that’s what the lately days have felt like. but it’s a rare kind of full (and busy) that isn’t overwhelming. it’s providing just the right amount of activity to keep me engaged yet frazzle free, productive but relaxed. despite the bizzy, i’m still managing to squeeze in afterwork naps and lazy nights of lounging on the couch.
work is the greatest perp of all, of course, with project deadlines looming and minutiae that needs knocking out. freelance work arrives with the moonlight, almost nightly, with me juggling the red pen and frying pan, as i edit and cook, edit and cook, with Mo nearby minding the chopping block. the boy refuses the garlic press and instead minces by hand. we eat well, perhaps too well and often too late in the evening, prompting me to drag my chub to the gym during office lunch hours, where i run the treadmill. ok, jog.
weekends call for playtime with the puppy, who, each day, breaks the world cuteness record she set the day before. i know i’m being objective when i say she’s flawless (except for her bum hips). and that claim was corroborated recently when a random driver pulled our way to inquire about her breed, leaving surprised to hear that a mutt could be so damn stunning. he wanted as pretty a dog for himself apparently, but her hots are the jackpot of a genetic lottery that can’t be replicated. as dude pulled away, Mo asked me whether i was jealous of my dog being a traffic-stopping beauty. au contraire, i’m quite proud –- and living vicariously.
lots of long walks have abounded: to the Whole Foods on the corner, the liquor store on the other corner, and elsewhere through the neighborhood, often to the video store for rentals of “The Joe Schmo Show” and “Everything is Illuminated” (both must-sees). concert viewing has also been plentiful, with extra-ticket invites to see Devotchka, courtesy of Chad, and Manu Chau, courtesy of Juan.
been socializing up a storm via parties and dinners and hangouts and club nights and bar hops. yet still, i’m behind on returning phone calls, replying to emails and scheduling visits. good thing i recently procured wireless DSL in the home and a cheaper cell phone plan to aid my social pursuits.
and the tree in front of my porch is dropping overripe figs on the walkway, attracting a grip of flies that flurry around the entrance to my house and zoom inside when the door is ajar. bless her gorgeous self for trying, but Juice is no cat and sucks at flycatching, convinced though she is that her mouth is a powerful venus flytrap.
beyond that, i’m grossly content and wishing that the fall would arrive.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
On Blahging
it's been quite the effort to blog lately. probably because everything else this side of life has been relatively effortless and i'm prone to using this space for soppy lamentations on life and love. though now that i've actually said that aloud by posting it on the internets, i'm sure Mo and i will break up and i'll be laid off and then struck by lightning. all of this will happen on the same day. then i'll rush home to blog about it.
but really, it's just standard bloggers' block, i suppose, happens to all us hacks. school kids get a summer vacation and even TV shows take a summer hiatus. i felt entitled to a break, having grown tired of crafting my life's sitcom for this blog. it began to feel like a chore, akin to clipping my toenails. so instead, i decided to roll out summer programming full of reruns, photos, flashbacks and punchy lists predicated on hindsight. it was partially therapeutic, but mostly lazy (though i like the idea of ongoing series, so perhaps more of those will appear).
fear not, as the break from the break is nigh, motherfuckers! my battery is buzzing again, however slight its din. weekly blogging will resume in september, i hope, and this season's lineup will feature fabulous storylines and special guest stars and new and improved photo essays. it'll rate off the charts!
or maybe not. we'll see.
but really, it's just standard bloggers' block, i suppose, happens to all us hacks. school kids get a summer vacation and even TV shows take a summer hiatus. i felt entitled to a break, having grown tired of crafting my life's sitcom for this blog. it began to feel like a chore, akin to clipping my toenails. so instead, i decided to roll out summer programming full of reruns, photos, flashbacks and punchy lists predicated on hindsight. it was partially therapeutic, but mostly lazy (though i like the idea of ongoing series, so perhaps more of those will appear).
fear not, as the break from the break is nigh, motherfuckers! my battery is buzzing again, however slight its din. weekly blogging will resume in september, i hope, and this season's lineup will feature fabulous storylines and special guest stars and new and improved photo essays. it'll rate off the charts!
or maybe not. we'll see.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
The Thirty Chronicles: The Next Ten
who knew a birthday could be dragged out for months? it’s the kind of fixation that’s only appropriate when one’s turning 21, not 30. or maybe that kind of fixation is never appropriate. in any case, i’ll stop with the birthday bonanza after this post. by now, i’ve made peace with my twenties and have already put both feet into being thirtysomething. the view from up here is different.
well, not really, but there are a few things that thirty means to me. primarily, it means that it’s time to quit being the go-with-the-flow girl. not that i’m to become inflexible, but the carefree attitude that’s characteristic of the twenties -- where you can float for years in crap jobs and mediocre relationships -- is something to kiss goodbye.
my (slightly) older girlfriends have given me the wisest advice on the matter, saying that this is the time to start fermenting plans and building a sound foundation for achieving them. this is the time to discern the outline of a future that suits me and start steadying toward it, because it will take years before it looks just right.
and to think i once didn’t believe in making plans, figuring everything will work out just as it should. to make g-d laugh, tell him your plans, har har. he has a plan for each of us, har har. bull-fucking-shit. what a copout. it’s lazy, existential drivel -- the twentysomething “i’ll let the wind carry me to my destiny” attitude one takes when she’s goalless and clueless.
i know i’ve spent enough time wallowing in that romantic ideal, where everything happens for a reason and life is one great search for meaning, with some absolute truth awaiting discovery. whatevs. we make our own meaning, our luck, our destiny, our reason.
to recognize that it’s all meaningless has been remarkably liberating, i gotta say. there’s no ultimate answer to subscribe to, no limitation to accommodate. finally, the search ends through forfeit! i wasted enough time on it as is.
where the hell was i going again? oh yeah, my list of things to focus on in the next ten years. i have a feeling these years will pass rather quickly and be less eventful than the last ten were. even in the last few years, life has turned rather monotonous: i’ve finished all the schooling i’ll ever need, have a steady job i have no reason to leave and, at a mere two and a half years, i’ve lived at my current residence longer than i’ve lived at any other residence that came before it, save my childhood home.
as someone who’s inherently restless, i get uneasy by a lack of flux. i need stimulation and newness and adventure to keep my senses engaged. but i’m trying to reprogram my thinking to see the stability as something positive, where i have my basic needs met and can focus on creating controlled adventures that still enliven. i certainly don’t care to return to the days of “find a new job because you’ve just been laid off... again” or “find a new apartment because you’ve just been evicted!”
yeah, that wasn’t much fun at the time, invigorating as it may have been. future adventures should be far more adult, as the following list demonstrates:
• have a kid! maybe even two (three tops). maybe this won’t play out completely perfectly, maybe you’ll need to visit the sperm bank when you hit your “scary age” but have a kid at some point, even if it’s just one, because from the outside, parenthood looks interesting, exhausting, otherworldly and definitely worth knowing.
• don’t get married just to have a kid or just to be married. honor the promise you made to yourself regarding marriage -- that you’ll do it only if it feels absolutely right in your bones, your blood and your brain. and even then reconsider.
• write a friggin book! or two or ten. find the time and discipline and just write already. potential without action is worthless. publish or perish, bitch.
• quit being negative. we’ve gone over this before.
• recognize that everything that’s happened up to this moment, whether good or bad, is not as important as what happens after this moment. remind yourself every day that the past does not have to impact the future.
• get better at buying your own bullshit if you expect other people to.
• buy some property. g-d ain’t making any more real estate. and then sell the property. paper equity is not as good as money in the bank.
• dogs. have more.
• all that adult shit that your pops has been telling you about for years -- saving for retirement, insuring everything, maintaining good credit -- subscribe to it. also, eradicate all student debt by 40.
• prepare for deaths in the family. you aren’t the only one who’s aging.
• don’t bother with people you don’t care for, tasks you don’t need to do and situations you’d rather not be in. you have the freedom to politely excuse yourself from all of them. up until you have that kid, your greatest obligation is to yourself.
now go get ’em, tiger.
well, not really, but there are a few things that thirty means to me. primarily, it means that it’s time to quit being the go-with-the-flow girl. not that i’m to become inflexible, but the carefree attitude that’s characteristic of the twenties -- where you can float for years in crap jobs and mediocre relationships -- is something to kiss goodbye.
my (slightly) older girlfriends have given me the wisest advice on the matter, saying that this is the time to start fermenting plans and building a sound foundation for achieving them. this is the time to discern the outline of a future that suits me and start steadying toward it, because it will take years before it looks just right.
and to think i once didn’t believe in making plans, figuring everything will work out just as it should. to make g-d laugh, tell him your plans, har har. he has a plan for each of us, har har. bull-fucking-shit. what a copout. it’s lazy, existential drivel -- the twentysomething “i’ll let the wind carry me to my destiny” attitude one takes when she’s goalless and clueless.
i know i’ve spent enough time wallowing in that romantic ideal, where everything happens for a reason and life is one great search for meaning, with some absolute truth awaiting discovery. whatevs. we make our own meaning, our luck, our destiny, our reason.
to recognize that it’s all meaningless has been remarkably liberating, i gotta say. there’s no ultimate answer to subscribe to, no limitation to accommodate. finally, the search ends through forfeit! i wasted enough time on it as is.
where the hell was i going again? oh yeah, my list of things to focus on in the next ten years. i have a feeling these years will pass rather quickly and be less eventful than the last ten were. even in the last few years, life has turned rather monotonous: i’ve finished all the schooling i’ll ever need, have a steady job i have no reason to leave and, at a mere two and a half years, i’ve lived at my current residence longer than i’ve lived at any other residence that came before it, save my childhood home.
as someone who’s inherently restless, i get uneasy by a lack of flux. i need stimulation and newness and adventure to keep my senses engaged. but i’m trying to reprogram my thinking to see the stability as something positive, where i have my basic needs met and can focus on creating controlled adventures that still enliven. i certainly don’t care to return to the days of “find a new job because you’ve just been laid off... again” or “find a new apartment because you’ve just been evicted!”
yeah, that wasn’t much fun at the time, invigorating as it may have been. future adventures should be far more adult, as the following list demonstrates:
• have a kid! maybe even two (three tops). maybe this won’t play out completely perfectly, maybe you’ll need to visit the sperm bank when you hit your “scary age” but have a kid at some point, even if it’s just one, because from the outside, parenthood looks interesting, exhausting, otherworldly and definitely worth knowing.
• don’t get married just to have a kid or just to be married. honor the promise you made to yourself regarding marriage -- that you’ll do it only if it feels absolutely right in your bones, your blood and your brain. and even then reconsider.
• write a friggin book! or two or ten. find the time and discipline and just write already. potential without action is worthless. publish or perish, bitch.
• quit being negative. we’ve gone over this before.
• recognize that everything that’s happened up to this moment, whether good or bad, is not as important as what happens after this moment. remind yourself every day that the past does not have to impact the future.
• get better at buying your own bullshit if you expect other people to.
• buy some property. g-d ain’t making any more real estate. and then sell the property. paper equity is not as good as money in the bank.
• dogs. have more.
• all that adult shit that your pops has been telling you about for years -- saving for retirement, insuring everything, maintaining good credit -- subscribe to it. also, eradicate all student debt by 40.
• prepare for deaths in the family. you aren’t the only one who’s aging.
• don’t bother with people you don’t care for, tasks you don’t need to do and situations you’d rather not be in. you have the freedom to politely excuse yourself from all of them. up until you have that kid, your greatest obligation is to yourself.
now go get ’em, tiger.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
The Meantime
motivation, where have you gone? don't you know how badly i need you to accomplish even the smallest task? you've done gone and left me to my own devices, allowing my inherent laziness to take charge and prevent anything from happening. you've made me neglect my blog and the other blogs i eyeball in my blogosphere. you've let my house get messy and my hair grow too long.
i know it's not your fault for disappearing. we'll place blame where it's due -- on that fireball in the sky. it's evaporated you into smog and paralyzed me with its heat, making me want to do nothing more than nap indoors with a fan pointed at me. and that's precisely what i've been doing. i guess my siberian genes are built for little else.
i took the first week of july off of work and went nowhere. i don't know that i've ever done that before. for me, days off are usually purposeful ones that involve travel. but given that i had a bevy of vacation days stored up at work and no real place to go or money to go with, i sat my ass indoors with the fan pointed at me and got sucked into the vortex that is my house, lounging in the haze with my man and my mutt.
the boyfriend Mo has been living with me these past few weeks, finding himself in between residences and pursuits. he put his apartment belongings into storage in mid-june in preparation for a months-long cross-country roadtrip that he'll be embarking on shortly. in the meantime, we've been playing house.
he kindly accompanied me into my week-long journey of nothingness and in return i accompanied him and his video camera on architectural drives throughout the city. but mostly, we spent a week doing our collective nothing, occasionally following a whim that led us out of the house and into the heat. this summer has been a scorcher so far, with temperatures already into the hundreds. LA can suck that way. i hate sweating.
back at home, we stayed up late barbecuing each night, slept in each morning and enjoyed lazy afternoons filled with sex and siestas. in betweens were occupied by DVD rentals of the first two seasons of "project runway." we ate watermelon. we coddled the dog. pure bliss.
and then, all too quickly, came the return of the work week. bleh. daylong meetings, mad deadlines -- the project i'm working on is reaching its critical mass. luckily, i had post-vacay euphoria to carry me through the first week back at my desk. hope i have leftovers for this upcoming work week, which could suck the hardest.
beyond that, i've already forgotten about turning 30. as predicted by many a peer, the panic dissipated as soon as the big day came and went. i feel silly for having worried so much about it. i can't rearrange the hands of time and at this point i'm not sure i'd want to. i got a mad future to mold. final chronicle of the series, discussing the next ten, to be posted next.
happy summer.
i know it's not your fault for disappearing. we'll place blame where it's due -- on that fireball in the sky. it's evaporated you into smog and paralyzed me with its heat, making me want to do nothing more than nap indoors with a fan pointed at me. and that's precisely what i've been doing. i guess my siberian genes are built for little else.
i took the first week of july off of work and went nowhere. i don't know that i've ever done that before. for me, days off are usually purposeful ones that involve travel. but given that i had a bevy of vacation days stored up at work and no real place to go or money to go with, i sat my ass indoors with the fan pointed at me and got sucked into the vortex that is my house, lounging in the haze with my man and my mutt.
the boyfriend Mo has been living with me these past few weeks, finding himself in between residences and pursuits. he put his apartment belongings into storage in mid-june in preparation for a months-long cross-country roadtrip that he'll be embarking on shortly. in the meantime, we've been playing house.
he kindly accompanied me into my week-long journey of nothingness and in return i accompanied him and his video camera on architectural drives throughout the city. but mostly, we spent a week doing our collective nothing, occasionally following a whim that led us out of the house and into the heat. this summer has been a scorcher so far, with temperatures already into the hundreds. LA can suck that way. i hate sweating.
back at home, we stayed up late barbecuing each night, slept in each morning and enjoyed lazy afternoons filled with sex and siestas. in betweens were occupied by DVD rentals of the first two seasons of "project runway." we ate watermelon. we coddled the dog. pure bliss.
and then, all too quickly, came the return of the work week. bleh. daylong meetings, mad deadlines -- the project i'm working on is reaching its critical mass. luckily, i had post-vacay euphoria to carry me through the first week back at my desk. hope i have leftovers for this upcoming work week, which could suck the hardest.
beyond that, i've already forgotten about turning 30. as predicted by many a peer, the panic dissipated as soon as the big day came and went. i feel silly for having worried so much about it. i can't rearrange the hands of time and at this point i'm not sure i'd want to. i got a mad future to mold. final chronicle of the series, discussing the next ten, to be posted next.
happy summer.
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Thirty Chronicles: The Celebration
well, the world didn't end. thirty arrived on june 26 and incorporated itself rather seamlessly. no great fireworks or traumas or parades. it came, sat down with me for a drink and recessed into the laugh lines around my mouth -- the only wrinkles i enjoy since they reflect happy smiles.
the happy smile was much displayed during my annual birthday party, which drew the usual crowd of suspects, commemorated in the photo essay that follows. thanks to those who showed and brought gifts and booze and warm wishes. i felt loved.
Dirty Thirty: that was the title of this year's bash, and my architect superstar boyfriend Mo drew a handy floor plan on the dry erase for newcomers.
balloons & booze: the party was largely confined to my backyard and stocked with libations. my drink of choice for the night was vodka and red bull.
happy smile: happy dirty thirty to me.
the view from above: my birthday wish was to quit smoking forever. the monday after my party i awoke with strep throat and haven't had a cigarette since.
revelers: dan, kate, nick and jason cheese it up for the camera.
my future bridesmaids: twas a momentous occasion as Dee and Raidis, my longtime girlfriends, met each other for the first time. i must have a thing for ethnic, dark-haired beauties.
more ethnic, dark-haired beauties: Lacey and Michelle
chin on palm: Chad indulges in fascinating conversation with Tim as Polly looks on.
sorta sepia: Juan and I indulge in our own fascinating conversation in the corner.
you are getting sleepy: Juice got baked like the rest of us.
strike a pose: in an effort to not take the standard smiley picture, Jayson and I make the standard non-smiley faces.
festive brights: Mo inflated every last balloon before stringing them above the yard. then he gave me a special edition box set of all 6 seasons of "Sex and the City." and he helped me clean the morning after the party. i returned the kindness by not taking a single picture of him the night of the party.
blame the booze: there was enough for leftovers.
ok, found one: Mo and Dan talking trash by the trash.
going quietly: what 30 looked like after a few drinks.
it could be food! juice eyes the prized fortune Zee pulled out of her fortune cookie.
coolest guy ever: Nick is tops.
Juice agrees: the furry baby enjoys some mid-party playtime.
shiny happy: Niaz, Michelle, Kevin and Willow
the medication must be working! alien hand dave left his alien hand at home this time.
inner photo: KT and Zee in the doorjamb.
comedy in the hammock: Casey, Raidis and Ann catching a laugh.
more revelers: still reveling.
dang, i got a lot of teeth: thirty's alright.
thanks to everyone who came.
the happy smile was much displayed during my annual birthday party, which drew the usual crowd of suspects, commemorated in the photo essay that follows. thanks to those who showed and brought gifts and booze and warm wishes. i felt loved.
Dirty Thirty: that was the title of this year's bash, and my architect superstar boyfriend Mo drew a handy floor plan on the dry erase for newcomers.
balloons & booze: the party was largely confined to my backyard and stocked with libations. my drink of choice for the night was vodka and red bull.
happy smile: happy dirty thirty to me.
the view from above: my birthday wish was to quit smoking forever. the monday after my party i awoke with strep throat and haven't had a cigarette since.
revelers: dan, kate, nick and jason cheese it up for the camera.
my future bridesmaids: twas a momentous occasion as Dee and Raidis, my longtime girlfriends, met each other for the first time. i must have a thing for ethnic, dark-haired beauties.
more ethnic, dark-haired beauties: Lacey and Michelle
chin on palm: Chad indulges in fascinating conversation with Tim as Polly looks on.
sorta sepia: Juan and I indulge in our own fascinating conversation in the corner.
you are getting sleepy: Juice got baked like the rest of us.
strike a pose: in an effort to not take the standard smiley picture, Jayson and I make the standard non-smiley faces.
festive brights: Mo inflated every last balloon before stringing them above the yard. then he gave me a special edition box set of all 6 seasons of "Sex and the City." and he helped me clean the morning after the party. i returned the kindness by not taking a single picture of him the night of the party.
blame the booze: there was enough for leftovers.
ok, found one: Mo and Dan talking trash by the trash.
going quietly: what 30 looked like after a few drinks.
it could be food! juice eyes the prized fortune Zee pulled out of her fortune cookie.
coolest guy ever: Nick is tops.
Juice agrees: the furry baby enjoys some mid-party playtime.
shiny happy: Niaz, Michelle, Kevin and Willow
the medication must be working! alien hand dave left his alien hand at home this time.
inner photo: KT and Zee in the doorjamb.
comedy in the hammock: Casey, Raidis and Ann catching a laugh.
more revelers: still reveling.
dang, i got a lot of teeth: thirty's alright.
thanks to everyone who came.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
The Thirty Chronicles: The Last Ten
thirty looked different at twenty. it certainly looked much older than it feels today, and i'm very thankful i’m not turning twenty this year. that was a sweet enough time when life seemed so limitless and people seemed so genuine, but it was also a big waste of time, because people in their early twenties are a total waste of cells.
i certainly was, strutting around as I did, convinced i had already unlocked the mysteries of the universe when i was still figuring out how to do my laundry properly, perplexed every time a wool sweater shrank in the wash. those were the salad days, when i could subsist on a diet of coffee and cigarettes and think nothing of the way i was ruining my credit. ten years and twenty pounds ago.
if i could talk to my 20-year-old self today, i’d give her a good shake and smack -- and a long hug, though she'd probably fight me off. she was a bit angry then, capable of mega-bitchiness, and wholly convinced of her immortality and infallibility. she could have never conceived of the minefields and piles of quicksand that she would encounter, the obstacles needed to humble her.
not that my twenties were so horrible, but they had their mania and moments of despair. i changed cities a few times, must have lived in ten different apartments, gone through numerous jobs, boyfriends and paradigms. it was like a decade-long coming-of-age film that i've surely romanticized in being something better than it was.
i know i won't miss my twenties, as i spent most of that time being poor, confused, anxious and fearful. sometimes i cook it up to be something so pure, an age of innocence even in its anguish, but when i go deeper and remember my excesses and missteps, the many nights of lying awake wondering what will become of me, i am so thankful a new demographic is here to wipe my slate.
but if i had that coveted hindsight to do it again, the opportunity to give my 20-year-old self the shake, smack and hug i needed, my stubborn ass probably still wouldn't have listened. perhaps if i stabbed her and wrote the following in blood, it might have gotten her attention:
• quit smoking. it's doesn't look so cool, especially in california, and it makes you smell bad.
• calm the fuck down. you'll waste so much time trying to be tough, independent and self-assured that you'll forget how to be yourself. i know that's who you want to be, but that’s not who you truly are. you’re sensitive, insecure and needy, and you’ll still be that way at 30. get used to yourself and know that it's ok to be vulnerable. it doesn't mean that you're weak, only that you're human.
• be nicer to your parents. they have been so good to you.
• in general: eat more bran, take better care of your skin, never drive drunk, use condoms every time, exercise more, whine less.
• at 23, you'll fall madly in love and be persuaded to leave San Francisco just as you begin to enjoy your life there. don't move back to LA for this man; make him move north instead. a few years later, you'll have the opportunity to attend NYU for grad school. GO!
• trust your instincts more than your heart.
• cherish your friends. they are even more important than you already think they are.
• your writing is atrocious now, but keep trying, though avoid writing poetry altogether. you’ll also keep a blog in your later twenties. it will be a cheap 'sex and the city' ripoff that will amuse your friends and cause you occasional embarassment and intruige.
• don’t skimp on personal hygiene products, coffee, the perfect gift for someone else, a good mattress, a good haircut, sushi.
• on men: give up the fairytale. your happy ending is not guaranteed. it's work and you will make mistakes, but you'll keep trying because you are a romantic at heart. and you won't be married with kids by 30 like you think, but that's ok because you will still like your life.
• don't worry so much. nothing is insurmountable.
• there's more that i'll need to tell you offline -- additional stuff on men, about drugs, and the self-destructive and depressive tendencies you'll be grappling with always. some mistakes you'll need to make; others you don't need to make twice. when you finally know better, do the right thing.
• talk less, listen more. swallow your pride sometimes. stay out of your own way. trust life to take care of you.
now go get 'em, tiger.
i certainly was, strutting around as I did, convinced i had already unlocked the mysteries of the universe when i was still figuring out how to do my laundry properly, perplexed every time a wool sweater shrank in the wash. those were the salad days, when i could subsist on a diet of coffee and cigarettes and think nothing of the way i was ruining my credit. ten years and twenty pounds ago.
if i could talk to my 20-year-old self today, i’d give her a good shake and smack -- and a long hug, though she'd probably fight me off. she was a bit angry then, capable of mega-bitchiness, and wholly convinced of her immortality and infallibility. she could have never conceived of the minefields and piles of quicksand that she would encounter, the obstacles needed to humble her.
not that my twenties were so horrible, but they had their mania and moments of despair. i changed cities a few times, must have lived in ten different apartments, gone through numerous jobs, boyfriends and paradigms. it was like a decade-long coming-of-age film that i've surely romanticized in being something better than it was.
i know i won't miss my twenties, as i spent most of that time being poor, confused, anxious and fearful. sometimes i cook it up to be something so pure, an age of innocence even in its anguish, but when i go deeper and remember my excesses and missteps, the many nights of lying awake wondering what will become of me, i am so thankful a new demographic is here to wipe my slate.
but if i had that coveted hindsight to do it again, the opportunity to give my 20-year-old self the shake, smack and hug i needed, my stubborn ass probably still wouldn't have listened. perhaps if i stabbed her and wrote the following in blood, it might have gotten her attention:
• quit smoking. it's doesn't look so cool, especially in california, and it makes you smell bad.
• calm the fuck down. you'll waste so much time trying to be tough, independent and self-assured that you'll forget how to be yourself. i know that's who you want to be, but that’s not who you truly are. you’re sensitive, insecure and needy, and you’ll still be that way at 30. get used to yourself and know that it's ok to be vulnerable. it doesn't mean that you're weak, only that you're human.
• be nicer to your parents. they have been so good to you.
• in general: eat more bran, take better care of your skin, never drive drunk, use condoms every time, exercise more, whine less.
• at 23, you'll fall madly in love and be persuaded to leave San Francisco just as you begin to enjoy your life there. don't move back to LA for this man; make him move north instead. a few years later, you'll have the opportunity to attend NYU for grad school. GO!
• trust your instincts more than your heart.
• cherish your friends. they are even more important than you already think they are.
• your writing is atrocious now, but keep trying, though avoid writing poetry altogether. you’ll also keep a blog in your later twenties. it will be a cheap 'sex and the city' ripoff that will amuse your friends and cause you occasional embarassment and intruige.
• don’t skimp on personal hygiene products, coffee, the perfect gift for someone else, a good mattress, a good haircut, sushi.
• on men: give up the fairytale. your happy ending is not guaranteed. it's work and you will make mistakes, but you'll keep trying because you are a romantic at heart. and you won't be married with kids by 30 like you think, but that's ok because you will still like your life.
• don't worry so much. nothing is insurmountable.
• there's more that i'll need to tell you offline -- additional stuff on men, about drugs, and the self-destructive and depressive tendencies you'll be grappling with always. some mistakes you'll need to make; others you don't need to make twice. when you finally know better, do the right thing.
• talk less, listen more. swallow your pride sometimes. stay out of your own way. trust life to take care of you.
now go get 'em, tiger.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
I Made It Through the Wilderness
and at the other end was beautiful inglewood, california, where i saw Madonna perform the other week. madonna. madge, madge. fucking madonna. the one, the only madonna. in inglewood, at the Great Western Forum, where the Lakers used to play before the Staples Center, named after a bank that no longer exists.
i was stoked on getting the tickets, figuring i would never again have the opportunity to see my childhood idol shake her 47-year-old moneymaker. i paid a fortune for the seats, which were among the crappiest in the house, just five rows away from being the row farthest from the stage. greedy bitch charged about 350 smackers for the floor seats closest to the stage, meaning the crowd consisted of professionals who could pay that ticket. not a kid in sight. plenty of fags in sight, however, many with their fag hags. my extra ticket went to my bi friend Dee, the hetero hag i’ve known since college. we arrived late, of course, reaching our nosebleed seats about 10 minutes into the show when “Like a Virgin” was ending.
Like a Virgin. that song is THE madonna song for me. i remember singing it around the house, completely oblivious to what it meant, gyrating my pre-puberty hips, arms overhead, determined to become the virgin Madonna made sound so fantastic. it became my grade-school quest. i think i even asked my mom once, “how can i be like a virgin?” i must have been 8 years old.
the thing about Madonna is that everything she touched she legitimized, from sex and blond hair to marriage and motherhood. she owned it. androgyny, disco, fashion, religion, gayness, england. she embodied it. she made being a slut respectable and never apologized for a damn thing. Madonna was the secret alter ego every girl wanted to have. and as this was a time before Angelina Jolie, Madonna was also every girl’s secret lesbian fantasy.
sadly, i had long thrown out my black spandex bicycle shorts and the ruffled skirt i would wear over them. i also couldn’t find a lace bow to put in my hair for the show, but i had some bangles -- though none rubber -- which i piled onto my wrist. i almost shed a tear when i realized i missed the song, my song, coming into the packed Forum as the chorus of “whoa-whoa-whoa-oh” was ending. fucking traffic.
but she made it up to me... kinda. on the whole, the show was great, the performances energetic and the dancers very sexy, but the music just blew. she performed too much new stuff, much of it from her last few albums, none of which i was interested in. i kept waiting and waiting for the hits -- and she threw me a few bones a la “La Isla Bonita” and “Live to Tell” but i still left feeling cheated.
come on, Madge. i know you want to stay relevant and be the artist of today, but admit that your best work is behind you, far behind, like in the ’80s. don’t fret, because the world is still interested in everything you do, but as a musician you’ve peaked already. it’s not a secret and it’s ok to play the old stuff. you are the artist of my youth, the powerhouse who taught me to Express Myself and to Justify my Love. i haven’t bought a new album of yours in ten years and i don’t plan to. i wanted to see you Vogue and wear that pink Material Girl dress and you insisted on closing with Hung Up.
also, Madge, and don’t take this wrong, but your live show could use some work. something about it was strangely out of touch, especially that bit about gang violence. and we’ve all seen you playing with crucifixes and crowns of thorns before; it’s not shocking the millionth time. i did appreciate all the motivational altruism on display, with images of starving kids in africa and videos of Bush and Blair being assholes, but the moving stage, overdone lighting and big-screens made it so theatrical, so Cirque du Soleil. plus, your live singing voice was mneh and all that interpretive dance was tiresome.
but hey, i still love you. you’re Madonna and you’ve earned the right to do whatever the fuck you want without having ungrateful little shits like me judge you. you and that midas touch of yours will always stay on my radar. your impact cannot be overstated or paralleled. you are still the answer to the fourth wave of feminism. and from what i could catch on that big-screen, your ass looks amazing.
still forever your fan.
i was stoked on getting the tickets, figuring i would never again have the opportunity to see my childhood idol shake her 47-year-old moneymaker. i paid a fortune for the seats, which were among the crappiest in the house, just five rows away from being the row farthest from the stage. greedy bitch charged about 350 smackers for the floor seats closest to the stage, meaning the crowd consisted of professionals who could pay that ticket. not a kid in sight. plenty of fags in sight, however, many with their fag hags. my extra ticket went to my bi friend Dee, the hetero hag i’ve known since college. we arrived late, of course, reaching our nosebleed seats about 10 minutes into the show when “Like a Virgin” was ending.
Like a Virgin. that song is THE madonna song for me. i remember singing it around the house, completely oblivious to what it meant, gyrating my pre-puberty hips, arms overhead, determined to become the virgin Madonna made sound so fantastic. it became my grade-school quest. i think i even asked my mom once, “how can i be like a virgin?” i must have been 8 years old.
the thing about Madonna is that everything she touched she legitimized, from sex and blond hair to marriage and motherhood. she owned it. androgyny, disco, fashion, religion, gayness, england. she embodied it. she made being a slut respectable and never apologized for a damn thing. Madonna was the secret alter ego every girl wanted to have. and as this was a time before Angelina Jolie, Madonna was also every girl’s secret lesbian fantasy.
sadly, i had long thrown out my black spandex bicycle shorts and the ruffled skirt i would wear over them. i also couldn’t find a lace bow to put in my hair for the show, but i had some bangles -- though none rubber -- which i piled onto my wrist. i almost shed a tear when i realized i missed the song, my song, coming into the packed Forum as the chorus of “whoa-whoa-whoa-oh” was ending. fucking traffic.
but she made it up to me... kinda. on the whole, the show was great, the performances energetic and the dancers very sexy, but the music just blew. she performed too much new stuff, much of it from her last few albums, none of which i was interested in. i kept waiting and waiting for the hits -- and she threw me a few bones a la “La Isla Bonita” and “Live to Tell” but i still left feeling cheated.
come on, Madge. i know you want to stay relevant and be the artist of today, but admit that your best work is behind you, far behind, like in the ’80s. don’t fret, because the world is still interested in everything you do, but as a musician you’ve peaked already. it’s not a secret and it’s ok to play the old stuff. you are the artist of my youth, the powerhouse who taught me to Express Myself and to Justify my Love. i haven’t bought a new album of yours in ten years and i don’t plan to. i wanted to see you Vogue and wear that pink Material Girl dress and you insisted on closing with Hung Up.
also, Madge, and don’t take this wrong, but your live show could use some work. something about it was strangely out of touch, especially that bit about gang violence. and we’ve all seen you playing with crucifixes and crowns of thorns before; it’s not shocking the millionth time. i did appreciate all the motivational altruism on display, with images of starving kids in africa and videos of Bush and Blair being assholes, but the moving stage, overdone lighting and big-screens made it so theatrical, so Cirque du Soleil. plus, your live singing voice was mneh and all that interpretive dance was tiresome.
but hey, i still love you. you’re Madonna and you’ve earned the right to do whatever the fuck you want without having ungrateful little shits like me judge you. you and that midas touch of yours will always stay on my radar. your impact cannot be overstated or paralleled. you are still the answer to the fourth wave of feminism. and from what i could catch on that big-screen, your ass looks amazing.
still forever your fan.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The Thirty Chronicles: The Panic
it could be worse. i could be turning sixty, i suppose. thirty is definitely still young, relativism aside and included. lots of energy left; i’m ambulatory and alive. health, family, friends, security and self-esteem. good stuff in there. no need for this birthday to latch onto my radar like this, but i must confess that it’s thrown me into a Huckabees-esque existential conundrum.
i thought it wouldn’t matter so much, that the turn of the decade would pass through me seamlessly. but i find myself in funkytown lately, unhappy with father time. i hear people around me saying “embrace it” and “be thankful your twenties are over” and “better stuff lies ahead.” and i believe all of that. yet still. still.
thirty’s a bit heavy. i’m taking inventory and coming up short. i’m realizing that i’m still far from the person i’d like to be. i find myself drifting into the fantasyland of where i thought i’d be by now, but am not. and i can’t seem to reconcile the discrepancy. my father always tells me, “it takes a lot to make you happy.” perhaps he’s right.
i know that two years from now, turning thirty will seem as insignificant as turning 28 did two years ago. i know that the grand scheme of life will forget this thirtieth birthday and scoff at the anxiety it’s caused. it’s only as big a deal as i make it. the problem is my attitude, not my age.
the problem is that my crappy genetics had me sprouting gray hair at 19, meaning that i have to color my hair every 6 weeks, otherwise it would look all salt and pepper. the problem is that when i told a coworker about my upcoming birthday (this June 26), she guessed that i would be turning 33, meaning i probably look much older and she tried to underestimate my age to be kind. the problem is that i can no longer fall into the “cute” category anymore, given my gray hair, laugh lines and crows feet.
it sucks that in the twenties, one is “maturing” and “growing,” though once thirty comes, it’s only downhill “aging.” it sucks that my body is already beginning its decay, given my cervical cancer scare last summer, to which my older girlfriend Dee remarked, “welcome to your thirties.” and – i gotta say it -- it sucks that it’s different for men and women.
could i possibly complain anymore? yep, i can and will. this is the first post in a multipart series chronicling my thirtieth birthday.
i thought it wouldn’t matter so much, that the turn of the decade would pass through me seamlessly. but i find myself in funkytown lately, unhappy with father time. i hear people around me saying “embrace it” and “be thankful your twenties are over” and “better stuff lies ahead.” and i believe all of that. yet still. still.
thirty’s a bit heavy. i’m taking inventory and coming up short. i’m realizing that i’m still far from the person i’d like to be. i find myself drifting into the fantasyland of where i thought i’d be by now, but am not. and i can’t seem to reconcile the discrepancy. my father always tells me, “it takes a lot to make you happy.” perhaps he’s right.
i know that two years from now, turning thirty will seem as insignificant as turning 28 did two years ago. i know that the grand scheme of life will forget this thirtieth birthday and scoff at the anxiety it’s caused. it’s only as big a deal as i make it. the problem is my attitude, not my age.
the problem is that my crappy genetics had me sprouting gray hair at 19, meaning that i have to color my hair every 6 weeks, otherwise it would look all salt and pepper. the problem is that when i told a coworker about my upcoming birthday (this June 26), she guessed that i would be turning 33, meaning i probably look much older and she tried to underestimate my age to be kind. the problem is that i can no longer fall into the “cute” category anymore, given my gray hair, laugh lines and crows feet.
it sucks that in the twenties, one is “maturing” and “growing,” though once thirty comes, it’s only downhill “aging.” it sucks that my body is already beginning its decay, given my cervical cancer scare last summer, to which my older girlfriend Dee remarked, “welcome to your thirties.” and – i gotta say it -- it sucks that it’s different for men and women.
could i possibly complain anymore? yep, i can and will. this is the first post in a multipart series chronicling my thirtieth birthday.
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