Lists

So this is my random ranting of the day, mostly as i had realized i haven't written a blog in forever and also as i have some good thought-purging to partake in.

Things which i secretly enjoy:

1. The flick of a zippo lighter

2. Getting into my seat on the airplane and seeing that the person who sat there before was much larger and getting to pull the seatbelt all the way in

3. Flirting with the geeks at BestBuy. Ahhh, dirty computer talk really fills out a Sunday, am I right?

4. Watching people having to pick up their dog's poop. The ultimate society equalizer.

5. New and bizarre food

6. The first cigarette of the day, when it's still cold out and the fog is just rising over the hills as I exhale (yes, i began again. fuck nicotine and good times)

Things which I don't really understand:

1. "Baby on Board" signs. Am I supposed to suddenly become a super conservative and safe driver in your presence because you have a child with you? Don't think so.

2. People who respond to craigslist ads with something that is completely irrelevant. Ex: I'm selling a sofa and someone writes asking what the name of the paint color in the background of the photo is... nice.

3. People who feel the need to direct traffic. We get it. Go around you. We don't need you waving your arm in repetitive circles to tell us this.

4. Capri cigarettes. Why??? The thing is so damn tiny I feel as if I have to pull with every whisper of breath in my body to get a decent drag.

5. Men

6. Easy mac. Unless you a child, if you are really that lazy, just go over to the deli and buy some pre-made mac and cheese. No tiny pouches of easy cheese required.

7. Why no matter how many times I use the same hair color, it always comes out completely different... although I suppose consistency is overrated. And my grandmother freaking out and screaming "YOUR HAIR IS BLACK!!! Are you gothic now???" is quite funny.

8. Having to "watch my language" around children. How am I supposed to tell you the name of the new Quentin Tarantino movie I want to see if I can't say 'Bastard' in the presence of toddlers. Let's stop pretending the world is a magical happy place in which people don't swear... or poop.

So thats the end of my griping, thinking and listing for the day.

Bump it up!

The beloved bump is sweeping the nation.

No I'm not talking about the celebrity baby bumps that have been popping up everywhere resulting in such precious children's names such as "brick" or "staircase," and no I'm not talking about the rare breed of bump we wait for as the result of an Olsen twin mysteriously consuming a cheeseburger. I'm talking about the 'Bump It,' the greatest thing to happen to thin-haired twenty somethings looking to acquire that much sought-after shapely alien cranium.

Call me unhip or out-of-the-loop, but I am completely baffled as to why this bizarre head shape has become a desirable fashion feature. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've been known to sport the occasional bizarre hair trend, but this "bumping" is getting out of control.

We all sort of chuckled to ourselves when Crazy McCrackHeaderson (AKA Amy Winehouse) shuffled around in her blood-splattered ballet flats sporting the largest and rattiest "bumped" style we had seen since the fall of Motown. But hey, she does CRACK for god sake, and has her abusive boyfriend's name tattooed in the form of a shirt flap over her left breast. I slept soundly knowing that this woman was miles away from reaching the top of the Hollywood "It List."

Until one fateful morning shuffling about the grocery store wearing the exact same outfit I went out in last night, right after a severe hang-over had subdued and I'd gotten my Bob Dillan morning hair back into its rightful place, I noticed an epidemic. Be them little, (in comparison to the previously mentioned Winehouse buffont) but little "bumped" hairstyles seemed to be peeking at me from around every grocery aisle.

Organic produce department: Bang Bump

Dairy section: Bizarre back-of-bob Bump (hereafter referred to as the "alien bump")

Baking aisle: Oh Hallelujah Hollywood Bump!

It seemed as if the "bumping" was sweeping my little hillbilly community. Baffled as I was, I soon discussed this matter with friends and hairdresser to determing the general consensus on the "bumping" epidemic, and also, if it served any rational function.

"I know I have this hideous lump on my head, but I know just how to conceal it! Bumping!"

After said discussions, I discovered that a) most of my friends thought that the bumping was totally bizarre b) the only practical purpose it might serve would be to hide weapons, drugs, or illegal things of that nature (ala Miss Winehouse) and c) they were now marketing this dubious hair trend through a plastic aid device on national television.

Special Occasions! BUMP IT!

Every day ponytail! BUMP IT!

Want to camoflauge that massive mound on your head and conceal your crack pipe? BUMP IT!

I'm all for volume and full-bodied hair, but all of this bumping is making me ill.

Let's close the book on this one, shall we ladies?

Sushi & Sexuality

So the other night a couple of friends and I trotted over to the new delightful rotating sushi bar of my dreams. This place was by far the classiest rotating sushi bar I've ever been to, as most that I've stumbled upon seem to find no need to actually cover the rotating sushi, or provide any sort of basic creature comfort such as plush dining booths or what I now find essential to any minimal-waiter/waitress environment, a shiny blue light beacon over my booth announcing to the world that I need some tasty addition to my meal. However not so fabulous was the fact that the particular booth that my friends and I were seated at seemed to be at the end of the sushi conveyer belt fun.

I would hopefully glance over at the spectacular creations that the very un-japanese chefs were preparing across the room, watch them plate and set them on the dizzying labyrinth of rotating sushidom twirling about the restaurant (complete with Kid Robot characters) and watch in despair as every greedy sashimi lover in the room snatched up my coveted tempura roll as it slowly sashayed toward me. DAMN IT!

However, even in all of the sushi-snagging turmoil I managed to consume my fair share of tasty treats and I was still amused with the completely non-asian staff, bizarre mochi flavors and the hipster boy waiters with interesting body modification decisions.

As we waddled out and I ran to the hostess's podium for that after-dinner mint to clear my pallete of fishness, I saw a little stack of The Stranger newspapers over in the corner next to another gigantic Kid Robot installment. I snatched a copy faster than the greedy fat sushi man in the corner, curled it up, and placed it under my arm.

On the ride home I perused its pages, which was particularly entertaining as it just so happened to be the annual "seattle sex survey" issue. I was boggled by such unknown facts like the number one place to take a date before taking their clothes off was Dick's. Really people??? Dick's? Nothing spells hot sex-filled evening like a greasy burger and a milkshake served to you by someone in a tiny paper hat.

Other random facts; only 5% or married surveyers were cheating on their spouse, while 37% of respondents had sex they didn't regret while strung out on drugs. More people polled had paid for sex than used viagara, and even more had been peed on. Another shocker, nearly 3% of these people had had sex with a homeless person! Ahhhhh.... the delights that lie within the pages of The Stranger .

Party On, Young 'Un

"I’ll sleep when I’m dead."

I remember slurring this phrase over and over to an assortment of worried friends and coworkers when I would stumble into a morning obligation with swollen sleep-deprived eyes, a cup of cheap coffee in my shaking hand and my hair pushed underneath an oversized knit beret. Said friends and coworkers were always reminding me to take it easy, that my body was young and vulnerable, but their advice always fell to the wayside. I’d usually have some remnants of the night before on me; black patent leather pumps with scuff marks from dancing and running down the street, smoky eyeshadow rubbed under my eyes, (so heroin chic) or a large stamp brand on my forearm signifying, in case no one already knew, that I had been out drinking.
Some might call this the walk of shame, but in my case, I liked to call it the morning stumble of glory. Knowing that I could become a creature of the night when I would have to shuffle into work the next day, and having a great story written all over me seemed so delightfully YOUNG.

Sure I may have caused myself some unnecessary grief when I would wake up with 5 minutes to get ready for an important meeting or had to deal with a massive hangover while sitting through a discussion of which green silk swatch came out truest to what the color "happy grass" should look like in production, (Try to hold back the vomit) but that’s part of being 21, right?

We’re invincible, indestructible creatures who manage to drag ourselves out night after night for another round of vital organ punishment, and if you can manage it, hold down a gig that requires you be up, charming and peppy at some ungodly hour. (I’m still looking for that job that only really wants me in by 10, but for now, I’ll have to keep dreaming) We can survive merely on red bull, vodka, cigarettes and the occasional bizarre morning pastry. The only sustained exercise regimen we take part in is a chance dance-off with our newly discovered bar rival, and that two miles we decided to run in heels Sunday night when we got excited at the prospect of that Astro Burger down the street.

You make friends based on who can hold their liquor, and on whose drunk antics are funny, but WON’T get you kicked out of a bar. Friends who look go into your closet and hand you that crazy dress you always secretly wanted to wear out but never had the guts to and say nothing but "you’re wearing this tonight." Friends who have a talent for noticing the creepazoid who has managed to dance up behind you and gracefully sashay you out of harm’s way. Friends who shoot you that congratulatory morning text, "U were on fire last night. Bravo. Up for round 2 tonight?" Friends who wake you up that next morning with a cup of coffee in one hand and a can of beer in the other.

These are the people you spend your youth with. As long as you live, you’ll have the stories to share of that time you pretended to be a celebrity to get into VIP or had to pull the other away from that dick head of a cop trying to bust a perfectly good party. These people will probably be the ones offering up a toast at your wedding, on first baby sitting watch when you have kids, the ones wooping it up with you at your 50th birthday party. They are the ones who knew you while you were young, hazardous and still coming into your own. And let me tell you, nothing strengthens the bond between two friends like taking care of a good puker.

Being young allows you to make mistakes, to learn from experiences and people and to do all of those things you always wanted. Don’t believe me? Imagine doing these things when we’re 40 or 50 and see if that guy behind the 7 Eleven counter thinks it’s quite as hilarious.

every waking day is a new adventure.
let us take chances and make mistakes.
let us look back on these days when we are old
and know that we would have changed nothing
and that we left no door unopened.

Damn you Stephenie Meyer!

For anyone living under a rock, (or probably just up here in the boonies) Stephenie Meyer is every little lovesick tween girl’s new best Mormon-pure friend. She writes about hopelessly beautiful men (who just happen to be vampires) and the angst, young mortal girl who falls in love with one of them. Every girl’s dream, right? He’s perfectly handsome, charming, wealthy, writes love songs on his piano for her, even protects her from the many less-good vampires that seem determined to kill her in every book of the Twilight series.

First of all, I feel completely foolish admitting that I have ever read these books because
1. Let’s admit, I’m not exactly the core demographic here
2. I cannot help but cringe and yell out loud due to the terrible content of some of these books
3. I have openly made fun of saga story readers my entire life (Ahem! Harry Potty!)

Most of my time spent reading these books, (sadly, right after the first was published and my mother mailed me a copy to Los Angeles) I hid them. People would glance at the black glossy cover in my hands and ask “Oh, that what’s that book you’re reading about?” I wasn’t sure quite how to answer... “Eeeerrr vampires?” “Lovesick teen girls?” or better yet “I’m getting really into this scene where the vampire and werewolf battle it out over the love of the mortal girl!” I usually managed to come up with something more along the lines of “it’s sort of like a modern Anne Rice sorta thing...”

Lies. These books are not even close to the dark loveliness and complexity of an Anne Rice novel, but somehow I was engrossed. Despite Miss Meyer’s repetitive linguistics and predictable story lines involving mythical creatures, I could not stop reading. Even as the last book made me squeal in pain at how terrible the plot had become, I felt it necessary to trudge on.

Quite simply, I cannot quite put my finger on what makes these books appealing to so many people, and perhaps that is why I am baffled by both their, and the film’s popularity. But somehow, Miss Meyer has managed to infiltrate our sex-laden society with a romance story contained to virginal kissing and her wholesome Mormon ideals... and this is appealing to young girls and their mothers alike. All I have to say is that Stephenie Meyer is a clever fucking beast, and that she is the queen of blue-balls teen writing, and somehow she had me hooked.

Shortly after completing the third book in the series, and realizing that there was still no steamy vampire sex to speak of, I heard that the first installment, Twilight, was being made into a movie. Dear God, I thought to myself. My horrible vampire secret is about to be revealed to the entire world, and all of my friends who I had explained the books to (in a much different manner) will know the truth!!! Fuck. That’s when the first billboards starting going up around North Hollywood. True to the story, a worried brunette girl with big brown eyes was plastered there, held tightly by a ghostly pale boy with an intensely square jaw and creepy golden eyes.

“That’s soooo not what Edward (the vampire boy) looks like!” I found myself saying aloud in the car one day.

“What?” my friend asked.

“I mean, the guy on the billboard’s kinda hot, but he looks a little old to be a teenager, no?” I snapped back, worried. I was going to be found out. Damn you, Stephenie Meyer!

I was forced to pass by those creepy golden eyes every day as I commuted to work, looking over the 101 and piercing into my silver Scion, telling me that soon everyone would know my dark cheesy vampire book-loving secret. And of course, those ads would start conversations among my friends and coworkers. “Isn’t that movie based on a book or something?” “I heard it’s supposed to be terrible. It’s got vampires and werewolves and crap like that.” I cringed, sitting quietly aside, waiting for the accusations to come...someone remembering the ridiculously fat book perched on my car seat, or the saga’s permanent resting place on my bedside table. Surprisingly only a few of my close friends ever made the connection, and they were strangely more curious than their usual sarcastic selves. Well, that is except for my darling roommate...

“Tell me what I am... VAMPIRE!” He would hiss the line from the trailer at me during quiet lulls in conversation. I couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it sounded, but he promised me after weeks of humiliating torture that he would go with me to see the film adaptation of my deep, dark secret; the only rule being that we not see it the first couple weeks that it was in theaters, so as to miss the truly crazy (and mostly ten-year-old) Twilight fanatics.

As promised, we eventually saw the film, along with another friend of ours who ridiculed me to no end as we walked back to the car. Thank god we had decided to go against Miss Meyer’s wholesome ideals and throw back a few drinks before the 10:15 showing or my friends’ otherwise sharp tongues would have surely killed me.

The movie was better than expected, this adaptation somehow managed to be a little more grounded than the books (and Miss Meyer’s hokey imagination) will ever be and the film managed to only briefly touch upon the weird vampire world depicted in the books, instead focusing more on the character’s emotions and trying to make everything feel a little more “human.” However, as I recently finished the fourth and final book of the series and news came of the sequels already set to be filmed, I couldn’t help but laugh with a mix of excitement and horror. You may have gotten away with one decent film, Miss Meyer, and you might somehow manage to pull off the next two, but when it comes time for the fourth installment to be made into a film, you’d better believe that I will have advance tickets to that shit-show.

You may have sold us on the virginal vampire concept and Native American werewolf clans, but I will pay good money to see how a film adaptation of a demon vampire baby chewing itself out of its teen mother’s womb and a twisted romance developing between said demon baby and an adult werewolf can still seem so touching and “human.”

Oh Stephenie Meyer, revenge is a bitch.

Gotta Light?

Every smoker has a dream. Either keep smoking until the day that they die and somehow manage to be stricken down by some illness not caused by their most vile habit, or eventually quit. I am now of the latter.

Moving to Los Angeles changed a lot of things about me. It changed the way I view people, the world, social norms, everything. And somewhere in this process I fell victim to the diabolical bliss that is the cigarette. Ah ciggies... you gotta love ‘em.

The feeling of your first liberated inhale after getting out of work, sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night and lighting up while looking up at the night sky or huddling over a lighter with a few of your friends (or complete strangers) trying to get one lit in the dark night in front of some noisy, crowded bar. Just writing this is giving me a phantom feeling in my hand that is still so incomplete.

I was never the chain smoker type. But there was something about cigarettes that kept me coming back for more... Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the comradery of finding that fellow smoker at a party and even though you didn’t know each other, somehow you had something in common. You’d sneak off and start a conversation while letting the smoke fill your lungs, and end up giving each other the “cheers” as soon as the paper had finished burning. That was all.

Maybe it’s silly but I went out the other night and saw some fun-looking kids out front all puffing away on their cigs and wishing I could join in, simply by asking for a light. When you’re dealing with an addiction, it seems natural that the first thing you might say to someone is asking for assistance.

“Gotta Light?”

And most people are glad to help. Sometimes you’ll have two or three people fumble about in their purses and pockets until one finally triumphs and produces a lighter. Someone would usually crack a smile and the ice would have been broken. Conversation is light and easy, since you’ve got your poisonous crutch to fall back on and you can watch the cigarettes dwindle, knowing its okay to excuse yourself back inside once the last ashes have fallen.

Come to think of it now, many of my good friends have been made through the simple act of puffing on that little tube of tobacco. I can remember bonding with new friends on the smoking patio in college, using our fifteen minutes of freedom to drag away and discuss our totally bizarre professors... we’d laugh and smoke, knowing that we were all completely different and came from all corners of the world, but were united in our terrible, but socially-accepted (at least in fashion school) addiction.

I’d even sit down and have a smoke with some of my favorite professors and discuss the lesson in more depth as I realized they were just as flawed with their vice as I. Mind you, these were the very same professors that revealed their three year acid trips to me and inserted single frames of animal sex into the class slide shows to make sure that you were indeed paying attention, but somehow that ciggie in their hand made me feel like we could relate.

I remember moving into an apartment building downtown after I had just briefly quit smoking and found myself starting up again so that I could wile away my hours in the stairwell a few floors up with some totally cool designer girls upstairs. They’d come down to my apartment, pound on my door until I slunk away from my school work and we’d race up the emergency stairwell, which no one used, wheezing a little until we landed on their floor where the walls were covered in our graffiti and the floor covered in our ashes. We’d even made a point to tear the no smoking sign from the wall in case our motives were ever questioned. (Which they were on several occasions by the prestigious community servicemen) We’d sit on the concrete stairs with our sketch books and paints, smoking away and tossing our cigarette butts into old bottles or coffee cups.

We were an odd group to say the least, but it made sense at the time. We were all looking for our little escape, our afternoon moments where we’d joke and laugh and smoke and nothing else really seemed to matter except our little concrete stairwell.

Forget looking cool or that other shit you’ve heard about smoking... what I miss most about cigarettes are my little chance encounters. The people you meet curbside who are more than willing to offer a light and jabber away for those 3-5 minutes. The easy transition from total stranger to comrade. It might sound ridiculous, but that’s how it was for me as a smoker. Sure, smoking probably was a social crutch for me, but I liked it. So don’t blame me if you chance to see me light one up again outside a crowded bar or with a group of strangers, I haven’t fallen off the wagon or gone back to my pack-a-day habit or anything like that, I’m just visiting an old friend.

Of Goats and Satellites

Today is a fine day to be a citizen of the Upper Fairfax community, for as heaven’s light shone through the mass of grey clouds and onto our very square of the forest, God’s messenger of light, (AKA the Hughes satellite internet man) brought his gift unto the world.

Okay, so maybe I’m making this a little dramatic and the mass of biblical references is probably unnecessary, but jokes aside, today was a magical day. No longer will I be forced to unplug the brown plastic 70s phone from the wall. No longer will I have to uncoil the phone cord from the computer and pull it gently over the floor as if I were laying an explosives fuse across the living room. No longer will I have to listen to that god-awful dial-up noise... (Oh yes, reach into your memories of yore, you remember...)

Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop
eeeeeeeeee-eerrrrrrrrr-eeeeee-yeeeeeeooooooowwwwwww-eeeeerrrrrrreeeeeewwwww
(insert terrible screeching sound here)
static.........
Connected!

My coil of wires has been replaced with a shining beacon of hope, a beautiful white glowing box that sits on the desk, flashing blue and signaling that there is a connection (lasting longer than 20 sustained minutes and moving at a pace faster than that of a Greek foot messenger) to the outside world. A little less beautiful is the abomination that the Hughes internet man decided to erect in our yard. Instead of your standard “let’s just screw this to the side of your house” operation, he deemed it necessary for a free-standing pole to be set into place, complete with a demonstration of his heaving, flabby man-muscles, concrete and a hole drilled through the floor of our house.

Now I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong, if this guy were in a little better shape and were to put up some resistance for the services he were about to provide, I would have happily become bikini clad in seconds, pouring the concrete myself in sub-zero conditions. I might have even gone so far as to bring in an ice chest of beer out and dance around for his amusement while he hooked up the magical little box. Thank god it didn’t come to that, because well, let’s be honest... my pasty, scantily-clad body dancing awkwardly about in the snow probably wouldn’t have helped the situation much. (Great visual picture though) But hell, had it seemed appropriate, I would have happily offered.

With all of this exciting commotion taking place in our hippie bungalow high among the trees, I couldn’t help but notice something a bit odd. Well, not so odd in the eyes of my endearing and perfectly naiive, animal-doting mother and her fiancé mountain-man, but a bit weird to everyone else taking in the situation. (That would be just me and the puffy Hughes Net guy) You see, before the glorious rumble of Hughes man’s diesel engine had awaken me from my bear-like slumber, my mum and mountain-man had been up to their usual flower child antics. The goats were running freely about the yard as usual, dropping tiny balls of shit anywhere that I might mistakenly place a rogue stiletto heel and destroying everything they can get their little hooves and mouths around.


However, when it came time for Hughes man to go about his satellite obelisk building adventures, the goats got a little too excited. Mountain-man came to Hughes man’s aide as the task became more rugged and therefore more to mountain-man’s interest, and his goat companion, Zeus, could not be kept at bay any longer. He began fiercely head-butting Hughes man and dropping little love pellets all around the work area in sheer delight for someone (other than me) to unleash his wrath upon. My mother finally came to the wise consensus that the goat was impeding construction efforts and was forced to tether him to a stake in the yard.

This was not something that Zeus had ever been subjected to, nor was it of his liking and so he proceeded to run in circles about the tether, crying and shitting everywhere, before finally mangling himself in the line, falling down and collapsing into submission. Now had an avid PETA member been present, they probably would have thought this was horrid, but knowing the complete asshole that this goat is, I thought it was absolutely hilarious. He would look up at mountain man every now and then and let out a pathetic shriek of despair, but there he was, tethered to his little stake in a pile of his own little poo pellets.

It was not long before the whiny goat was released from his tethered prison and let free to harass everyone at will once more, but for fifteen minutes my stiletto collection and I had our revenge. And now that I have satellite internet to do my bidding, I can sit happily inside and watch him shake his angry goat head at me while I take care of more important things, like watch Joaquin Phoenix freak the fuck out on David Letterman.

However, with great internet speed comes an enormous amount of amusing, meaningless shit that I have been unable to view for the past three months. Youtube links that were sent to me in January have just been viewed and gaffed over...dolphins blowing bubbles, REALLY??? My myspace totally got a facelift... because yes, I am still that juvenile and well, there were still references of me owning a Vespa and being in LA pasted around my page and I was honestly starting to wonder if a club had been created for bizarre, bloated indie boys with Vespas that had tracked me down as that scooter-cruising side kick of their dreams.


Alas, now my page is a little more boring and allows me to be free of friend requests from 30-something Angelenos with shaved heads and sleeves and promise to put me in their top four if we could “really just get together sometime.” Vomit. On the other hand, this will present an interesting flip-side as I will now get to evaluate my new friend requests from the furthest reaches of rural Washington. I’m hoping John Deere hat, gun, truck and dog all in one dazzling profile picture. Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she? Oooooh, or better yet, maybe Hughes man will find me...the puffy satellite installation technician of my dreams... this one goes out to you, tiger. Grooooooowwwwwwllllll.