participate or if they're just ranting and I should just sit by and let them go until there's no more fuel to burn. As a result I've become an expert at tuning people out. I'm trying to modify that 'talent' because only recently have I found that I might actually be missing out on something by doing so. But I can't help it. Sometimes people don't know when to shut up.

I keep my opinions to myself, unless they're spelled out on my face. It's not that I don't care; it's that most of the time I'm just too tired to respond. Unfortunately I think that I've fallen into the category of "Well, we'll just have to see how things pan out, shall we?" and "There's little to nothing that we can do at this point so why worry so much about it?" This would involve a lot of internalizing and blow-ups that just aren't pretty. I need to work on this if I would like for people to consider me dependable and decent. However, I don't need everyone do like me. I don't want everyone to like me as much as I'd rather a choice few think I'm intelligent with a reserved, neutral personality. As long as the universe knows that I'm reliable and don't contradict myself, I could really care less otherwise.

My day job involves listening for key phrases and controlling the conversation; keeping things short, sweet, and to the point. Benefit and detriment, that, but something I couldn't do before. I've gradually incorporated that into daily dealings, and as a result I actually like people, although not always. I just wish I could target what's my deal in that 'silence is golden' should be practiced by others, and not merely a suggestion flashed on a movie screen right before the previews.

Yeah, that's it.

/structured rant

Why I Love Lady Gaga

Television has reminded me that Lady Gaga is considered to be a "new artist". On Sunday, September 13, she will be in the running for a number of honors at the MTV Music Awards, one of these being "best new artist". This post is pretty much to highlight why I happen to be drawn to this particular artist.

My first exposure to Lady Gaga was on Livejournal community ohnotheydidnt, a place for entertainment commentary both scathing and adoring. When photos of Lady Gaga started showing up rather frequently, I couldn't help thinking who the hell was this person impersonating Christina Aguilera, and why wasn't she wearing any pants?

Last December, my younger brother showed me a video on YouTube for a song called "Just Dance" by this artist, Lady Gaga. The music video involved a lot of drinking, making out, pimp cups, and wading in inflatable pools. I pretty much said to him in response, "Oh my God; what's wrong with these people? Is this what fun looks like?" Being a twenty-something, I should probably know the answer to that question, but it's safe to say that I don't.

Fast forward to - for some reason - listening to a song called "Poker Face". I actually really dug the song - the heavy beats, the synths, the glittery effect, yet the personality behind the voice belonging to this Lady Gaga person. I ended up watching the video on YouTube, naturally, and found that between 10 and 10:15 that evening I had watched/re-watched and replayed certain scenes at least a ten left-clicks. For some otherworldly reason I was transfixed by the stomping, platinum, electric blue hussy. She was by no means a lady. Two minutes later I was downloading the song on iTunes.

About two or three months ago, whilst on YouTube yet [again] I had seen one of those preview screencaps of the music-video-to-be-premiered, "Paparazzi". She had me at the subtitles and softcore faux foursome on the Victorian-era couch.

My playlists consist of only three of her songs - the aforementioned - and one music video. One of these days I'll own The Fame, a physical copy on sale at Target, probably. Naturally she has a great production team behind her - someone's running the show, but not enough to tell her what not to wear. God, what an amazing, effed-up sense of style. If she wore the same thing twice, those watching would definitely know; she's that out there. Most things on the runway aren't 'meant' to be worn in day-to-day life unless incorporated in a vanilla fashion. In a sense Lady Gaga is a walking, heaving-chested runway - especially with the suit of Kermit the Frogs. She takes chances, she not classically sexy, and her personality (I would like to think) is the oomph that differentiates her from other artists. Different, in a way that used to be and probably is still considered to be odd and a sign of trying too hard, but somehow manages to work.

Although, it probably helps that I've barely heard her opinion. Actually, I don't think I've ever heard her speaking voice. If I did, that would probably change everything.

(Editor's note: I was born in 1985. Cut me some slack.)

Lately

I've been a little behind, with much apologies.

My folks went on their pretty-much-yearly trip to the Bahamas for two weeks by way of the Disney Cruise Line, and being a good daughter, I house-sat for them. Being that I'm one of their five children still living in the state of California, it was the most decent thing to do. Two weeks of a house, playing nursemaid to their two dogs and one cat, and most importantly, a fridge and pantry full of food. By full, I mean "could easily throw a party for twenty with this much food" full. A set-up such as this would ordinarily be heaven for your normal, average single individual, but considering that I'm neither normal nor average, I pretty much went through various levels of WTF in the last two weeks: where the positives were negatives, and what were once negatives were positives.

For one thing, I was provided full use of one of their [five] vehicles with which to drive to and from my place (to take care of my felines), to work, and to their place. Ordinarily my commute involves either a twelve-mile bicycle ride to and from work or by-luck use of Metro's services - no matter what, I am getting exercise at some time during a normal 12-14 hour day. However, with the car, although I was able to be rested and relaxed while driving to and from, well, everywhere, I was unable to be active for the time it was given me. Sloth, frumpy, and unattractive just covers the surface of how I felt. When my parents returned this past Saturday evening, I made sure to go on a 25-mile bicycle ride the very next day.

It must be said as well that with the time given me to enjoy by myself, I didn't really enjoy it at all. It's odd that the house in which one grows up in as a child does not feel like home without the instigators of the idea. And with work and commuting and responsibility taking the majority of my time, there was little time for fun. There was no Downtown ArtWalk for me. Whatever free time there was was bookended by thoughts of being here, being there, and oh Hell, I have to work tomorrow (don't get me started about work; that will take at least three paragraphs). I missed my roommates, who conveniently double as more than good friends and chosen family. And the wireless service at my folks' house? Sucks, as far as my laptop is concerned; their machines, available though they were, proved to be slow like honey. So what I consider to be purposeful work (writing) didn't get done within my or anyone else's timeframe. I turned in a blurb today, with no muss, no fuss. A review will be in tomorrow. Needless to say, I feel uber empowered at the thought of a reliable operating system and frakking high speed internet. Life's simple pleasures, indeed.

I'm a creature of habit, as we all are. In the last two years, I have become master of my domain. My domain, my control ship. Were that change were completely within our control, I think it would be welcomed a lot easier; however, that's not how it will ever work.

I am catching up.

Explanation, please?

This morning I woke up from a dream in which I was going through a bunch of my dad's old memories in a closet/on a shelf, etc. One of these memories was a box of greeting cards that had the image of two white women with angry, justice-is-served faces, and a black man crying; the other image was of a boat sailing in the ocean, resembling some sort of people-freighter. The box, a sort of faded green color, was labeled with the phrase: "Some boys make bad mistakes." In the dream, I opened the box and inside was a short letter from my sister to my dad, which read:

"Dear Pop,

I'm sorry; I only realized what this was when I opened up the box. Maybe one day Lindsey can send me a birthday card.

Love,
Jessica"

It was then that I woke up.

I've no idea where all that came from, either, but damn it if it wasn't amusing enough to remember.

Dead and gone

Thinking about the past can be both positive and negative. This evening, my thinking about the past is, unfortunately, a negative - which is funny, because not too long ago (read: last week), it was a positive.

Relationships end. Live and let live. But strangely enough, it's likely that the part of your self that was invested in said relationship will die along with it. It's been a slow death in my case, one five-and-a-half years in its duration. I've found happiness and richness in other relationships since, but it's difficult to really forget the way 'it' felt the first time. The newness of love, the spark, the desire. Or was that lust? I wouldn't have been able to tell you the difference then. Looking back, it was a delicate mixture of both. But there's only so much one can take. I understand that now.

The universe deals second chances in some ways, but doesn't in others. I would love it were I given a second chance, but I truly am thinking I was lucky enough to have been enjoyed the time while it lasted.

Yes, I am aware of the awkward drop off. Such is life.

Happy 4th of July...

...from within the walls of my cubicle.

I shouldn't complain, though, as I had yesterday off from work. With these four-day work weeks, I've actually been able to enjoy some sort of summer vacation from school, which has virtually been unheard of in the last three years. While I haven't necessarily gone stale yet, I haven't been as active in social circles as I'd've liked. I am going to need to work on that.

I acknowledge that I haven't been writing here often as of late, and the reason for that I must admit is the little compact thought processor also known as Twitter. I've been enjoying cramming my thoughts into 140 characters. In some odd way it forces the person doing the conveying to be precise with their words, while allowing room to be creative, if applicable. Feel free to follow me; I'm sure we'll have a good time together.

Writing, reading, working - such is life as of late. Still no car, still no winning lottery ticket. Life is one day if not one moment at a time, and it's working out for now. Viewing life in such a way keeps me from freaking out about the future. For once in my life I'm totally uncertain as to what the future holds, where I'll be in a year when it comes to everything - professionally, in relationships, with school, living quarters, everything. It's all up in the air, subject to change. Living in the moment is the equivalent to living in a bubble filled with pure oxygen - it's safe... until it's popped, that is.

Should that moment arise, I hope to not break out in hives. Or, you know, die from exposure. Let's think the best, shall we?

Post-school days

School is done with for the semester. It has literally been a whole day and a half and already I'm feeling a little weird. I'm positive that I won't be on the same campus that I have been for the last three years, adding classes and frequenting the library and the student store, experiencing late nights over an energy drink studying my brains out -- it's over at that location, at least. Right now I'm in a bit of limbo as I transfer from one school to the next (hopefully in the spring). I'm trying to figure out what next to do in the meantime. Considering that unfortunately I haven't been getting much satisfaction from writing lately (this semester was chock-full of writing, so much that rewrites and proofreading was out of the question) which is just... unheard of for me. Since I was thirteen, writing has always been a means of escape. My boyfriend suggested to me that I carry a notebook with me and set a number of pages to write every day and stick to it. The content doesn't matter, just free-flowing verses and phrases and observations and weavings of words, just to do it is the goal. So I will. Merely observing isn't enough; it is given life when on paper, even though it is frozen in space.

So that's what I'll be doing. Until I can get my transcripts together from this past semester, I'm also going to look into a dance class - what kind I don't yet know; swing? Modern? Jazz? Belly dancing? - and just... figure something out. More late-night bicycle rides? Reading more? The last thing I want is to go stale.

I don't know how you all do it.

Scattered about

I had lunch with my dad yesterday. I love my dad; he is seriously one of the nicest people anyone could know. At the same time, he's so nice a guy that he doesn't realize how nice he is, and that really bothers me. He's so unmotivated, yet he has all of these dreams in a trunk going unfulfilled. He's let too much time go by to achieve them. Hell, I am definitely his daughter. Wishing, hoping, thinking, praying. Worrying about time, doubting anything and everything, but actually doing?... Eh, not so much. I mean, I'm doing things I never thought I could, at the belief and persistence of others' encouragement. I hope though to actually give myself credit for putting myself out there and trying, even if it feels so half-assed at times. Ah, but my daddy. I'm learning more about him every time we have lunch together - which I'm hoping will be everything other week or something. I'm thinking it's probably one of the biggest favors either of us could do for ourselves.

In other news, I've unfortunately let indimidation get the better of me when it comes to writing. Writing for my peers has never been a pleasure of mine, but for the last fourteen weeks it's all I've had to do. Still, it's been interesting having people take apart my work, and taking apart theirs. I told my creative writing professor that as much as I hate receiving criticism, I appreciate going through the experience - and she said that if I want to be a writer, there are going to be all sorts of ignorant comments knocking on the door, and it's going to be my job to sift through them like a pro. I'm nervous, but I'll take it on.

In the last fourteen weeks, I've also learned that the short story is the format for me. Since I was a teenager I've preferred to capture moments, minutes, seconds, because those always stayed with me longer than an actual day, or week. Sensations from sweet to sickening still take me by surprise whenever I feel them, and I find them beneficial to my spirit (or something like it) if I can write about it.

With that said, life has been okay. It's at a little bit of a standstill, but for what it is work has been good, and most everything else has been neutral. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop in so many areas. Looking forward to the summer to be able to enjoy writing, and getting in touch with people, being a young and crazy twenty-something (like I ever was before; hah!). And oddly enough, I've been feeling something that feels similar to ... jealousy? And I'm not quite fond of it. Jealousy does not become me. I'll be through with it soon.

As of late

Life has been going relatively well. Heading towards the end of yet another academic semester, I feel as scared as I did going in. I will be obtaining a degree and quickly working towards another. I am proud of myself yet wish I did things differently (like spent less time toggling between YouTube and Twitter and did homework when I had the time). I am interested in seeing what the future holds, still as a student next spring. In one way or another, I'll always be a student. When it comes to writing, I'm still learning every day. At the same time, though, I'll look at something I've written between the 300 and 500 character frame and wonder how tired I was when I wrote what I did, because "I don't remember writing that". Yet it still read well. Someone tell me that's one sign of a good writer, please. Indulge me. In either case, at the end of this month it will have been a year since I found myself ducking out into the corporate stairwell, answering a phone call from Mali, being given instructions to log into Wordpress. It goes without saying that I'm really appreciative of the opportunity of building, expanding on, and retaining a voice.

Day job corporate bullshit has hit the fan, involving a new schedule (4-day workweek [M, Thu-Sa from 8am-7pm]) starting this coming Saturday, May 16. Me[and the rest of the staff]thinks that this is an operative motion to drive us out to avoid severance and unemployment - a thought that used to cripple, but actually has driven me to do better. I believe that I have. Lay-offs have come in quarters, as in of the year, so I'm going to brace myself for the next cut to pendulum swing at the end of June and take my head with it. If so, it'll be bittersweet; if not, same emotional outcome. You can't win and you can't lose with a pompous, indecisive, insecure corporation; you can only work with what you've got.

In my spare time, I've taken up running and working out with the goal of running the LA Marathon in 2010. Towards that goal, I'm working on running 6 miles in one go without effing with my knee (working on it!). In a little under a month, I'm planning on bicycling 100 miles as part of the LA River Ride. I enjoy being active, feeling strong. It takes away from the 8 hours a day my ass is glued to my desk chair, and I love the definition in my legs and abs (not done yet, but we're getting there). Ability does wonders.

Hopefully this blog will become more conversational to anyone reading, given the lack of time I've spent here. This year has been full of writing - with school, my day job, with reviewing and featuring. I've honestly never written more in my life, hence the disappearing act. When I do talk with others, though, I've been doing so over the phone, via IM outlets, email, etc. Going out. Having dinner. Spending the night. Going for a walk. Maybe I'm a little jaded, but I've become of the mind that blogging/talking about yourself is a bit self-serving, self-promoting, self-ego-stroking, kind of like masturbation. All of which is well and good. Still, it's rather nice once you find that someone else can mutually do the job for you.

Angry.

I bought a new computer last November. A beautiful Dell XPS, perfect hard drive space, easy functionality. Absolute perfection, until it began crash dumping me earlier this year. When getting files for an album I would have like to have reviewed what seems like eons ago (more like more than a week), my memory crashed in such a way that I can't start up my computer. AT ALL. My short story due tomorrow afternoon was on that computer, and I didn't get to email it to myself before it crashed. I worked my ass off on that assignment, and every other assignment, whether professional or academic. My music/work is on that computer. My brand-new computer = a piece of shit (which thankfully is still under warranty). I am angry about that.

A few weeks ago, the insurance company that I work for eliminated my job title. But I'm still a licensed auto insurance agent, so why not put me into the general queue for calls? The system is so regimented and without room for leeway and I'm pretty much shackled to my desk from day break to twilight. Today, I made it through the third layoff in less than six months. I am angry about that.

I feel rather isolated from my family because of where I'm apportioning my time. I am angry about that.

I feel thrown off from my schedule and don't even know what I should be working on. I am angry about that.

I really want to go to bed, but I can't afford it. I am angry about that.

Looking in

I had an interesting experience in my creative writing class tonight. Ah, creative writing. The perks of working towards one's English degree. Our weekly assignments involve putting together works (this week, a poem; next week, a short story; in the near future, non-fictional essays), and I was randomly put into a group with other classmates. Through random acts of conversation, I found out that I was the oldest person in the group (24). No biggie. What was a pseudo-biggie to me, however, was one particular nineteen-year old girl who reminded me oddly of myself when I was that age - talkative, green, and fixated on extraordinarily frivolous things. This was pretty much revealed to me when we were analyzing a descriptive poem on elements of heartbreak, when she blurted out: "Well, I've never felt that before, but I was transported to 'that place', so I think it was a very well-written piece." It was as cute as it was annoying as it was funny. I don't know if at nineteen I'd've said something to that magnitude, although I probably would have at eighteen. At eighteen, ignorance was bliss, but at nineteen I already had the privilege of being sufficiently broken, and would learn not to be so disappointed in friendships/relationships thereafter. Rest assured, I would rather be jaded, balanced, and know how to let go than feel torn every time something ends, like a poorly formed sentence fragment.

That said, it was just funny, and refreshing to acknowledge the space between 19 and 24. In part because of a really sheltered upbringing, I've slowly realized this as time has gone on. Tonight had a hand in cementing that - while I'm still struggling to find my sea legs - I'm such a different person than I was even three years ago, two years ago. Although work and school leaves me feeling out of place as an individual, I notice how more refined I am as it were, if not perfectly polished. I like myself a lot more than I used to, and wouldn't trade the progression with a younger person if you paid me.

I think that's it. I wonder what I'll realize when I'm fifty.

today, i must:

-listen to Oh No Not Stereo's LP and hammer out a skeleton for a review to complete tomorrow night
-work out in the gym
-write a "goodbye letter" in the form of a symbolic poem
-go grocery shopping after work
-CLEAN MY ROOM (the sign of a full-time-everything [employee/undergrad/writer] is a room that hasn't been cleaned in two weeks, but an obvious attempt thanks to the sight of clean laundry crumpled and rolled up in the tidiest corner of the room)

since school started, there doesn't seem to be nearly as much time in the day as i'd like - probably because i'm allowing myself to sleep this semester, and maintain my figure.

eh. i'm annoyed and reduced to lower-case letters. so long as no one judges me - let me have my lower-case letters.

TGIF

on my desk
frozen daiquiri-scented lotion
a Ziploc of dry oats & orange-flavored cranberries
cup of coffee
access badge
a pen
video iPod
PoliSci book
card to be mailed to my sister in Nebraska
sugar-free Red Bull
corporate letters to go out into the afternoon mail
Coach purse

inside my purse
sunglasses
makeup bag (powder, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lip tint, lip gloss, blush, mascara)
wallet
cell phone
antibacterial solution
digital camera
birth control pills
condoms
raw almonds
loose change
a pen
keys to my desk

this morning (before 7:15), i
compiled a list of shows going on on the east and west coasts this weekend for BeatCrave.com
did 45 minutes of cardio
cleaned the bathroom
shifted things around the room
packed my TRKFLD bag
got to work on-time, at 8:02am

schedule
break 10:00 - 10:15
lunch with Pop 12:00 - 1:00
break 3:00 - 3:15
work, or wait for calls to come in, or study, or write review on Serge Gainsbourg's posthumous CD release 3:15 - 5:00
en route to Sierra Madre via Metro 5:15 - 7:15
sushi.... perhaps?,
company, then sleep

Mundane/Monday

School started up again today. I'm not a huge fan of these long days - up at 6:00, out at 7:15, at my desk at 8:00, done with the day at 5:00 pm --- my favorite part of it all is sitting in the computer lab and writing until class starts at 7:00pm. Still, by the time 8:00pm rolls around I'm thinking, "Damn, I was in this position only in heels and at a computer, getting ready to tuck into the beginning of the day a whole 12 hours ago". That is when I start to get tired, when 10:00 pm seems so far away, and midnight even farther. Thankfully, this semester I'll only be doing this once a week. My other classes are online or in the afternoon - the latter of which I hope works out.

Tired as I am, it's a really nice feeling, though, being on this side of the day - with hair washed of sweet suds, in a nightshirt and between soft sheets.

I'd better get to bed.

Mmm, effervescent

My brother introduced me to Kombucha when I visited him in New York last November. GT's Kombucha: I first tried the Gingerade, which is a combination of the miracle-stuff plus pressed ginger, and it tickled my innards so much that I've been trying to find it out here since I came back home. I finally found it at an LA farmers market, and today they were on sale... a branch of the stuff called Synergy offered my flavors of Cosmic Cranberry (sitting to my right, half-empty)... Guava Goddess and Gingerberry are chilling in the fridge as we write. I've got to say that I'm not the purest being in the world. I enjoy a decent-sized amount of corruption here and there. But with the guilt comes the detoxing, the fasts, the cleanses, and with that comes the Kombucha. I stick by the idea that one's body is a temple for sure, but mine is a nondenominational one - let the parties commence, just take care to leave it presentable when you're finished, or when there are visitors.

More importantly, the stuff now is added to a long list of things that I associate with my brother, which I like to call Comfort Quirks...

milk chews
pistachio nougat
french-pressed coffee
pomegranate sorbet
Jeeves & Wooster
yellow raincoats
green Doc Martens
red and black Pandas
and so much more...

I've a second birthday party of sorts to rest up for tonight. Steven and I got up and out of the house way too early this morning and crossed out of a lot of errands. At this point, I'm all for lazing about until at least 6:00 pm.

The weekend has only begun.

And no, there will not be any time to watch the Superbowl tomorrow.

Fall down, go 'Christ, that hurts!'

Some friends and I are bicycle fiends. We are attempting to do a century ride in Palm Springs next month - the Tour de Palm Springs - and apparently in the first 20 miles there is a hill that pretty much will test my strengths as a cyclist. So in preparation, I've been attempting to ride my bicycle up Reseda Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley to its top - officially known as Reseda Backbone and Topanga State Park (click). Last Sunday I didn't do so well. I stopped about six times and walked up part of the way. But this week I've been doing some training in the gym, and felt confident enough to try the hill again tonight. Well, I made it to the top; I only stopped once. The view of the Valley was gorgeous; I have great photos to prove it. On the way down, however, I noticed something wrong with the gears, and I positioned my hand to attempt to fix them. Big mistake. Two seconds later I find myself on the ground in pain after doing a front flip as a result of my hand slipping and hitting the front brake. I don't have a bruise yet, but my right hip and elbow got banged pretty good. Thank goodness for a sweet couple - Sam and Natalie - who were up also on the hill and came to see if I was okay. They even watched the bike with me until my housemate came to rescue me and hear about my fall.

So I suppose its official. I've fallen and I've got the to-be scars to prove it. I'm no longer a prissy cyclist. I have potential.

I hope I don't wake up all sore tomorrow. On the one hand, I'd be glad to take the day off of work, because Lord knows I'll be told that I should've stayed home. But on the other, I'll have to spend the morning in bed, when all I'll want to do is take my two-wheeled beauty out for a scenic ride around the lake.

I can't win!

Views of the city

I stood on the sixth floor and took advantage of the pseudo-panoramic view of the West Valley
I looked at the cars on the street below, zooming north and south, east and west
and wondered where the very cute cream-colored black-topped Mini Cooper could be headed at 3:42 in the afternoon
Why the hell am I so zapped of energy?,
I wondered while staring at my curls in the window's reflection
Mein eyes made their way down towards my shiny pumps... then up, then down
and for a moment the rare but elusive thought flashed through my mind:
'Perhaps my figure's not so bad'
I gazed to the left at the moutains towards Malibu;
gazed to the right, hmm, San Gabriel
The Hollywood Hills were somewhere southeast
but they were blocked by plaster and florescent lighting
The sun penetrated the weather-proof glass and ran its heated tongue across my forehead as the soda machine hummed an incompetent composition
Turning on my heel I noticed discarded pages of the Daily News, numbering the thousands having recently made the line to the unemployment office wrap-around the building...
...like a good girl, I headed to my desk

Run[ny-nose ]down

It's the weirdest thing having such a stuffed-up nose that I can't taste at all the vodka in my Skinny Bitch.

It's been a good day. Not only do I finally own a Coach purse (with plum lining), but I also had the honor of being complimented so sweetly by one Ms. Arden Kaywin.

Happy 31st, Mom and Pop.

A Charlie Brown recession anniversary

My folks' 31st wedding anniversary was yesterday, so I took Pop and my younger brother out for a Chinese dinner prior to Mom's return from Washington, D.C. today. Dinner on me was just the start of the celebration, as my family's tradition has yet to take place.

On the Saturday of the week in which my folks' wedding anniversary falls, we all get together and have our version of Christmas. Or at least that's what I like to call it. These days I celebrate Christmas; however, growing up as a Jehovah's Witness - a faith that my folks still cling to - I did not. So with this event of sorts coupled with glorious paganism, it's as if I get to partake in two Christmases in a matter of months. So we (which this year will consist of my younger brother and myself) will give them presents, after which they will take us out and we get whatever the hell we please - at their insistence. I'll want money. But I'm probably going to get something I don't need, like a hot pink sweater.

Despite all of that, I made a concerted point to get Mom and Pop substantial things to utilize as well as enjoy. In the spirit of prudence, I procured for them the following gifts:

a fine shiraz to toast to at least another 31 years of unity
tan moccasin slippers (for Pop)
navy blue slipper socks with a red cherry at their toes (for Mom)
a copy of Parliament Funkadelic: The Mothership Connection that I had the pleasure of reviewing recently (for Pop)
body butter, body splash, bath bubbles, and shower gel in Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works (for Mom)
and of course an obligatory anniversary card with bunny rabbits on it

(Of course I ended up treating myself a lovely pair of tan suede moccasins, and red pajama pants with white hearts on them. I really need to quit the spending on myself, really. After much struggle earlier in the evening, I did put down the InTouch Weekly and Coach purse that was on sale, and purchased toilet bowl cleaner instead. Shopaholics Anonymous much?)

In prior years, I've gotten them presents that have merely been "cool": such as the one time I got them a personalized commemorative paving stone in the courtyard between Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure. I still don't even remember how that all happened, but my whenever my folks stop by to catch a glimpse of it, their eyes get all misty and glassy, as was the intention, and then I think how much it was worth it. While I'm certain that they won't react along the same vein when caressing their new slippers, I'd like to think that they'll appreciate the thought and reasonableness this year instead of a boatload of frivolous things, just trying to impress them.

Besides -- I think they can wait to see the Alvin Ailey Dance Company at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion until March, do you?

Whatever makes you brag

Sick and perverted is me.

My closeted guilty pleasure is The Hills on MTV. I'm not sure exactly why. Well, you've got the young and rich living in Los Angeles working in the fashion industry or working the front door at a night club or as an event planner, or working as a receptionist at a music label, whatever - and meeting at restaurants to not eat, yet to gossip and be seen. It's Los Angeles. It's the westside, it's Santa Monica, it's the Valley. With the exception of thinking one can make a sizable paycheck working as an intern or part-time in any big city, I'd say the depiction is close to accurate. Damn you, MTV.

This world that reality-whore Adam DiVello has created makes it so it's difficult not to envision CGI name tags following one at every eatery or club or nature spot, even on sunny SoCal-esque days. Now that it's most easy to, say, conjure a playlist of flimsily apropos tunes designed to bridge the redundant hours and moments of the day, it's all the more simple to fabricate one's own importance in this town. I wonder when it will all end, the fascination with beautiful people flawless nobodies.

Yeah. I'm thinking never.

Coming down off of a cloud

While my birthday weekend has come to a close, birthday season is far from over. Tomorrow is my friend's birthday, and towards the end of the month there is to be at least one more get together of comrades and such. But this entry is to highlight the events that took place over the last few days - in singular word/phrase form only, and likely with an abrupt ending.

driving up PCH towards Point Mugu Naval base
driving down PCH, pit-stopping at Paradise Cove
pineapple mango margaritas, crabcakes, and seared ahi
warm wooden chairs on the beach for hours
one pound of See's Candies Nuts & Chews
napping in dark sheets under a glow of red [curtains]
a custom-built specialized road bike ZOMG
stuffed grape leaves on a mediterranean plate
a birthday cake with 24 candles
and then the sun rises
25 miles around the lake on the road bike
the essence of warm water and almond hemp soap in my hair
sandwiches at the park with the chosen family and the baby
'good lovin'; I've got a truck load'
16-20 miles 'round Los Angeles with the alternative cycling community
twinkling rear lights coasting up and down hilly streets
jumping rope in the park with a messload of beer-infused youth
and then the cops came
home
sleep
heat-drunkeness at Fred 62 over coffee, Stacey, and conversation
pancakes with white cream and strawberries
afternoon delight with Hollywood
and twilight conversation in the Valley
"House",
leftovers,
Steven,
and sleep

Pre-birthday celebration

In my world, January is the month where a everyone has their birthday... coming along so soon after the holidays, it can be monetarily taxing and difficult to get everywhere and appease everyone, so a mutual friend threw four ladies (myself included) a joint birthday party at his loft in Pasadena. There were familiar faces, good nibblies, and cupcakes with candles. Fun stuff; afterward, we headed to NeoMeze to dance. I haven't been dancing in a few years, so it was just --- nice to be out with friends, wearing a swishy dress, and getting some well-deserved blisters on my feet from wearing heels. At a quarter after 1am, we headed back to the foothills, looking for the perfect fast food to soak up the alcohol bound to bite my ass in the morning. And after making safe passage through the front door to his living room, I found myself on the black leather couch, peeling gold-and-bronze straps from around my ankles, and apportioning fries and burgers while settling in to A Clockwork Orange until 3:00 am. Lovely. My birthday isn't until next Friday, but in cases like this, "a bit premature" is never a bad thing.

Happy New Year

After work, I went to the mall and set sights on a plunge-V-neck, calf-length turquoise number that complimented my already-had pair of violet faux-alligator heels perfectly. Steven and I went out to dinner with my housemates - a five-minute walk from home at most - after which we headed home to chill out and do a whole lot of nothing.

A few New Year's Eves ago I was out an about in Hollywood. There was Jesus freak on a bicycle and my cell phone battery was near-death. I'd had a pretty lackluster day, and apparently the forecast had called for rain. Of course I was under-dressed, somewhere on Sunset and Ivar. This was before the Red Line, so it was pretty miserable in thinking how I'd be making it back home. The night ended well, but I learned that ringing in the new year doesn't mean being in the heart of it all; it's being where your heart wants you to be. Not as deep as it sounds, really. This year I wanted to be at home, so there I sat in my beautiful dress, with the ones most closest to me. And as we all cringed with severe empathy at Dick Clark's face (it must've been superimposed, either that or it was a kabuki mask) as the clock struck twelve, I knew there was no place I'd rather have been.

The new year so far has been pretty satisfying: I've a couple of pies in the oven, and the only place I've been today was to Santa Monica, for pizza at Bravo. Not bad considering 2009 is only a little over sixteen hours along.