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.