for those few readers who paid attention to my old posts, i was enrolled in a stand-up comedy class this quarter. last night was performance time. i headlined... and nailed it. seriously.
i think everyone was astonished to hear such a nice girl have such a filthy, filthy mouth. maybe they were just surprised to actually her me speak.
shockingly, i am quite a different gal at school. i'm shy, insecure, and not altogether too jazzed about my ideas. i guess it comes across in my presentation. outside, i'm loud and opinionated, ridiculous and shameless. onstage, it's even worse. apparently, i found it incredibly easy to adopt a character and an attitude to deliver my jokes pointedly. "obscene e" had a definite swagger and owned the stage. she didn't care if you wanted to listen or not- she was gonna MAKE you listen.
to make it even more incongruous, i dressed in a knee length leather skirt, black tank, and metallic shrug. i wore peep toe pumps, my glasses, and carefully-applied eyeliner. i looked perfectly respectable... that is, until i opened my mouth...
"are you ready for some filth? yeah, you're all thinking, 'she looks like such a nice girl.' please. i'm about as nice as john goodman in a saran wrap unitard."
shazam.
i joked about everything from masturbation to cheating (or cockoutsourcing as i lovingly renamed it) to my cat watching my sexual foibles. jewish girls not giving it up, acting like a believable TS to scare off straight boys in clubs, making fun of drunken frat boys (said they were about as hot as a toothless prostiute gumming your boy to climax and that the next one who came up to me with grabby hands saying 'TIG OL BITTIES' was gonna hear, "i wanna suck your piny tenis"), NOTHING was spared.
i have a sick, sick mind...
and they loved it.
i nailed it. and had a long overdue dose of confidence.
i didn't just own the stage... i owned this whole quarter. had the opportunity to prove myself as both a kickass copywriter and an art director to be reckoned with.
not just that... i'm damn funny, too.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
goodbyes
i'm leaving miami in 8 days... and the last time i left was almost 8 years ago.
m & i are going to france for christmas before going to amsterdam to study. it appears that i will be a nomad for the next year and, while the adventure enthralls me, saying goodbye is pretty damn hard.
it's saying goodbye to the most fulfilling job i've ever had, saying goodbye to the students i'm always pleased to spend a few precious hours with each week. it's leaving my cat (the only thing that seems to calm me down when i'm distraught) and the apartment i've made into a home. it's leaving my folks, who grow dearer to me every day, and the network of beautiful thrilling friends i've come to love like blood. it's leaving my sandals and skirts to adorn layers of wool to keep me warm.
my high school had a yearly ritual. a week before graduation, the entire theater department would gather in the large black box theater while the seniors stood onstage to say goodbye and thank the teachers. most wound up bawling and acting like melodramatic adolescents we all, admittedly, were. i think i spouted off some random kerouac quotes about art before growing overly sentimental and making a general ass of myself. it was pretty damn self-indulgent, even then.
now, instead of making a big scene about my impending departure, i just seem to be stressing over the minutiae of organizing my new life and fretting about not having evry last detail taken care of.
i am simultaneously thrilled and scared out of my wits, but somewhere beneath my frazzled exterior, know i am more ready than i could ever imagine.
m & i are going to france for christmas before going to amsterdam to study. it appears that i will be a nomad for the next year and, while the adventure enthralls me, saying goodbye is pretty damn hard.
it's saying goodbye to the most fulfilling job i've ever had, saying goodbye to the students i'm always pleased to spend a few precious hours with each week. it's leaving my cat (the only thing that seems to calm me down when i'm distraught) and the apartment i've made into a home. it's leaving my folks, who grow dearer to me every day, and the network of beautiful thrilling friends i've come to love like blood. it's leaving my sandals and skirts to adorn layers of wool to keep me warm.
my high school had a yearly ritual. a week before graduation, the entire theater department would gather in the large black box theater while the seniors stood onstage to say goodbye and thank the teachers. most wound up bawling and acting like melodramatic adolescents we all, admittedly, were. i think i spouted off some random kerouac quotes about art before growing overly sentimental and making a general ass of myself. it was pretty damn self-indulgent, even then.
now, instead of making a big scene about my impending departure, i just seem to be stressing over the minutiae of organizing my new life and fretting about not having evry last detail taken care of.
i am simultaneously thrilled and scared out of my wits, but somewhere beneath my frazzled exterior, know i am more ready than i could ever imagine.
Monday, November 14, 2005
i'm thankful for...
i started to post this two weeks ago... and forgot about it. blah.
last night, i hosted the second annual pre-thanksgiving potluck feast my friends and i pull out our best recipes for. last year was fantastic- this year was BLISS.
we planned the party on tuesday and i was rushing around all week like a methhead, twitching and compiling endless lists of things to do and prepare. by saturday, i was near pulling my freshly-dyed hair out (note: those of you who knew me as a redhead for years, and a blonde even before that, will be pleasantly surprised to find i am now a femme fatale with dark chocolate coloured locks. a girl needs a little mystery once in a while).
sunday morning, i woke up to find my cat missing. nausea swept over me so wholely that even the thought of the veritable cornucopia that awaited me couldn't pull me from my distress. i spent the whole day adding dishes to my already full menu and sobbing between peeling potatoes & roasting chickpeas.
by the time my guests arrived, my mood had lifted... and the combined presence of their lively conversation and the dish of tuna on my balcony brought my feline companion home. i was elated... and could finally relax.
we sat down to eat the first course and found comfort in our ritual of moving around the table to list all of the things we were thankful for. at that very moment, it hit all of us that our gatherings would soon be brought to a halt. we realized that two couples from our seemingly steadfast group would be leaving... some sooner than others.
mathieu and i will be leaving SOMEWHERE mid-december. we have put in our choices for our quarter away program, and the closest we'll be is chicago. more likely, we'll be in europe.
for the first time in my life, i have a group of friends that thrill me endlessly, a support group of incredible people who keep me on my toes and grinning madly.
it's easy to become attached to people when you don't have siblings.
in the past, i've had groups of friends who worked on solving each others problems and always analyzing the ridiculous, puerile drama they seemed to get themselves into. this, of course, was in my early twenties, when most of our nights were clouded by a chemical haze. i've always been the girl to give give give, and merely pout in the corner when i realize that my "friends" had been taking advantage of my considerable generosity. i'm very naive in that sense.
that doesn't happy anymore... and it's a stark contrast to both my years as a loner (with two lovely galpals who popped in and out of my life. the two beautiful women i know i may not see or talk to frequently, but will always be in my thoughts) and my time as the designated mediator of the dramagroups.
last night, i hosted the second annual pre-thanksgiving potluck feast my friends and i pull out our best recipes for. last year was fantastic- this year was BLISS.
we planned the party on tuesday and i was rushing around all week like a methhead, twitching and compiling endless lists of things to do and prepare. by saturday, i was near pulling my freshly-dyed hair out (note: those of you who knew me as a redhead for years, and a blonde even before that, will be pleasantly surprised to find i am now a femme fatale with dark chocolate coloured locks. a girl needs a little mystery once in a while).
sunday morning, i woke up to find my cat missing. nausea swept over me so wholely that even the thought of the veritable cornucopia that awaited me couldn't pull me from my distress. i spent the whole day adding dishes to my already full menu and sobbing between peeling potatoes & roasting chickpeas.
by the time my guests arrived, my mood had lifted... and the combined presence of their lively conversation and the dish of tuna on my balcony brought my feline companion home. i was elated... and could finally relax.
we sat down to eat the first course and found comfort in our ritual of moving around the table to list all of the things we were thankful for. at that very moment, it hit all of us that our gatherings would soon be brought to a halt. we realized that two couples from our seemingly steadfast group would be leaving... some sooner than others.
mathieu and i will be leaving SOMEWHERE mid-december. we have put in our choices for our quarter away program, and the closest we'll be is chicago. more likely, we'll be in europe.
for the first time in my life, i have a group of friends that thrill me endlessly, a support group of incredible people who keep me on my toes and grinning madly.
it's easy to become attached to people when you don't have siblings.
in the past, i've had groups of friends who worked on solving each others problems and always analyzing the ridiculous, puerile drama they seemed to get themselves into. this, of course, was in my early twenties, when most of our nights were clouded by a chemical haze. i've always been the girl to give give give, and merely pout in the corner when i realize that my "friends" had been taking advantage of my considerable generosity. i'm very naive in that sense.
that doesn't happy anymore... and it's a stark contrast to both my years as a loner (with two lovely galpals who popped in and out of my life. the two beautiful women i know i may not see or talk to frequently, but will always be in my thoughts) and my time as the designated mediator of the dramagroups.
Monday, October 31, 2005
it's gettin' kinda hectic...
(i've got the power)
well, friends, please pardon my absence. it is not without reason, i promise. i was without power after the wrath of wilma for a whopping 7 days. mind you, my entire neighborhood had it's power restored by thursday afternoon while we sat in the dark.
i can finally retire my candles. let me just say that the hum of my air conditioner is a welcome sound indeed.
the time that it took to get things up and running is astounding. my mum, who is deeply intrigued by second wrold war lit, kept telling me how london was back in business the very next day after the nightly bombings. ladies' associations were on the street, dutifully doling out tea and biscuits. over sixty years later and we're waiting on line for hours to get water. pitiful.
a great big thanks to all of my friends (gaba, hills, and rocky especially) who opened their doors and fridges to us. and my lovely mum, who sent me back to desolation packed up with cans of tuna, long-life milk, cookies, and raisins to keep me sane.
well, friends, please pardon my absence. it is not without reason, i promise. i was without power after the wrath of wilma for a whopping 7 days. mind you, my entire neighborhood had it's power restored by thursday afternoon while we sat in the dark.
i can finally retire my candles. let me just say that the hum of my air conditioner is a welcome sound indeed.
the time that it took to get things up and running is astounding. my mum, who is deeply intrigued by second wrold war lit, kept telling me how london was back in business the very next day after the nightly bombings. ladies' associations were on the street, dutifully doling out tea and biscuits. over sixty years later and we're waiting on line for hours to get water. pitiful.
a great big thanks to all of my friends (gaba, hills, and rocky especially) who opened their doors and fridges to us. and my lovely mum, who sent me back to desolation packed up with cans of tuna, long-life milk, cookies, and raisins to keep me sane.
Monday, October 17, 2005
so a guy walks into a bar...
back in adschool. except, this time, i'm in a class that seems oddly familiar: stand-up comedy & improv. it's a requirement for all copywriters- they want us all to translate witty one-liners to award winning ads and expect all students to finish with spectacular presentation skills. i'm in dire need of both. while i'm rarely intimidated by standing in front of a group, presenting my ad concepts turns me into a fidgety introvert, shifting from foot to foot and speaking in mumbles. not quite so erudite, definitely messy.
our teacher is a copywriter/actor/gay activist who bellows in radio announcer tones and keeps everyone laughing until we're crying. he's a hard-assed perfectionist, but his criticisms are always spot-on. this is undoubtedly the hardest class i've taken so far. the amount of work is astounding and the ultimate product will be a five-minute stand-up act peformed at a local comedy club at the end of the quarter.
the first day of class, g.michael (yes, folks, that IS his name) gave us a lengthy form to fill out, asking about our prior jobs, partners, and, of course, theater experience. once he read my responses, he called me up immediately to be the first victim. i sat in front of the class for three excruciating minutes as everyone observed me and wrote down every quality they saw. every single one wrote something about my boobs. surprised, i am not. they're colossal, ridiculous, and i have enough of a complex already, folks. gee thanks.
what WAS surprising was the comment, "hormone lesbian." note: it came from a flamboyantly gay new bostonian known almost exclusively for his style sense and poses. also note: i was wearing my "teacher gear"- no jeans or combat boots here. now, everyone knows that my partner attends adschool- he's the guy you love to hate. he's won two "best in show" awards at teh end of previous quarters and always comes up with the best work. even i hate him. what i hate even more is the fact that people always gush to me about his brilliance. yawn. yes, thank you, i know he's genius. can i finish my coffee in peace?
last week's assignment for class was to write, memorize, and present a five-minute monologue in the style of letterman/leno/conan. the jokes were stolen straight from the headlines... and i sucked. not really. i was actually quite good- my set-ups are just wayyyyy too long and wordy. comedy must be quick and concise. two things i am certainly not. i AM jewish though, and that gives me an advantage. there is hope for me yet.
my performance, however, was spot on. when i finshed, g.michael didn't even look up from my script- he simply said, "well then, i guess we can all see who's been onstage before." i was well chuffed.
so start prayin' for me, as the date gets closer. let's hope i find my funny bone and can come up with more than an opening line...
(e. walks up to mike.)
"i know what you're thinking, so let's just clear the air right now. you're thinking, 'are they real?' (smirk) well, folks, i can assure you. my eyes ARE naturally green."
our teacher is a copywriter/actor/gay activist who bellows in radio announcer tones and keeps everyone laughing until we're crying. he's a hard-assed perfectionist, but his criticisms are always spot-on. this is undoubtedly the hardest class i've taken so far. the amount of work is astounding and the ultimate product will be a five-minute stand-up act peformed at a local comedy club at the end of the quarter.
the first day of class, g.michael (yes, folks, that IS his name) gave us a lengthy form to fill out, asking about our prior jobs, partners, and, of course, theater experience. once he read my responses, he called me up immediately to be the first victim. i sat in front of the class for three excruciating minutes as everyone observed me and wrote down every quality they saw. every single one wrote something about my boobs. surprised, i am not. they're colossal, ridiculous, and i have enough of a complex already, folks. gee thanks.
what WAS surprising was the comment, "hormone lesbian." note: it came from a flamboyantly gay new bostonian known almost exclusively for his style sense and poses. also note: i was wearing my "teacher gear"- no jeans or combat boots here. now, everyone knows that my partner attends adschool- he's the guy you love to hate. he's won two "best in show" awards at teh end of previous quarters and always comes up with the best work. even i hate him. what i hate even more is the fact that people always gush to me about his brilliance. yawn. yes, thank you, i know he's genius. can i finish my coffee in peace?
last week's assignment for class was to write, memorize, and present a five-minute monologue in the style of letterman/leno/conan. the jokes were stolen straight from the headlines... and i sucked. not really. i was actually quite good- my set-ups are just wayyyyy too long and wordy. comedy must be quick and concise. two things i am certainly not. i AM jewish though, and that gives me an advantage. there is hope for me yet.
my performance, however, was spot on. when i finshed, g.michael didn't even look up from my script- he simply said, "well then, i guess we can all see who's been onstage before." i was well chuffed.
so start prayin' for me, as the date gets closer. let's hope i find my funny bone and can come up with more than an opening line...
(e. walks up to mike.)
"i know what you're thinking, so let's just clear the air right now. you're thinking, 'are they real?' (smirk) well, folks, i can assure you. my eyes ARE naturally green."
Monday, September 26, 2005
un weekend gastronique
screw diets. every great weekend should be as full of great food as this last one was.
friday night, m & i went to norman's for their miami spice menu. we couldn't afford to go here on any other night as it is easily the best (and most expensive) restaurant this city has to offer. it's the first place i ask to go to when my birthday rolls around. our last visit there was in april with both sets of parents. i sat there for 2 hours, speechless, almost in tears as i savoured every delicious bite. that night i had cracked conch chowder with toasted coconut and saffron, a delicately spiced barramundi dish inspired by asian flavours, and the vanilla bean creme brulee. i still fantasize about it.
on friday, we were given options from a less luxurious, but still astounding menu. i had fresh ceviche to start and chicken breast with mashed sweet potatoes and blue tortilla as my main dish. m had a crisp black bean crabcake and shallot-stuffed salmon on a bed of pearl onions and leeks. we both finished, sated, with the creme brulee and a snappy espresso. divine.
on saturday, i had every intention of cooking until mathieu stated he was craving a big steak. i quickly researched and found that there is a new restaurant in the design district called gigi. it is located in the very location of one of our old haunts, 190. 190 had the best steak frites i have ever had. a beautifully cooked steak with a veritable mountain of crisp fries embellished by fresh rosemary and thyme. gigi was definitely more upscale than 190- less casual- but the service at both incarnations was impeccable. we split a bottle of shiraz & tucked into nicoise salads & great plates of steak frites. very simple, no frills, but exquisite nevertheless.
tonight, i decided that a third night out would certainly be gluttonous. i simply prepared a feast at home. chicken with dijon mustard, garlic, oregano, rosemary, and olive oil. and my famous roast potatoes.
i'm getting DAMN good at this.
friday night, m & i went to norman's for their miami spice menu. we couldn't afford to go here on any other night as it is easily the best (and most expensive) restaurant this city has to offer. it's the first place i ask to go to when my birthday rolls around. our last visit there was in april with both sets of parents. i sat there for 2 hours, speechless, almost in tears as i savoured every delicious bite. that night i had cracked conch chowder with toasted coconut and saffron, a delicately spiced barramundi dish inspired by asian flavours, and the vanilla bean creme brulee. i still fantasize about it.
on friday, we were given options from a less luxurious, but still astounding menu. i had fresh ceviche to start and chicken breast with mashed sweet potatoes and blue tortilla as my main dish. m had a crisp black bean crabcake and shallot-stuffed salmon on a bed of pearl onions and leeks. we both finished, sated, with the creme brulee and a snappy espresso. divine.
on saturday, i had every intention of cooking until mathieu stated he was craving a big steak. i quickly researched and found that there is a new restaurant in the design district called gigi. it is located in the very location of one of our old haunts, 190. 190 had the best steak frites i have ever had. a beautifully cooked steak with a veritable mountain of crisp fries embellished by fresh rosemary and thyme. gigi was definitely more upscale than 190- less casual- but the service at both incarnations was impeccable. we split a bottle of shiraz & tucked into nicoise salads & great plates of steak frites. very simple, no frills, but exquisite nevertheless.
tonight, i decided that a third night out would certainly be gluttonous. i simply prepared a feast at home. chicken with dijon mustard, garlic, oregano, rosemary, and olive oil. and my famous roast potatoes.
i'm getting DAMN good at this.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
i wrote this... a year ago..
I had survived another day of mindless corporate coffee hell and dragged my tired feet back to my car, exuding the stale smell of spilt coffee and burnt milk. Limp and damp as a dishcloth, I opened the door to my Beetle and felt my cheeks sting with the tears I had held back all afternoon. My co-workers had triumphantly succeeded once again in chastising me to the point of exhaustion and I was longing for the simple solace of my bed. As if on cue, rain began to pound rhythmically on my roof as I placed my key into the ignition. It would certainly be a longer ride home than usual.
My soundtrack for the day had been chosen when I was still in fine spirits- Radiohead’s fourth album, “Kid A.” I had picked it up haphazardly after not hearing it for a few years. In all honesty, it had not impressed me much at first. Its stuttering electronic beats sounded too epileptic for my austere tastes. I had dismissed electronic music as being hollow and banal, the type of music approached by people who could not play instruments. It wasn’t music, but orchestrated noise fit for monkeys and mindless glow stick twirling rave kids tripping on their elephant leg pants and bouncing along with cartoon grins fueled by designer drugs and electric blue Pop Rocks. When my favorite band, which includes a mad scientist guitar virtuoso and a lead singer with a eunuch’s graceful falsetto, released an album heavily reliant on computer blips and beeps, I was shocked and dismayed. I watched legions of indie kids, decked out in identical black-framed glasses and Diesel jeans, twitch in unison to the dance floor-friendly single “Idioteque”- and was completely unmoved. After the success of “Ok Computer,” I had thought Radiohead was the second coming of rock and roll and maybe, just maybe, the promise that British bands from the early nineties like My Bloody Valentine, Curve, and Suede (driven by dark, melancholic lyrics and a sound based on heavily distorted layers of guitar droning) would finally be realized. A departure from traditional instruments seemed like sacrilege- and Radiohead was excommunicated from my list of the holiest of holies, if only for a fleeting moment.
So there I sat, sullen and sore, in my car, desperate for sleep. As I began to navigate the familiar streets of my neighborhood, something came over me. As the beginning bars of the first track began, sound slowly moved up the sides of my interior. The soft keyboard line that rises and falls almost childishly lulled me to comfort. It pulsed within my veins in rhythm that followed the almost hidden staccato bass line, making my vision blur and fingertips sear with an unseen heat as if placed above a candle. The first unintelligible vocalizations sound distinctly like rolling, garbled, alien communication, but I became hypnotized by their solemn repetition. Thom Yorke was far off in a remote universe, his voice distorted by the stars that separated us, but he was singing an intergalactic embrace solely for me. Waves of gargling distortion flowed from my pitiful speakers and I felt as if I was suddenly submerged within the deep, dark sea, protected only by my Beetle-bubble and the music within. I became distinctly aware of the sensation that I was being completely encased and commanded by the very music that had left me cold and unmoved previously. I felt a series of shivers ascend my spine and rest squarely on my knotted shoulders. The flat stones that had weighed my body all day slowly started to melt into a delicious pool, like pastel pretty pistachio ice cream on hot summer concrete. Thom Yorke softly chanted, “Everything…. Everything… Everything… in its right place” into my ears, and everything, indeed, began to spiral in on itself, enveloping me in a downy pocket of sound.
Immediately, I was transported back six months in time, when Radiohead had visited South Florida and graced the Sound Advice Amphitheater with their colossal reverberating breed of British rock. I had ventured to West Palm Beach with my boyfriend, Mathieu, and friend, Sean. We had listened to all four Radiohead albums on rotation as we anxiously raced to the venue, musing about whether or not Thom Yorke could hit those high notes live and if Johnny Greenwood would have his Michael Jackson-esque arm brace dutifully strapped on as he swayed to the music with his hair dangling dramatically over his gaunt face.
We arrived early to claim seats at the very front of the discounted lawn section and watched as swarms of fans meandered about before the concert began. It seemed bizarre, to see people getting smashed on overpriced beers and grazing thoughtlessly on hot dogs and soggy nachos, as we repeatedly glanced at our watches, waiting, terrified of moving a single inch in case the band started without us. By the time the band appeared onstage, we were partially deaf from the screams of the shirtless frat-boy types that sat behind us singing “Creep” for half an hour straight and spilling their Bud Light on my blanket. As the lights dimmed, Mathieu grasped my hand tightly and the excitement rose within my body like a bubble to the surface of water, anxious, effervescent, wide-eyed in wonder. The opening ticking-metronome rhythm of “2 + 2= 5” came in slowly…
Are you such a dreamer to put the world to right?
I’ll stay home forever where two and two always makes a five…
… It’s the devils way now. There is no way out.
You can scream and shout but it’s too late now
Because
You have not been paying attention
In one explosive moment, every nerve in my brain was called to attention, as if some unseen electrical force had taken control of my body and jolted my eyelids wide open. As the drums kicked in with full raging force, I felt myself involuntarily jump high into the air, my fists high, screaming, and ready for the revolution. Thom Yorke stood miles away from us, but I could see his wiry form on the screens directly above our heads. The combination of his slim- fitting black shirt, jeans, and leather wrist cuffs made me think of a British exoskeleton. He tried to seem so rock solid on the outside, but his voice sounded like a wounded animal stranded in a forest, alone, desperate for help. It belied his manic façade. He twitched and shook, as if being possessed by a foreign spirit, and became a marionette moved by the music that was within him. Colin Greenwood, bassist, has always stood out to me, largely because of his degree in English Lit. He stood close to the drummer, Phil Selway, and grinned like a schoolboy who has just received his pocket money for sweets. Johnny Greenwood was hunched over, flailing about like a wind-tossed leaf and made his waif-like delicacy seem much more disparate when paired with his aggressive, bravado guitar playing. It struck me that the men before me truly loved what they did- and that I loved them for it.
I realized that people equally moved and inspired by Radiohead surrounded me. Indeed, as the spectacle progressed, I noticed that, unlike every other concert I have attended before and since, audience members didn’t really talk between songs. There was a noticeable lack of people milling around aimlessly, talking on cell phones in tones of badly concealed boredom. We represent the “me” generation, fixated on technology, unmoved by everything, no matter how extreme. Passion-less, we are self-involved and effete. Nevertheless, everyone around me seemed enthralled, consumed by the music each of us had ostensibly heard time and time again thanks to our respectively hip CD collections. That night, the music was new to us once more.
Time appeared to evaporate as I stood, my feet firmly planted on the damp grass while I watched the quintet of proper Oxford graduates dance onstage and thrill the crowd with expertly crafted song after song. In what seemed to be mere minutes, the band marched offstage to a roar of applause as we begged for more, supplicating ourselves before our musical gods. They reappeared to end with “Everything In It’s Right Place.” What struck me most about this encore was it’s finale… a seemingly endless loop of electronic noise that played on after the band left with the message “Forever” scrolling across the lit screens as the audience watched, baffled and overwhelmed.
The crowd languidly filed towards the parking lot. The sense that we had shared in a massive, universal, communal orgasm permeated through the blissful smiles and wide eyes accented by dilated pupils. We were all, indeed, drugged by the intensity of Radiohead’s flawless performance. As my companions and I stumbled to my car, a severe throbbing in my skull commenced as I tried to make sense of the wonder I had experienced. Back in the comfort of my car, the pain persisted and I lost track of everything outside of myself as my boyfriend drove us home.
Six months later, I’m in my car again, listening to “Kid A,” and remembering that mantra of “Forever” from the concert that changed my life. I sat with my forehead against the steering wheel, on the side of the road, eyes clamped shut, and listened. The repetition of “Everything In Its Right Place” soothed me. In that moment, I understood that, though my circumstances may be far less than ideal, that everything, indeed, was in its right place. I was disheartened and uninspired, but knew that such emotional desolation could only be the groundwork for growth. I had been subjected to a moment of synchronicity thanks to the electronic music I had dismissed as being superficial and irrelevant.
Why be so dismissive of electronic music, I realized? It is certainly the future of what musicians do and how they will be able to share their gifts with anxiously awaiting fans, like myself. It doesn’t have to be the empty noise you hear pouring from shops at the mall and trailing down suburban streets. If electronic music is attacked and conquered by skillful traditionally trained musicians, like Radiohead, it can become the soundtrack of your life.
It has become an integral part of the soundtrack to mine…
My soundtrack for the day had been chosen when I was still in fine spirits- Radiohead’s fourth album, “Kid A.” I had picked it up haphazardly after not hearing it for a few years. In all honesty, it had not impressed me much at first. Its stuttering electronic beats sounded too epileptic for my austere tastes. I had dismissed electronic music as being hollow and banal, the type of music approached by people who could not play instruments. It wasn’t music, but orchestrated noise fit for monkeys and mindless glow stick twirling rave kids tripping on their elephant leg pants and bouncing along with cartoon grins fueled by designer drugs and electric blue Pop Rocks. When my favorite band, which includes a mad scientist guitar virtuoso and a lead singer with a eunuch’s graceful falsetto, released an album heavily reliant on computer blips and beeps, I was shocked and dismayed. I watched legions of indie kids, decked out in identical black-framed glasses and Diesel jeans, twitch in unison to the dance floor-friendly single “Idioteque”- and was completely unmoved. After the success of “Ok Computer,” I had thought Radiohead was the second coming of rock and roll and maybe, just maybe, the promise that British bands from the early nineties like My Bloody Valentine, Curve, and Suede (driven by dark, melancholic lyrics and a sound based on heavily distorted layers of guitar droning) would finally be realized. A departure from traditional instruments seemed like sacrilege- and Radiohead was excommunicated from my list of the holiest of holies, if only for a fleeting moment.
So there I sat, sullen and sore, in my car, desperate for sleep. As I began to navigate the familiar streets of my neighborhood, something came over me. As the beginning bars of the first track began, sound slowly moved up the sides of my interior. The soft keyboard line that rises and falls almost childishly lulled me to comfort. It pulsed within my veins in rhythm that followed the almost hidden staccato bass line, making my vision blur and fingertips sear with an unseen heat as if placed above a candle. The first unintelligible vocalizations sound distinctly like rolling, garbled, alien communication, but I became hypnotized by their solemn repetition. Thom Yorke was far off in a remote universe, his voice distorted by the stars that separated us, but he was singing an intergalactic embrace solely for me. Waves of gargling distortion flowed from my pitiful speakers and I felt as if I was suddenly submerged within the deep, dark sea, protected only by my Beetle-bubble and the music within. I became distinctly aware of the sensation that I was being completely encased and commanded by the very music that had left me cold and unmoved previously. I felt a series of shivers ascend my spine and rest squarely on my knotted shoulders. The flat stones that had weighed my body all day slowly started to melt into a delicious pool, like pastel pretty pistachio ice cream on hot summer concrete. Thom Yorke softly chanted, “Everything…. Everything… Everything… in its right place” into my ears, and everything, indeed, began to spiral in on itself, enveloping me in a downy pocket of sound.
Immediately, I was transported back six months in time, when Radiohead had
We arrived early to claim seats at the very front of the discounted lawn section and watched as swarms of fans meandered about before the concert began. It seemed bizarre, to see people getting smashed on overpriced beers and grazing thoughtlessly on hot dogs and soggy nachos, as we repeatedly glanced at our watches, waiting, terrified of moving a single inch in case the band started without us. By the time the band appeared onstage, we were partially deaf from the screams of the shirtless frat-boy types that sat behind us singing “Creep” for half an hour straight and spilling their Bud Light on my blanket. As the lights dimmed, Mathieu grasped my hand tightly and the excitement rose within my body like a bubble to the surface of water, anxious, effervescent, wide-eyed in wonder. The opening ticking-metronome rhythm of “2 + 2= 5” came in slowly…
Are you such a dreamer to put the world to right?
I’ll stay home forever where two and two always makes a five…
… It’s the devils way now. There is no way out.
You can scream and shout but it’s too late now
Because
You have not been paying attention
In one explosive moment, every nerve in my brain was called to attention, as if some unseen electrical force had taken control of my body and jolted my eyelids wide open. As the drums kicked in with full raging force, I felt myself involuntarily jump high into the air, my fists high, screaming, and ready for the revolution. Thom Yorke stood miles away from us, but I could see his wiry form on the screens directly above our heads. The combination of his slim- fitting black shirt, jeans, and leather wrist cuffs made me think of a British exoskeleton. He tried to seem so rock solid on the outside, but his voice sounded like a wounded animal stranded in a forest, alone, desperate for help. It belied his manic façade. He twitched and shook, as if being possessed by a foreign spirit, and became a marionette moved by the music that was within him. Colin Greenwood, bassist, has always stood out to me, largely because of his degree in English Lit. He stood close to the drummer, Phil Selway, and grinned like a schoolboy who has just received his pocket money for sweets. Johnny Greenwood was hunched over, flailing about like a wind-tossed leaf and made his waif-like delicacy seem much more disparate when paired with his aggressive, bravado guitar playing. It struck me that the men before me truly loved what they did- and that I loved them for it.
I realized that people equally moved and inspired by Radiohead surrounded me. Indeed, as the spectacle progressed, I noticed that, unlike every other concert I have attended before and since, audience members didn’t really talk between songs. There was a noticeable lack of people milling around aimlessly, talking on cell phones in tones of badly concealed boredom. We represent the “me” generation, fixated on technology, unmoved by everything, no matter how extreme. Passion-less, we are self-involved and effete. Nevertheless, everyone around me seemed enthralled, consumed by the music each of us had ostensibly heard time and time again thanks to our respectively hip CD collections. That night, the music was new to us once more.
Time appeared to evaporate as I stood, my feet firmly planted on the damp grass while I watched the quintet of proper Oxford graduates dance onstage and thrill the crowd with expertly crafted song after song. In what seemed to be mere minutes, the band marched offstage to a roar of applause as we begged for more, supplicating ourselves before our musical gods. They reappeared to end with “Everything In It’s Right Place.” What struck me most about this encore was it’s finale… a seemingly endless loop of electronic noise that played on after the band left with the message “Forever” scrolling across the lit screens as the audience watched, baffled and overwhelmed.
The crowd languidly filed towards the parking lot. The sense that we had shared in a massive, universal, communal orgasm permeated through the blissful smiles and wide eyes accented by dilated pupils. We were all, indeed, drugged by the intensity of Radiohead’s flawless performance. As my companions and I stumbled to my car, a severe throbbing in my skull commenced as I tried to make sense of the wonder I had experienced. Back in the comfort of my car, the pain persisted and I lost track of everything outside of myself as my boyfriend drove us home.
Six months later, I’m in my car again, listening to “Kid A,” and remembering that mantra of “Forever” from the concert that changed my life. I sat with my forehead against the steering wheel, on the side of the road, eyes clamped shut, and listened. The repetition of “Everything In Its Right Place” soothed me. In that moment, I understood that, though my circumstances may be far less than ideal, that everything, indeed, was in its right place. I was disheartened and uninspired, but knew that such emotional desolation could only be the groundwork for growth. I had been subjected to a moment of synchronicity thanks to the electronic music I had dismissed as being superficial and irrelevant.
Why be so dismissive of electronic music, I realized? It is certainly the future of what musicians do and how they will be able to share their gifts with anxiously awaiting fans, like myself. It doesn’t have to be the empty noise you hear pouring from shops at the mall and trailing down suburban streets. If electronic music is attacked and conquered by skillful traditionally trained musicians, like Radiohead, it can become the soundtrack of your life.
It has become an integral part of the soundtrack to mine…
Monday, September 12, 2005
othergirl syndrome
i'm a whiney, simpering waif when i'm stressed (mind you, that's the only time i'll EVER be waifish).
excuse that last trainwreck of a post. i think i have romanticized my dark, morose youth due to the fact that, while i was pitiful, i was at least prolific. i wrote like a fiend. it's easy to slip into old patterns when you feel overwhelmed.
i think it's because of my othergirl fascination.
i've always found myself transfixed by the portrayals of decidedly un-erica types. girls on film who bore some scant resemblance to me, physically or emotionally, who i watched with uneasy pleasure, feeling less alone.
first it was angela chase. we were both bookish sensitive girls who tried to stand out by dying our hair flaming red. we both had the tendency to adopt boys like stray kittens with the dim hope that we'd make them gentle, less feral. i had a few jordan catalanos, i have to admit. we'd both slam our doors and cry while listening to the cure. we were both trying to figure out who in the hell we were.
next, it was lelaina pierce. maybe it was just because i wanted to be winona ryder & had a devastating crush on ethan hawke. the whole unrequited love thing spoke to me in volumes and i always thought i'd find a beautiful, poetic, brilliant boy who didn't love me back. he would then realize just how spectacular my wit was and would come running back to me. cue U2 song.
next up, lucy. "stealing beauty"- just wanted to spend my summer in italy, writing, falling in love. maybe it was liv tyler's pout that got me. or the soundtrack. a fleeting infatuation... maybe i just longed for purity, innocence... her effortless charm...
the next one is typical- carrie bradshaw. cute quirky writer who always fell for the wrong men. funny, to now realize one of her boyfriends is my current screencrush. justin theroux. ah, tall, dark, thin, & tortured. just my type. ALWAYS my type. i just didn't have the insane shoe obsession- or the great apartment, come to think of it...
finally, and most recently, clementine krucynski. ah, clem. beautiful, fucked up clem. i'm obsessed with "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind." appallingly so, lamentably so. i cry like a baby every time i watch it and quote it haphazardly, without thinking. maybe it's because i secretly wish i was kate winslet, maybe it's because i'm hopeless romantic realist- part of me is transfixed by the perils of unrequited love, yet i always seem to believe things should work out. i find myself embarassed for clem, for her rampant drinking and "you know me- i'm impulsive"ness, yet love her nevertheless.
i bear little resemblance to all these women, yet find some odd comfort in relating to them.
maybe it's a sick twist on my long-abandoned theater life. i long to crawl into someone else's skin... and revel in the moments when i think someone else might have unwittingly crawled into mine.
excuse that last trainwreck of a post. i think i have romanticized my dark, morose youth due to the fact that, while i was pitiful, i was at least prolific. i wrote like a fiend. it's easy to slip into old patterns when you feel overwhelmed.
i think it's because of my othergirl fascination.
i've always found myself transfixed by the portrayals of decidedly un-erica types. girls on film who bore some scant resemblance to me, physically or emotionally, who i watched with uneasy pleasure, feeling less alone.
first it was angela chase. we were both bookish sensitive girls who tried to stand out by dying our hair flaming red. we both had the tendency to adopt boys like stray kittens with the dim hope that we'd make them gentle, less feral. i had a few jordan catalanos, i have to admit. we'd both slam our doors and cry while listening to the cure. we were both trying to figure out who in the hell we were.
next, it was lelaina pierce. maybe it was just because i wanted to be winona ryder & had a devastating crush on ethan hawke. the whole unrequited love thing spoke to me in volumes and i always thought i'd find a beautiful, poetic, brilliant boy who didn't love me back. he would then realize just how spectacular my wit was and would come running back to me. cue U2 song.
next up, lucy. "stealing beauty"- just wanted to spend my summer in italy, writing, falling in love. maybe it was liv tyler's pout that got me. or the soundtrack. a fleeting infatuation... maybe i just longed for purity, innocence... her effortless charm...
the next one is typical- carrie bradshaw. cute quirky writer who always fell for the wrong men. funny, to now realize one of her boyfriends is my current screencrush. justin theroux. ah, tall, dark, thin, & tortured. just my type. ALWAYS my type. i just didn't have the insane shoe obsession- or the great apartment, come to think of it...
finally, and most recently, clementine krucynski. ah, clem. beautiful, fucked up clem. i'm obsessed with "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind." appallingly so, lamentably so. i cry like a baby every time i watch it and quote it haphazardly, without thinking. maybe it's because i secretly wish i was kate winslet, maybe it's because i'm hopeless romantic realist- part of me is transfixed by the perils of unrequited love, yet i always seem to believe things should work out. i find myself embarassed for clem, for her rampant drinking and "you know me- i'm impulsive"ness, yet love her nevertheless.
i bear little resemblance to all these women, yet find some odd comfort in relating to them.
maybe it's a sick twist on my long-abandoned theater life. i long to crawl into someone else's skin... and revel in the moments when i think someone else might have unwittingly crawled into mine.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
anti-confidence
i'm the queen of self-loathing.
i mask it adeptly with humor and big words.
when i feel threatened, i shut off completely & a grimace comes to my face unknowingly. it makes people who don't know me think i'm an arrogant bitch.
pretty damn far from the truth.
i think m. is the only person on earth who really understands who i really am in regards to my relationships with others. i have the uncontrollable urge to take care of the people i love. he asked me for help writing a brand book for silk soy milk last night- the voice for the brand is supposed to be aimed at the nurterers of the world. he told me, "write this like you're talking to yourself." he declared, "you're the kind of person who gets more pleasure form watching people open their christmas presents than getting one yourself." he's so damn right, it's scary.
never having a real brother or sister, i've always considered my friends FAMILY. i want them to trust me, i want to make sure they're happy & comfortable & taken care of. after having almost all of the friends from my youth take advantage of my generosity and, eventually, either desert me or treat me like shit, it's easy to see why i have issues with people.
i'm not intimidating- i'm a freaking fluff ball who cries at the drop of a hat. it's the vocabulary that throws strangers off.
tuesday night i found myself in a rut at school. presenting stuff with a partner who just isn't that into me (or IT) and being scared shitless that it reflects badly upon my work, the nasty erica came out in front of the 30 person class. m. told me i stood there, arms crossed, a pissy look on my face, looking pretentious as all hell. the whole time, i was fighting back the urge to cry. as soon as i was done, i excused myself to sob quietly in the bathroom.
i never think i'm any good at anything & am always on the verge of quitting.
i don't know how to shift my perspective as all the self-love shit just sounds like hippie garbage to me.
i'm such a pain in the ass.
i mask it adeptly with humor and big words.
when i feel threatened, i shut off completely & a grimace comes to my face unknowingly. it makes people who don't know me think i'm an arrogant bitch.
pretty damn far from the truth.
i think m. is the only person on earth who really understands who i really am in regards to my relationships with others. i have the uncontrollable urge to take care of the people i love. he asked me for help writing a brand book for silk soy milk last night- the voice for the brand is supposed to be aimed at the nurterers of the world. he told me, "write this like you're talking to yourself." he declared, "you're the kind of person who gets more pleasure form watching people open their christmas presents than getting one yourself." he's so damn right, it's scary.
never having a real brother or sister, i've always considered my friends FAMILY. i want them to trust me, i want to make sure they're happy & comfortable & taken care of. after having almost all of the friends from my youth take advantage of my generosity and, eventually, either desert me or treat me like shit, it's easy to see why i have issues with people.
i'm not intimidating- i'm a freaking fluff ball who cries at the drop of a hat. it's the vocabulary that throws strangers off.
tuesday night i found myself in a rut at school. presenting stuff with a partner who just isn't that into me (or IT) and being scared shitless that it reflects badly upon my work, the nasty erica came out in front of the 30 person class. m. told me i stood there, arms crossed, a pissy look on my face, looking pretentious as all hell. the whole time, i was fighting back the urge to cry. as soon as i was done, i excused myself to sob quietly in the bathroom.
i never think i'm any good at anything & am always on the verge of quitting.
i don't know how to shift my perspective as all the self-love shit just sounds like hippie garbage to me.
i'm such a pain in the ass.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
my two dads
i have a complicated relationship with my father. my biological father. the man my mother married to get away from her own mother. the man who left her for another woman. the man who hasn't spoken to his "other children" in almost 10 years. the man who didn't speak to his own mother for 5 years when she was battling leukemia.
it's damn hard to explain.
i have these golden, perfect memories of my childhood with him, when his role as a parent was only delegated to two weekends a month. i knew i was daddy's favourite. i was a good kid. no, i was a GREAT kid. i was respectful and happy. i didn't throw tantrums or get into trouble. i was never sent to the principal's office and always got straight a's. i was the pretty blonde ballerina princess who always helped in the kitchen without ever being asked. it's no mystery why my half brother and half sister hated me.
i remember my dad packing up his musical equipment to play weddings and bar mitzvahs every saturday night, leaving me to the care of philip & debbie. they were much older than me- 9 & 7 years respectively. my then stepmother denise would skulk off to their bedroom to roll clandestine joints & recline on their silk-sheeted bed to watch reruns on their small black & white tv while painting her nails. once in a while, she'd let me in to dig through her drawer of barrettes and play with her long, silky hair. most of the time, i would just sit in the living room, reading, while my siblings shut the door to philip's bedroom (plastered with posters of ozzy osbourne & iron maiden) to play big kid's games or fight over who got to use the atari. i was never invited.
one night, i felt lonely & knocked on the door meekly, hoping to play with them. when they opened the door, i was pummeled with rolled up socks was they shouted, "go away! you're not our sister!" i was six years old.
i didn't tell my father about the incident for 10 years.
he would wake us up early with sandwiches packed carefully in a wicker basket to go to the beach & watch the sunrise. he let me bury him deep in the sand & carve a mermaid's tail above his submerged body while my brother & sister played frisbee. he would make us dolphin-shaped pancakes flavored with almond & tinted aqua with food coloring.
he had us paint the laundry room of his small north miami house. we unanimously agreed on an underwater theme and created our own fish. mine was a jellyfish, made out of a jar of grape jelly and long, menacing purple tentacles.
i idolized my father for most of my adolescence. wore the chunky silver id bracelet with his name engraved on it proudly. it must have killed my mum & stepdad at the time.
as i got older, i realized that my father wasn't the invincible god i had placed on the highest pedestal. he shrewdly manipulated me against my mother. ah, the fights during the holiday season, the unpaid child support, the snide little comments inserted in our weekly dinners...
it was plainly clear to me by the time i was 20.
my dad was incredibly talented and warm. he was open-minded & creative & fun when i was younger, but turned into a prejudiced, born-again right-winger as i grew older. it seemed that, by the time i was 22, the only fair game topics to discuss were films & movies. any comments about the state of the country, foreign policy, travel, politics,war would result in my father screaming at me that i had no idea about how the world really worked.
such a drastic difference from the way my stepfather spoke to me...
my stepfather IS my father now. he married my mum when i was 5 and was always the voice of reason in my sometimes tumultuous home life. he put me through college and always spoke up for me when my mum unleashed her violent agression at me, leaving me sobbing quietly in my room only to hear scream about what a terrible daughter i was. he has always supported me unconditionally and spoken to me with the greatest respect. to even begin to describe our relationship now would take days... he is just that good to me... and my friends, and my boyfriend. i find myself craving time to just sit down & talk to him now i live so far away. he doesn't really call to see how i'm doing, yet i'm not bothered by it at all.
i hadn't spoken to my "real" father for over a year and a half when he called me two months ago to tell me of his partner's stroke. i was immediately saddened and felt guiltier than i ever have. his bizarre patterns in familial relationships seemed to have impacted me greatly... but, to be honest, my mum & stepdad are all the family i've ever really needed.
i spoke with him daily until his partner seemed to have made a marked improvement. upon our last conversation, he said, "so i guess we'll keep in touch?" that was two months ago and i haven't heard from him since.
i'm scared to call him- and i don't know why. he, much like my mother (at least, when i was younger), has always had the power to make me feel smaller than anyone. they had both convinced me that i was selfish & uncaring, though my mother has long since become my biggest fan. she once chastised me, told me i made myself ugly & that it was no wonder i didn't have any friends. she also once sneered that i should go ahead & kill myself already.
she tells me how much she loves me & how proud she is of me every time we speak now. funny, how women change as they age.
i recently learned that my stepfather is on anti-depressants, which kept me in a state of confusion & silence for over a week. he's my best friend in the world, yet i have no clue whatsoever on how to approach him about this.
i can't speak to either of my fathers, and it leaves a black stain on every minute i'm alone.
my stepfather has never said, "i love you." he doesn't need to. unlike my "father," his actions prove it more than mere words ever could.
funny, how the wordsmith girl is left silent when it comes time to say something to the two people who need to hear her most...
it's damn hard to explain.
i have these golden, perfect memories of my childhood with him, when his role as a parent was only delegated to two weekends a month. i knew i was daddy's favourite. i was a good kid. no, i was a GREAT kid. i was respectful and happy. i didn't throw tantrums or get into trouble. i was never sent to the principal's office and always got straight a's. i was the pretty blonde ballerina princess who always helped in the kitchen without ever being asked. it's no mystery why my half brother and half sister hated me.
i remember my dad packing up his musical equipment to play weddings and bar mitzvahs every saturday night, leaving me to the care of philip & debbie. they were much older than me- 9 & 7 years respectively. my then stepmother denise would skulk off to their bedroom to roll clandestine joints & recline on their silk-sheeted bed to watch reruns on their small black & white tv while painting her nails. once in a while, she'd let me in to dig through her drawer of barrettes and play with her long, silky hair. most of the time, i would just sit in the living room, reading, while my siblings shut the door to philip's bedroom (plastered with posters of ozzy osbourne & iron maiden) to play big kid's games or fight over who got to use the atari. i was never invited.
one night, i felt lonely & knocked on the door meekly, hoping to play with them. when they opened the door, i was pummeled with rolled up socks was they shouted, "go away! you're not our sister!" i was six years old.
i didn't tell my father about the incident for 10 years.
he would wake us up early with sandwiches packed carefully in a wicker basket to go to the beach & watch the sunrise. he let me bury him deep in the sand & carve a mermaid's tail above his submerged body while my brother & sister played frisbee. he would make us dolphin-shaped pancakes flavored with almond & tinted aqua with food coloring.
he had us paint the laundry room of his small north miami house. we unanimously agreed on an underwater theme and created our own fish. mine was a jellyfish, made out of a jar of grape jelly and long, menacing purple tentacles.
i idolized my father for most of my adolescence. wore the chunky silver id bracelet with his name engraved on it proudly. it must have killed my mum & stepdad at the time.
as i got older, i realized that my father wasn't the invincible god i had placed on the highest pedestal. he shrewdly manipulated me against my mother. ah, the fights during the holiday season, the unpaid child support, the snide little comments inserted in our weekly dinners...
it was plainly clear to me by the time i was 20.
my dad was incredibly talented and warm. he was open-minded & creative & fun when i was younger, but turned into a prejudiced, born-again right-winger as i grew older. it seemed that, by the time i was 22, the only fair game topics to discuss were films & movies. any comments about the state of the country, foreign policy, travel, politics,war would result in my father screaming at me that i had no idea about how the world really worked.
such a drastic difference from the way my stepfather spoke to me...
my stepfather IS my father now. he married my mum when i was 5 and was always the voice of reason in my sometimes tumultuous home life. he put me through college and always spoke up for me when my mum unleashed her violent agression at me, leaving me sobbing quietly in my room only to hear scream about what a terrible daughter i was. he has always supported me unconditionally and spoken to me with the greatest respect. to even begin to describe our relationship now would take days... he is just that good to me... and my friends, and my boyfriend. i find myself craving time to just sit down & talk to him now i live so far away. he doesn't really call to see how i'm doing, yet i'm not bothered by it at all.
i hadn't spoken to my "real" father for over a year and a half when he called me two months ago to tell me of his partner's stroke. i was immediately saddened and felt guiltier than i ever have. his bizarre patterns in familial relationships seemed to have impacted me greatly... but, to be honest, my mum & stepdad are all the family i've ever really needed.
i spoke with him daily until his partner seemed to have made a marked improvement. upon our last conversation, he said, "so i guess we'll keep in touch?" that was two months ago and i haven't heard from him since.
i'm scared to call him- and i don't know why. he, much like my mother (at least, when i was younger), has always had the power to make me feel smaller than anyone. they had both convinced me that i was selfish & uncaring, though my mother has long since become my biggest fan. she once chastised me, told me i made myself ugly & that it was no wonder i didn't have any friends. she also once sneered that i should go ahead & kill myself already.
she tells me how much she loves me & how proud she is of me every time we speak now. funny, how women change as they age.
i recently learned that my stepfather is on anti-depressants, which kept me in a state of confusion & silence for over a week. he's my best friend in the world, yet i have no clue whatsoever on how to approach him about this.
i can't speak to either of my fathers, and it leaves a black stain on every minute i'm alone.
my stepfather has never said, "i love you." he doesn't need to. unlike my "father," his actions prove it more than mere words ever could.
funny, how the wordsmith girl is left silent when it comes time to say something to the two people who need to hear her most...
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
holy crip! it's a crapple
i'm turning into a gym rat. a filthy, sweaty gym rat...
and now i'm paying for it.
for the past five months, i've been on an on-again-off-again exercise craze. i've been taking lots of cardio dance-type classes, which is humorous, at best. i live on south beach, where everyone is a bloody model. they don't hold actual jobs, but spend hours between getting manicured-waxed-tanned to velvet rope perfection.
i am the fat girl at the gym.
i went back to weights this weekend and decided to attack my legs.
silly me. now i can't walk. i'm hobbling like a sad old lady, groaning every time i sit down or stand up. mind you, that was on saturday. i'm bloody miserable.
something of more substance shall follow soon, once i get over the agonizing pain.
and now i'm paying for it.
for the past five months, i've been on an on-again-off-again exercise craze. i've been taking lots of cardio dance-type classes, which is humorous, at best. i live on south beach, where everyone is a bloody model. they don't hold actual jobs, but spend hours between getting manicured-waxed-tanned to velvet rope perfection.
i am the fat girl at the gym.
i went back to weights this weekend and decided to attack my legs.
silly me. now i can't walk. i'm hobbling like a sad old lady, groaning every time i sit down or stand up. mind you, that was on saturday. i'm bloody miserable.
something of more substance shall follow soon, once i get over the agonizing pain.
Monday, August 15, 2005
let's blow this popsicle stand
ah, monday. another day when the oppressive heat urges me to stay inside as much as possible. one can't dance to blur in her tighty whiteys (okay, tighty camouflage-ys) on the street, can one?
went to the nicest french restaurant on friday. had a big plate of steak frites washed down with a glass of red wine. the creme brulee was orgasmic. it made me think of how, if i hadn't decided to go to adschool, i'd be in paris now.
there's a bloody good chance i'll be leaving the states soon, if only temporarily.
we've applied to programs in amsterdam & london.
the mere thought of going back to london had me high all weekend. the saatchi office is in camden, 3 tube stops away from my neighborhood. the thought of being in london for my favourite season- when you can smell the dampness of the earth beneath a blanket of leaves, when it's cold enough to inspire a quickness in your step but warm enough to make you rise from bed with a sense of purpose & delight, when tea tastes even better- thrills me.
it's been two years since i went back and i miss my family. i miss night buses & blistering curries. i miss museums & plays on a sunday afternoon. i miss, well, everything.
went to the nicest french restaurant on friday. had a big plate of steak frites washed down with a glass of red wine. the creme brulee was orgasmic. it made me think of how, if i hadn't decided to go to adschool, i'd be in paris now.
there's a bloody good chance i'll be leaving the states soon, if only temporarily.
we've applied to programs in amsterdam & london.
the mere thought of going back to london had me high all weekend. the saatchi office is in camden, 3 tube stops away from my neighborhood. the thought of being in london for my favourite season- when you can smell the dampness of the earth beneath a blanket of leaves, when it's cold enough to inspire a quickness in your step but warm enough to make you rise from bed with a sense of purpose & delight, when tea tastes even better- thrills me.
it's been two years since i went back and i miss my family. i miss night buses & blistering curries. i miss museums & plays on a sunday afternoon. i miss, well, everything.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
100thing, part deux
51. my first kiss occurred in the back of a bus on a gifted trip to seacamp
52. my first shakespeare played was petruchio (3rd grade)
53. then mercutio (4th grade)
54. then juliet (5th grade)
55. then, well, too many to remember. but they were all female after that.
56. i had chicken pox on my 5th birthday & my party at pirates was cancelled.
57. i've never broken a bone.
58. i start every morning in front of my ibook, smoking a clove.
59. i once harboured grand fantasies of taking a cross-country road trip & writing the next great american novel.
60. that, of course, was when i was 17 and obsessed with beat lit...
61. and was extremely maladjusted.
62. i also wanted to open a coffee shop that had a black box theater & art gallery in order to start my own artists' community
63. that is a lofty goal i have not yet abandoned.
64. i was eerily intrigued by vampires as a little girl
65. and thought that if i bathed my neck in cold water (to constrict the veins) & tied a red ribbon around my throat, that they would think i was "one of them" & wouldn't attack me while i slept.
66. that says a lot about my brief courtship with the goth scene.
67. my mum once gave me the nickname 'tish' (morticia) because of my all-black wardrobe
68. and i called myself that for the better part of my sophomore year.
69. my favourite trip ever was to venice.
70. i long to go to china, morocco, india, turkey...
71. my stepfather is my best friend in the universe
72. and all my friends adore him.
73. i become infatuated very easily
74. and am hyper-sensitive.
75. boys rarely approached me
76. my friends would insist that it was because i was "intimidating"
77. i always thought it was because i have no mystery, no magnetism.
78. i've had recurrent dreams about my ex for the past four years.
79. i suffer from a horrendous case of writers block
80. and never think my work is decent.
81. the best part of my day is waking up next to m., with czarina curled up by my side.
82. i'm obsessed with her. she's a damn great cat.
83. i love entertaining & host legendary barbecues.
84. i'm a pisces
85. the few things i always have in my fridge are limes, fresh ginger, orange vitamin water, green apples, and a bottle of thai sesame lime dressing.
86. i frequently drink shiraz.
87. i got into a number of great schools when i applied to college (sarah lawrence, university of chicago, smu for theatre, etc)
88. but wound up at fsu at first & hated it. i left after my first year & bounced around, changing majors.
89. i still have one bloody linguistics class to finish my english degree.
90. i'm deathly afraid of snakes.
91. i listen to more music that was released 10 years ago than recent releases.
92. i used to go skiing in the french alps every year
93. but was terrible at it.
94. i hate tv
95. but love seinfeld, six feet under, the simpsons, family guy, and the naked chef.
96. i have the humor of a 12 year old boy
97. and still play video games.
98. i tutor (and love it)
99. and read the dictionary to find new words while i'm working.
100. i smile when my students call me "miss erica." it reminds me of how i called my dance teacher "miss deborah."
52. my first shakespeare played was petruchio (3rd grade)
53. then mercutio (4th grade)
54. then juliet (5th grade)
55. then, well, too many to remember. but they were all female after that.
56. i had chicken pox on my 5th birthday & my party at pirates was cancelled.
57. i've never broken a bone.
58. i start every morning in front of my ibook, smoking a clove.
59. i once harboured grand fantasies of taking a cross-country road trip & writing the next great american novel.
60. that, of course, was when i was 17 and obsessed with beat lit...
61. and was extremely maladjusted.
62. i also wanted to open a coffee shop that had a black box theater & art gallery in order to start my own artists' community
63. that is a lofty goal i have not yet abandoned.
64. i was eerily intrigued by vampires as a little girl
65. and thought that if i bathed my neck in cold water (to constrict the veins) & tied a red ribbon around my throat, that they would think i was "one of them" & wouldn't attack me while i slept.
66. that says a lot about my brief courtship with the goth scene.
67. my mum once gave me the nickname 'tish' (morticia) because of my all-black wardrobe
68. and i called myself that for the better part of my sophomore year.
69. my favourite trip ever was to venice.
70. i long to go to china, morocco, india, turkey...
71. my stepfather is my best friend in the universe
72. and all my friends adore him.
73. i become infatuated very easily
74. and am hyper-sensitive.
75. boys rarely approached me
76. my friends would insist that it was because i was "intimidating"
77. i always thought it was because i have no mystery, no magnetism.
78. i've had recurrent dreams about my ex for the past four years.
79. i suffer from a horrendous case of writers block
80. and never think my work is decent.
81. the best part of my day is waking up next to m., with czarina curled up by my side.
82. i'm obsessed with her. she's a damn great cat.
83. i love entertaining & host legendary barbecues.
84. i'm a pisces
85. the few things i always have in my fridge are limes, fresh ginger, orange vitamin water, green apples, and a bottle of thai sesame lime dressing.
86. i frequently drink shiraz.
87. i got into a number of great schools when i applied to college (sarah lawrence, university of chicago, smu for theatre, etc)
88. but wound up at fsu at first & hated it. i left after my first year & bounced around, changing majors.
89. i still have one bloody linguistics class to finish my english degree.
90. i'm deathly afraid of snakes.
91. i listen to more music that was released 10 years ago than recent releases.
92. i used to go skiing in the french alps every year
93. but was terrible at it.
94. i hate tv
95. but love seinfeld, six feet under, the simpsons, family guy, and the naked chef.
96. i have the humor of a 12 year old boy
97. and still play video games.
98. i tutor (and love it)
99. and read the dictionary to find new words while i'm working.
100. i smile when my students call me "miss erica." it reminds me of how i called my dance teacher "miss deborah."
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
100things, part one
i'm a copycat. imitation, flattery, plagiarism, whatever.
1. i was born 2.5 months premature and had to be resuscitated. baby defibrillators 'n all.
2. my father donated blood for the first time in order to supply me with grade a+. literally.
3. my hospital bracelet said i was a boy.
4. which is incredibly humorous, considering my adult 'attributes.'
5. i had red hair that turned blonde
6. which i later turned back to red
7. and blue eyes that turned green.
8. i cursed at my mother as a child ("this soup is too bloody hot!" age 3).
9. i also acted spoiled ("buy me merchandise" age 3.5)
10. and prematurely snobby ("i'd like a glass of white wine, please" age 4).
11. i once tried to fly a kite inside the two story home i grew up in
12. and had more success indoors than i did at my school's actual kite day.
13. i took ballet, tap, and jazz classes religiously for over nine years,
14. but couldn't stay in hebrew school for over a month.
15. i was the joker in my dance recital when all the other girls were batm(e)n
16. and made the younger girls cry, with my neon green hair and saltwater taffy smile.
17. i always eat the spiciest food imaginable
18. i have ugly deformed dancer's feet that tell stories about my lost youth as a budding ballerina.
19. i was accepted into the joffrey ballet summer program
20. but abandoned my dreams once my boobs appeared (age 13).
21. by 15, i was incessantly made fun of.
22. by 20, every gay man i knew had tried to grab 'em.
23. by 25, i was over them. the twins, not the boys.
24. i have a coffee stain- mimicking birthmark on my left hip
25. and abhor patchouli
26. but not as much as abercrombie...
27. i distinctly remember performing at the jcc summer camp, dancing to "new attitude" by patti labelle, in a black suspender-y leotard with red & black paint splattered t-shirt, leqwarmers, headband, and wristbands.
28. needless to say, i was damn cute then.
29. i drink gin & tonic like water
30. preferably bombay sapphire.
31. i once thought i would spend my life in a new york loft, walking barefoot on wood floors as a black cat snaked around my ankles while i listened to sade's "love deluxe" & orchestrated the grandest of dinner parties for my artiste friends.
32. i also thought i would be sharing this life with another woman.
33. i went to an arts high school for music theater
34. and had nauseating bouts of stage fright every time i had to sing in public.
35. i later switched to acting & playwriting.
36. my only produced play was a series of six female monologues i had intended to be a one-woman show.
37. it was called (puke) "silent all these years"
38. and no record of it remains.
39. there's a very long story involving a bizarre synchronicity with my then best friend, our respective plays, and the death of my grandmother. i won't even try to approach it here, but it might entertain her to see mention of it here...
40. i sang in an indie pop stereolab-wannabe band- and got kicked out.
41. my karaoke skills are unparalleled. just ask what my set list is...
42. i take the best random digi-cam self portraits
43. but never look like the same person.
44. i cook like a maniac- but always make the same basic menus.
45. i always slip back into bed after showering, a towel on my head and the dampness holding fast to the creases behind my ears and knees.
46. i'm not as fond of shoes as other girls are...
47. but have an unhealthy obsession with ebay.
48. i miss the smell of london bus seats- chip grease, imported tobacco, mint POLOs, and a trace of vindaloo
49. and long to retrace my familiar path to highgate woods.
50. i didn't know marx was buried there until two years ago. bloody brilliant.
1. i was born 2.5 months premature and had to be resuscitated. baby defibrillators 'n all.
2. my father donated blood for the first time in order to supply me with grade a+. literally.
3. my hospital bracelet said i was a boy.
4. which is incredibly humorous, considering my adult 'attributes.'
5. i had red hair that turned blonde
6. which i later turned back to red
7. and blue eyes that turned green.
8. i cursed at my mother as a child ("this soup is too bloody hot!" age 3).
9. i also acted spoiled ("buy me merchandise" age 3.5)
10. and prematurely snobby ("i'd like a glass of white wine, please" age 4).
11. i once tried to fly a kite inside the two story home i grew up in
12. and had more success indoors than i did at my school's actual kite day.
13. i took ballet, tap, and jazz classes religiously for over nine years,
14. but couldn't stay in hebrew school for over a month.
15. i was the joker in my dance recital when all the other girls were batm(e)n
16. and made the younger girls cry, with my neon green hair and saltwater taffy smile.
17. i always eat the spiciest food imaginable
18. i have ugly deformed dancer's feet that tell stories about my lost youth as a budding ballerina.
19. i was accepted into the joffrey ballet summer program
20. but abandoned my dreams once my boobs appeared (age 13).
21. by 15, i was incessantly made fun of.
22. by 20, every gay man i knew had tried to grab 'em.
23. by 25, i was over them. the twins, not the boys.
24. i have a coffee stain- mimicking birthmark on my left hip
25. and abhor patchouli
26. but not as much as abercrombie...
27. i distinctly remember performing at the jcc summer camp, dancing to "new attitude" by patti labelle, in a black suspender-y leotard with red & black paint splattered t-shirt, leqwarmers, headband, and wristbands.
28. needless to say, i was damn cute then.
29. i drink gin & tonic like water
30. preferably bombay sapphire.
31. i once thought i would spend my life in a new york loft, walking barefoot on wood floors as a black cat snaked around my ankles while i listened to sade's "love deluxe" & orchestrated the grandest of dinner parties for my artiste friends.
32. i also thought i would be sharing this life with another woman.
33. i went to an arts high school for music theater
34. and had nauseating bouts of stage fright every time i had to sing in public.
35. i later switched to acting & playwriting.
36. my only produced play was a series of six female monologues i had intended to be a one-woman show.
37. it was called (puke) "silent all these years"
38. and no record of it remains.
39. there's a very long story involving a bizarre synchronicity with my then best friend, our respective plays, and the death of my grandmother. i won't even try to approach it here, but it might entertain her to see mention of it here...
40. i sang in an indie pop stereolab-wannabe band- and got kicked out.
41. my karaoke skills are unparalleled. just ask what my set list is...
42. i take the best random digi-cam self portraits
43. but never look like the same person.
44. i cook like a maniac- but always make the same basic menus.
45. i always slip back into bed after showering, a towel on my head and the dampness holding fast to the creases behind my ears and knees.
46. i'm not as fond of shoes as other girls are...
47. but have an unhealthy obsession with ebay.
48. i miss the smell of london bus seats- chip grease, imported tobacco, mint POLOs, and a trace of vindaloo
49. and long to retrace my familiar path to highgate woods.
50. i didn't know marx was buried there until two years ago. bloody brilliant.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
if you publish a blog and no-one reads it, are you still a writer?
i have mastered the fine art of procrastinating on my copywriting projects until the very last minute. the only problem with that is, my teacher actually likes them. not that he doesn't give every student positive feedback, but ALL of my teachers seem to actually like most of my ideas. even my half-assed guerilla idea for la-z boy that involves a militant group called las pararillas who refuse to sit in anything but recliners & rampage through cities, leaving propaganda posters, their manifesto, & foot-shaped sticker that call people to action by standing. ha. how literal.
it's another example of me getting away with murder and feeling guilty about it. i s'pose i can owe all of it to being the only child of a jewish mother.
ah, jewish mothers... i find myself looking more & more jewish as i get older, though i distance myself from any of the empty traditions i practiced as achild. odd, now, that i have to revisit these themes to come up with work for the san fran jewish film fest. i'm working with the idea of making b-movie style horror film posters, featuring horrific portrayls of nagging yentas & menacing moyls. oy.
i have to tackle the task of rebranding america, making people respect & admire americans again, which scares the bloody hell out of me. how can i do this effectively when i cringe every day, listening to npr, reading about the push for educating elementary school children about intelligent design, lamenting the future of this country (the future of the world, no less)?
i watched the battle of algiers this weekend and cried like a baby. have found myself recently moved to tears by the actions of vehement fundamentalists and the people who take violent actions against them, in turn. i can't seem to side with anyone, but am profoundly distressed and dismayed by faraway, not-so-random acts of violence that penetrate my quiet little existence. after the incidents in london, i became nauseous every time i read the newspaper or someone asked me about my family. the line that goes straight to my old neighborhood was closed temporarily.
enough on this note... i'm trembling from too much coffee & babbling incoherently anyway...
it's another example of me getting away with murder and feeling guilty about it. i s'pose i can owe all of it to being the only child of a jewish mother.
ah, jewish mothers... i find myself looking more & more jewish as i get older, though i distance myself from any of the empty traditions i practiced as achild. odd, now, that i have to revisit these themes to come up with work for the san fran jewish film fest. i'm working with the idea of making b-movie style horror film posters, featuring horrific portrayls of nagging yentas & menacing moyls. oy.
i have to tackle the task of rebranding america, making people respect & admire americans again, which scares the bloody hell out of me. how can i do this effectively when i cringe every day, listening to npr, reading about the push for educating elementary school children about intelligent design, lamenting the future of this country (the future of the world, no less)?
i watched the battle of algiers this weekend and cried like a baby. have found myself recently moved to tears by the actions of vehement fundamentalists and the people who take violent actions against them, in turn. i can't seem to side with anyone, but am profoundly distressed and dismayed by faraway, not-so-random acts of violence that penetrate my quiet little existence. after the incidents in london, i became nauseous every time i read the newspaper or someone asked me about my family. the line that goes straight to my old neighborhood was closed temporarily.
enough on this note... i'm trembling from too much coffee & babbling incoherently anyway...
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
quiet
le boi went back to france for 2 weeks, leaving me quite quizzical in my flat. i have always lived with someone; be it a roommate, my parents, my lover. this time on my own seems indulgent, but ever so quiet.
things seem more organized without mathieu here. i find myself cleaning compulsively and trying to maintain order. somehow, this makes my small, one bedroom space appear even emptier. we haven't fully committed to decorating this place fully, as we know we won't be here past december (when we venture overseas for one of the quarter away programs our school offers). but it isn't the sparseness of my home that unnerves me now- it's the impenetrable quiet.
i have abandoned my cd collection in favor of itunes, but hate the sound of music on my laptop's meager speakers. my television is not hooked up to cable of any kind and i've watched every movie in my dvd collection at least a dozen times. there is no way to combat this silence but to talk to my cat, which only confirms my madness.
sunday night, i hung out with three high school buddies, including the girl i was infatuated with throughout my senior year. i had not seen her since i was about 19 and was trembling of the thought of seeing her. she was just so damn intimidating back in the day. besides, i had quite embarassingly kissed her shortly after graduation and we had never discussed it afterwards.
she was radiant in her typically effortless, natural grace. it made me feel contrived, in my carefully planned outfit & delicately applied eyeliner. nevertheless, we shared beers, laughed, and danced to james brown as if a mere week had passed since our last time together.
we mused about how our friends are settling down, getting married. even after two serious relationships, the idea seems bizarre to me. a long-term goal for the future, but utterly inconceivable now.i still feel sometimes that i'm the serious girl clad in black, journal by my side, ready to change the world. in truth, i'm just the homecoming queen who works at the 7-11.
i was supposed to have been one of the successful kids- and my so called achievements have somehow paled in comparisons to the weighty expectations i had placed upon myself.
high school stroked my fragile ego- and life afterwards, almost ten years later, is very different than the one i had hoped for.
things seem more organized without mathieu here. i find myself cleaning compulsively and trying to maintain order. somehow, this makes my small, one bedroom space appear even emptier. we haven't fully committed to decorating this place fully, as we know we won't be here past december (when we venture overseas for one of the quarter away programs our school offers). but it isn't the sparseness of my home that unnerves me now- it's the impenetrable quiet.
i have abandoned my cd collection in favor of itunes, but hate the sound of music on my laptop's meager speakers. my television is not hooked up to cable of any kind and i've watched every movie in my dvd collection at least a dozen times. there is no way to combat this silence but to talk to my cat, which only confirms my madness.
sunday night, i hung out with three high school buddies, including the girl i was infatuated with throughout my senior year. i had not seen her since i was about 19 and was trembling of the thought of seeing her. she was just so damn intimidating back in the day. besides, i had quite embarassingly kissed her shortly after graduation and we had never discussed it afterwards.
she was radiant in her typically effortless, natural grace. it made me feel contrived, in my carefully planned outfit & delicately applied eyeliner. nevertheless, we shared beers, laughed, and danced to james brown as if a mere week had passed since our last time together.
we mused about how our friends are settling down, getting married. even after two serious relationships, the idea seems bizarre to me. a long-term goal for the future, but utterly inconceivable now.i still feel sometimes that i'm the serious girl clad in black, journal by my side, ready to change the world. in truth, i'm just the homecoming queen who works at the 7-11.
i was supposed to have been one of the successful kids- and my so called achievements have somehow paled in comparisons to the weighty expectations i had placed upon myself.
high school stroked my fragile ego- and life afterwards, almost ten years later, is very different than the one i had hoped for.
Monday, May 16, 2005
wish it was sunday, 'cause that's my fun day.
so it's monday and i feel once again that i wasted a perfectly splendid weekend.
it all started friday. i had made plans with some of my classmates to head down to the shelbourne for some karaoke, followed by a few drinks at the pawn shop with all of the hipsters. so i called ever hour or so & waited. and waited. and waited. i fell asleep by midnight & found out that, not only had they gone without me, but that my newest teacher crush (name: ronny. occupation: copywriter at crispin porter bogusky. weapons of choice: quick witticisms and devastating smile) was there, too. great. in all honesty, we would have probably wound up talking about how great m's work is and i would have been dreadfully embarrassed.
this is my second teacher crush. the first one was back at theater school, but he doesn't count. all the girls had a crush on him and he wound up seducing the illegal ones. the thought of him simply makes me blush and wish that all the drugs i did in my early twenties had wiped the slate clean of his name. it's an embarassing story i don't care to delve into...
saturday comprised of taking photos at the airport with my increasingly grumpy boyfriend and then heading out to the miami new times best of 2005 party in downtown. if the best that miami has to offer is a bunch of balding men in khakis and drunk girls in ponchos & matching moccasins, i'm outta here.
sunday was spent trying to take more photos, watching "some like it hot", and ordering in hunan chicken. how absolutely stimulating.
i remember the languid weekends m & i once spent, lounging in bed until 3, making brunch then falling back in to bed with tangled limbs and hair to make love again. now, i wouldn't at all surprised if i wake up surreptitiously humping my mattress. we're hitting the dreaded two year mark, when i get restless and the boys become disinterested. maybe i'm preparing myself for it by letting him annoy me daily, losing my patience. perhaps i've lulled myself into the sick security that i won't let this work, simply because it so easily could. perhaps that's why i find myself getting so perturbed by missing a chance encounter with a guy i barely know (a teacher at my school, no less) because i know i would never act on any flirtation simply because my relationship, as mundane as it is lately, is just so good.
it all started friday. i had made plans with some of my classmates to head down to the shelbourne for some karaoke, followed by a few drinks at the pawn shop with all of the hipsters. so i called ever hour or so & waited. and waited. and waited. i fell asleep by midnight & found out that, not only had they gone without me, but that my newest teacher crush (name: ronny. occupation: copywriter at crispin porter bogusky. weapons of choice: quick witticisms and devastating smile) was there, too. great. in all honesty, we would have probably wound up talking about how great m's work is and i would have been dreadfully embarrassed.
this is my second teacher crush. the first one was back at theater school, but he doesn't count. all the girls had a crush on him and he wound up seducing the illegal ones. the thought of him simply makes me blush and wish that all the drugs i did in my early twenties had wiped the slate clean of his name. it's an embarassing story i don't care to delve into...
saturday comprised of taking photos at the airport with my increasingly grumpy boyfriend and then heading out to the miami new times best of 2005 party in downtown. if the best that miami has to offer is a bunch of balding men in khakis and drunk girls in ponchos & matching moccasins, i'm outta here.
sunday was spent trying to take more photos, watching "some like it hot", and ordering in hunan chicken. how absolutely stimulating.
i remember the languid weekends m & i once spent, lounging in bed until 3, making brunch then falling back in to bed with tangled limbs and hair to make love again. now, i wouldn't at all surprised if i wake up surreptitiously humping my mattress. we're hitting the dreaded two year mark, when i get restless and the boys become disinterested. maybe i'm preparing myself for it by letting him annoy me daily, losing my patience. perhaps i've lulled myself into the sick security that i won't let this work, simply because it so easily could. perhaps that's why i find myself getting so perturbed by missing a chance encounter with a guy i barely know (a teacher at my school, no less) because i know i would never act on any flirtation simply because my relationship, as mundane as it is lately, is just so good.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
proof that i'm naturally blonde
last night, i did something rather interesting. i had been invited out to have a few drinks with an old friend and fought frantically to find a suitable outfit to wear. finding that the very skirt i wanted to don was dirty, i handwashed it & a matching white v-string (note: my only pair of white underwear). after turning my entire flat upside down looking for change for the dryer in my building, i found myself resorting to the ol' hair dryer method. as my wrist grew increasingly tired, i had a (not so) bright idea.
i remembered the seinfeld episode where kramer is obsessed with putting his clothes in the oven to make them toasty (the very same calzone & "pockets full of pennies" episode). as i chuckled to myself, i realized that putting my clothes in a gas oven would probably be quite hazardous. all of a sudden, my green eyes flashed open with what i thought was the perfect alternative- the microwave!!! this wonderous invention would certainly dry my clothes in less time!!!
i decided that my bbv v-string would be a suitable test subject and skipped to the kitchen happily to give my theory a try. i set the timer for 1.5 minutes and went back to my trusty blowdryer, anxious to see the results.
90 seconds later- i return to the kitchen an open the door of the microwave. not yet noticing the acrid smell. oh yes, my thong was dry, but it now had black burn marks along the crotch.
i had forgotten that my v-string was made of 25% polyester.
nuking underwear only proves that i'm naturally blonde.
i remembered the seinfeld episode where kramer is obsessed with putting his clothes in the oven to make them toasty (the very same calzone & "pockets full of pennies" episode). as i chuckled to myself, i realized that putting my clothes in a gas oven would probably be quite hazardous. all of a sudden, my green eyes flashed open with what i thought was the perfect alternative- the microwave!!! this wonderous invention would certainly dry my clothes in less time!!!
i decided that my bbv v-string would be a suitable test subject and skipped to the kitchen happily to give my theory a try. i set the timer for 1.5 minutes and went back to my trusty blowdryer, anxious to see the results.
90 seconds later- i return to the kitchen an open the door of the microwave. not yet noticing the acrid smell. oh yes, my thong was dry, but it now had black burn marks along the crotch.
i had forgotten that my v-string was made of 25% polyester.
nuking underwear only proves that i'm naturally blonde.
Monday, April 18, 2005
at long bloody last
i finally take the time to sit down and post. it's far easier to just sit back & laugh at jinius's brilliant blog & seethe quietly as i beat myself up for never writing.
so i'm finally challenged by school. to be honest, i've always had the charm to exert minimal effort & still wow my professors. ad school is different. for the first time, i'm not the wittiest or the most talented. indulge me in this one minor display of alphafemale superiority- i'm not the arrogant bitch, never have been. i had to do a brand/ creative strategy presentation based on myself in front of class last week and had my first dose of stagefright. the whole process reminded me of all the "who am i?" crap i did in theater school, when i watched my classmates divulge what they thought was significant about their post-adolescent angst. those performances always seemed to be thinly-veiled cries for attention parading as "expression." the whole palaver just seems self-indulgent in retrospect. this time, i chose to have a good laugh about my prior dabblings, when i sought to define myself as an artist & took myself all too seriously. the only things left over from those days are my addictions to black eyeliner & cloves... i digress...
my entire presentation was based on how i was once the epitome of the "tortured artist." i spent years in misery believing i was complete crap at everything and moved from one form of artistic expression to the next without spending a decent amount of time committed to anything. now, i'd rather believe i try "to be a multi-tasking maniac whose creative strength & promise lies not in singular genius, but in versatility." that's me. "jane of all trades" (verbatim).
i haven't picked up a paintbrush in years- my photos are crap- it's been 5 years since i performed in a play- the only time i do anything musically is when i get onstage to command wild karaoke nights- i'm too voluptuous to exert the energy necessary to play out the choreography in my head... but i no longer waste pages in my journal whining about how blank i am.
ha!!!! apparently, now i just choose to do it online.
life is freaking brilliant, and, for the first time in years, i have nothing to complain about.
so i'm finally challenged by school. to be honest, i've always had the charm to exert minimal effort & still wow my professors. ad school is different. for the first time, i'm not the wittiest or the most talented. indulge me in this one minor display of alphafemale superiority- i'm not the arrogant bitch, never have been. i had to do a brand/ creative strategy presentation based on myself in front of class last week and had my first dose of stagefright. the whole process reminded me of all the "who am i?" crap i did in theater school, when i watched my classmates divulge what they thought was significant about their post-adolescent angst. those performances always seemed to be thinly-veiled cries for attention parading as "expression." the whole palaver just seems self-indulgent in retrospect. this time, i chose to have a good laugh about my prior dabblings, when i sought to define myself as an artist & took myself all too seriously. the only things left over from those days are my addictions to black eyeliner & cloves... i digress...
my entire presentation was based on how i was once the epitome of the "tortured artist." i spent years in misery believing i was complete crap at everything and moved from one form of artistic expression to the next without spending a decent amount of time committed to anything. now, i'd rather believe i try "to be a multi-tasking maniac whose creative strength & promise lies not in singular genius, but in versatility." that's me. "jane of all trades" (verbatim).
i haven't picked up a paintbrush in years- my photos are crap- it's been 5 years since i performed in a play- the only time i do anything musically is when i get onstage to command wild karaoke nights- i'm too voluptuous to exert the energy necessary to play out the choreography in my head... but i no longer waste pages in my journal whining about how blank i am.
ha!!!! apparently, now i just choose to do it online.
life is freaking brilliant, and, for the first time in years, i have nothing to complain about.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
mindless monday musings
i'm half-drunk in my newly painted flat, all cheery in its citrine warmth. my home positively hums with the comings & goings of beautiful foreigners that have found m. & i in a particularly welcoming state of mind, and, for the past week, we have quickly obliterated what was left from my birthday stash. for the first time in years, i feel like i have friends, besides the missed few who live too far away to indulge in our early spring hospitality. i have found that i grimace when looking in the mirror less- have learned to love the fine lines that frame my pout. these lines, i learn, tell stories. after years of yearning to be mysterious and alluring, i've found that the most attractive quality i have is my humor. yet, for years, i never allowed myself to smile, out of of fear that my trademark pout would be marred. while i have gained acceptance of my numerous faults, i have, admittedly, become far more intolerent of others.earlier this evening, i actually went on a five minute tirade about how "hotel california" should be banned from bar jukeboxes and did a fairly accurate impersonation of the balding ex frat boys that demand to belt off key renditions of "what's going on?" (don't think marvin gaye or i shall be forced to smear wasabi on your gaping wounds- four non blondes "whats' going on" because linda perry in a talentless ageing california reject whose only recent credentials are hanging with PINK). god forgive me for my not-so-minor indiscretions. more later, when i'm more coherent, perhaps.
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