I was in a nostalgic mood today, so I decided to go through some boxes of old stuff that I hadn't looked at in a while. In doing so, I stumbled across a treasure trove of notes that Donna, my younger sister, had left for me when we were both still living at our parents' house. I have no idea why I decided to keep these, much less take them with me when I moved to California, but I'm really glad I did, because every last one of these scribbles is absolutely priceless.
Some interesting facts about my sister that I discovered:
1. She apparently hated her wardrobe, as a majority of the notes were a request to borrow something out of my closet. The item in particular that Donna went after most was a balled-up gray fleece from the Gap (the appeal of which I still don't understand). It's ironic when you consider the fact that nowadays, my wardrobe consists almost entirely of clothes that she doesn't want anymore.
2. Even as a kid, she was able to sniff out a bad character. I had a friend that Donna really did not care for and one of the notes she had written said, "T <= ew! called."
A few years later, T invited me to come visit her while she was living abroad, then told me to stay somewhere else after I'd booked the ticket, then was completely rude to me when we did get around to hanging out. Needless to say, we are no longer friends, and my sister enjoyed a good round of "I told you so" upon hearing my story.
3. Donna's handwriting has not changed since she was in middle school.
4. She was a master at stick-figure drawings.
5. She gave me the nickname Reeny.
Here's a sample of 14-year-old Donna:
Hey doreen, reeny, doritos...
I know this is dumb, and you're going to be like... uhh! Butttt... could I borrow your gray-gap-fleece-pull-over again? =) ? Pleeease! Do it for my teeth! The 4 precious teeth I am going to loose tomorrow. They will thank you for making them warm! =) Oh and hey, I was just thinking... if you don't wear it that much maybe I could trade you my ck (pink shirt) and the a&f blue v-neck 4 it. talk to you more about it later.
-Donna =) tanks!
I know it seems like I'm making fun of her, but I'm not. I find these notes hilarious and adorable. It's nice to be reminded once in a while of the time when I still had my whole life ahead of me.
In case you're wondering, I did eventually make that trade with my sister, and it was then that the saga of notes ended. Donna was ecstatic at having finally acquired the gray fleece and wore it almost every day. The sad part about this story is that a few months later, another fleece-obsessed young lady saw the sweatshirt in the girls' locker room and swiped it. Donna was crestfallen and I felt bad for her... but at least she stopped asking me to let her borrow it.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
"I feel like I just got raped by a roller coaster."
I'm pretty annoyed right now, and it is because I've just figured out something about myself which utterly upsets me: I am the biggest fraud in the world. I pride myself on being a writer and a musician, yet I possess no creativity whatsoever. What many people - myself included - mistook for talent all these years was in reality just technical skill.
I've been applying mathematical precision to my artistic endeavors without ever once considering that I should have just been a mathematician.
For any of my 12 readers who might be confused, let me explain what I'm talking about. When it comes to the piano, I am classically trained. What this means is that I have the sight to read music, the hearing to learn a song by ear, and the dexterity to play what I've learned. People are usually impressed when they listen to me play, never taking pause long enough to realize that all my songs are borrowed. It's been a good 20 years since I last composed anything I could call my own, and to be perfectly honest, that piece sucked. Hey, I was a kid.
The same is true for writing. As a writer, I would say that my vocabulary, sentence structure, and grammar are well thought-out, and maybe even pleasant to read, but I can only write about things that I already know. I can write articles after conducting an interview. I can write literary essays after reading a book. I can write blog posts after something funny or interesting happens to me. I might even be able to write a novel based on personal experiences. But I've never been able to pull an original story out thin air.
Actually, that's not true. The last time I wrote creatively, I was a kid.
What I'm getting out of this is that somewhere along the path to adulthood, I lost my imagination.
So where does adult inspiration come from? I know that a lot of famous writers used their own lives as the backdrop for their work (if I ever finish that novel, it will be semi-autobiographical), but there were still many others who came up with ideas that were unheard of at the time, and absolutely not based on personal experiences. Science fiction is the first example that comes to mind. Fantasy fiction, though I've never been a fan, is another. Even a politically-charged social commentary like 1984, written in response to totalitarianism, is full of ideas that are original and terrifying.
I wish I could do what these guys did. I wish I could write something that is completely new and different and out of this world. I wish I'd never given up my imagination.
I don't know why I'm saying all this right now. Actually, I do know. (Frustration is apparently turning me into a compulsive liar.) The reason I'm complaining about my lack of creativity is because earlier I sat in front of my computer to write, and came up with nothing. Then I sat down at my keyboard to play, and still came up with nothing. So now I'm pissed at myself because I know that I'll spend hours combing the recesses of my brain for inspiration and will come up empty, and the whole day will be wasted.
Okay, pity party over. I'll probably end up deleting this tomorrow out of embarrassment. Luckily, it will only have been read by 12 people, so only 12 people will know that I'm a fraud. You guys can keep a secret, right?
I've been applying mathematical precision to my artistic endeavors without ever once considering that I should have just been a mathematician.
For any of my 12 readers who might be confused, let me explain what I'm talking about. When it comes to the piano, I am classically trained. What this means is that I have the sight to read music, the hearing to learn a song by ear, and the dexterity to play what I've learned. People are usually impressed when they listen to me play, never taking pause long enough to realize that all my songs are borrowed. It's been a good 20 years since I last composed anything I could call my own, and to be perfectly honest, that piece sucked. Hey, I was a kid.
The same is true for writing. As a writer, I would say that my vocabulary, sentence structure, and grammar are well thought-out, and maybe even pleasant to read, but I can only write about things that I already know. I can write articles after conducting an interview. I can write literary essays after reading a book. I can write blog posts after something funny or interesting happens to me. I might even be able to write a novel based on personal experiences. But I've never been able to pull an original story out thin air.
Actually, that's not true. The last time I wrote creatively, I was a kid.
What I'm getting out of this is that somewhere along the path to adulthood, I lost my imagination.
So where does adult inspiration come from? I know that a lot of famous writers used their own lives as the backdrop for their work (if I ever finish that novel, it will be semi-autobiographical), but there were still many others who came up with ideas that were unheard of at the time, and absolutely not based on personal experiences. Science fiction is the first example that comes to mind. Fantasy fiction, though I've never been a fan, is another. Even a politically-charged social commentary like 1984, written in response to totalitarianism, is full of ideas that are original and terrifying.
I wish I could do what these guys did. I wish I could write something that is completely new and different and out of this world. I wish I'd never given up my imagination.
I don't know why I'm saying all this right now. Actually, I do know. (Frustration is apparently turning me into a compulsive liar.) The reason I'm complaining about my lack of creativity is because earlier I sat in front of my computer to write, and came up with nothing. Then I sat down at my keyboard to play, and still came up with nothing. So now I'm pissed at myself because I know that I'll spend hours combing the recesses of my brain for inspiration and will come up empty, and the whole day will be wasted.
Okay, pity party over. I'll probably end up deleting this tomorrow out of embarrassment. Luckily, it will only have been read by 12 people, so only 12 people will know that I'm a fraud. You guys can keep a secret, right?
Friday, September 21, 2012
"Being in love with penis is not a disability."
The strangest thing happened just now.
For months, my beloved Yamaha sat untouched in my room as I focused my time on more literary activities: reading, writing, and trying to con people into giving me money for my writing. I'm doing pretty well on the first two - I recently finished reading a couple of books, and just completed the first chapter of my novel - but I haven't had much success pimping out my wordsmithing skills.
Today I decided to give myself a break. Actually, it wasn't so much that I decided to give myself a break as it was that I was inexplicably overcome with a sudden desire to make music. So I sat at my piano and began to play.
I had only been playing for about 10 minutes when there was a knock at my door. "Uh, just a second," I called out while rushing to put some pants on.
I opened the door to see an Asian guy about my age on the other side. "Was that you playing the piano just now?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Wow. I just wanted to tell you that I heard you in the hallway and I had to find out where the music was coming from. You're very talented."
"Thank you!"
Long story short, the guy at my door was also a musician. He lived in my building and was looking for people to collaborate and produce tracks with. It was then that I remembered the entire reason I had moved to L.A. in the first place: music!
Who knows, maybe I'll be able to find a job doing what I love after all.
For months, my beloved Yamaha sat untouched in my room as I focused my time on more literary activities: reading, writing, and trying to con people into giving me money for my writing. I'm doing pretty well on the first two - I recently finished reading a couple of books, and just completed the first chapter of my novel - but I haven't had much success pimping out my wordsmithing skills.
Today I decided to give myself a break. Actually, it wasn't so much that I decided to give myself a break as it was that I was inexplicably overcome with a sudden desire to make music. So I sat at my piano and began to play.
I had only been playing for about 10 minutes when there was a knock at my door. "Uh, just a second," I called out while rushing to put some pants on.
I opened the door to see an Asian guy about my age on the other side. "Was that you playing the piano just now?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Wow. I just wanted to tell you that I heard you in the hallway and I had to find out where the music was coming from. You're very talented."
"Thank you!"
Long story short, the guy at my door was also a musician. He lived in my building and was looking for people to collaborate and produce tracks with. It was then that I remembered the entire reason I had moved to L.A. in the first place: music!
Who knows, maybe I'll be able to find a job doing what I love after all.
Monday, September 17, 2012
"I wish I could play tambourine like him."
I was watching a movie while snacking on chips and soda. As always, my soda went flat before I could finish it. So I poured some scotch into my soda. Problem solved. In fact, the more scotch there was in the soda the less I noticed that it had gone flat.
Just make sure you don't accidently pour your soda into your scotch instead.
Just make sure you don't accidently pour your soda into your scotch instead.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
“You’re going to get naked in the domestic terminal?”
THE POSTMODERN GUIDE TO LIVING LIKE A ROCK STAR
(even though you're broke)
1. Find a job that requires minimal commitment time-wise.
Living like a rock star is all about having amazing experiences, and you can’t have those if you’re tied to your desk 60 hours a week and have to get your time off approved by a boss. Ideally, you’ll want to find a consultant position that pays a high hourly wage and ends 3 to 6 months after you start. Believe it or not, this doesn’t mean that you have to constantly look for a job – find a good consulting firm and they’ll do all the looking for you. All you have to do is show up, work the duration of the contract, save some money, and blow it later… preferably on the other side of the world until you can get another contract.
The other option is to actually be a rock star. Play music for a living, go on tour, sleep with groupies. If you can’t swing that, then I’d stick with the consultant thing.
2. Use whatever you do earn to travel. Curb your enthusiasm for material goods.
If you’re anything like me, your funds are limited, so you’ll have to allocate them wisely. You can buy yourself a nice car and new clothes, but I personally think you’ll be better off if you get out there, see the world, meet people, and have your mind blown. (You can have other parts blown too if you want, but you might have to pay for it.) The point is that experience and knowledge will always trump having lots of stuff. Possessions will hold you back and anchor you to a place, whereas ideas and memories will set you free. They can be taken anywhere and shared with anyone.
3. Never pay for drugs.
Mind you, that's not the same as saying never try drugs; in fact, I have no moral objection to recreational use whatsoever. The reason I think you should never pay for drugs is that I believe it changes your mentality towards the experience – you go from having a good time on occasion to seeking it out regularly and always having a stash on hand. I hope I don’t have to tell anyone how stupid it is to develop a drug habit. First, it’s expensive, and second, no 12-minute high is worth spending your life in and out of rehab, dealing with shady people on a regular basis, getting caught and going to prison, losing your friends/family/life savings, or having your heart explode.
However, if you're in the mood for an alternate reality or just wanna amp up that trashy one-night stand a bit, what I suggest you do is find some people that like to party, attend whatever questionable after-hours event they invite you to, flirt with ahigh cute member of the opposite sex (or same sex, if you’re into that kind of thing), and they’ll give you the shit for free. Do this sparingly and stay away from needles.
4. Be confident, witty, and fun.
There’s no point in living like a rock star if you’re not gonna act like one. More importantly, being a fun person means that others will enjoy your company and want to have you around. While this seems obvious, you will be surprised at what people are willing to do in order to have you around. One of my friends was so desperate to get rid of his then-girlfriend that he bought me a ticket to Japan just to piss her off. Okay, yeah, so maybe I was being used, but still. He could have picked someone else to go on the trip with.
5. Stick to your principles and stand up for your friends.
Want an entourage? Be a strong person and let the people you care about know that you'll always have their back. But this isn't just about having an entourage, even if it is very rock 'n' roll. It's more about the fact that you’ll always have your pride and the respect of others, including your enemies. In almost every instance where I’ve stood my ground, I’ve won, because I was doing the right thing and the opposing side knew it. You might run the risk of getting arrested by a uniformed asshole and spending the night in jail while the friend you were defending holds a bag of ice over his swollen black eye, but as long as you weren’t doing anything wrong, the City of Mountain View can’t charge you with a crime.
6. If you must impulse-buy, make it awesome.
I’m in Australia right now. My friends and family are just now finding out, because I didn’t get around to telling them. This is because I bought the plane ticket 4 days before it was scheduled to depart. I know. Awesome, right?
I can’t do this all the time of course, and I live in a shitty apartment and eat cereal for dinner every night, but who cares? I don’t think about those things and I definitely won’t remember them when I’m on my deathbed. However, there is absolutely nothing that will eclipse the memory of having impulse-bought a trip to Australia and having the time of my life. Unless I take too many drugs. See #3.
7. Keep your mind open to new experiences.
You can’t be a rock star and not have something to write about. Sometimes things will turn out well and sometimes they won’t; sometimes you’ll face your fears and overcome them and sometimes you’ll shit your pants. Whatever. No experience is a bad one if you can later turn it into a hit song.
8. Don’t worry about what others think.
Your parents will take issue with your refusal to get a “real” job. Your friends will worry about your finances. Your younger sister will tell you that you need to grow up. But it’s your life, and you can’t spend your one shot at earthly existence trying to please others. Well, you can, but then you’d be wasting it.
9. Always use a condom.
While I realize that having a sexually transmitted disease is very rock ‘n’ roll, it is also very painful, itchy, deadly, and unsexy. It’s okay to sleep around, but be smart about it. No, I’m not writing from personal experience.
10. Never fall in love.
Nothing gets in the way of spur-of-the-moment traveling and casual sex like having a special someone in your life. Don’t do it. You could be out and about in a foreign city with new friends, wreaking havoc on the locals, or you could stay in and do boring things like watch a movie while cuddling (if your special someone is present), or sit in front of your computer and write (if they are not). Your choice.
(even though you're broke)
1. Find a job that requires minimal commitment time-wise.
Living like a rock star is all about having amazing experiences, and you can’t have those if you’re tied to your desk 60 hours a week and have to get your time off approved by a boss. Ideally, you’ll want to find a consultant position that pays a high hourly wage and ends 3 to 6 months after you start. Believe it or not, this doesn’t mean that you have to constantly look for a job – find a good consulting firm and they’ll do all the looking for you. All you have to do is show up, work the duration of the contract, save some money, and blow it later… preferably on the other side of the world until you can get another contract.
The other option is to actually be a rock star. Play music for a living, go on tour, sleep with groupies. If you can’t swing that, then I’d stick with the consultant thing.
2. Use whatever you do earn to travel. Curb your enthusiasm for material goods.
If you’re anything like me, your funds are limited, so you’ll have to allocate them wisely. You can buy yourself a nice car and new clothes, but I personally think you’ll be better off if you get out there, see the world, meet people, and have your mind blown. (You can have other parts blown too if you want, but you might have to pay for it.) The point is that experience and knowledge will always trump having lots of stuff. Possessions will hold you back and anchor you to a place, whereas ideas and memories will set you free. They can be taken anywhere and shared with anyone.
3. Never pay for drugs.
Mind you, that's not the same as saying never try drugs; in fact, I have no moral objection to recreational use whatsoever. The reason I think you should never pay for drugs is that I believe it changes your mentality towards the experience – you go from having a good time on occasion to seeking it out regularly and always having a stash on hand. I hope I don’t have to tell anyone how stupid it is to develop a drug habit. First, it’s expensive, and second, no 12-minute high is worth spending your life in and out of rehab, dealing with shady people on a regular basis, getting caught and going to prison, losing your friends/family/life savings, or having your heart explode.
However, if you're in the mood for an alternate reality or just wanna amp up that trashy one-night stand a bit, what I suggest you do is find some people that like to party, attend whatever questionable after-hours event they invite you to, flirt with a
4. Be confident, witty, and fun.
There’s no point in living like a rock star if you’re not gonna act like one. More importantly, being a fun person means that others will enjoy your company and want to have you around. While this seems obvious, you will be surprised at what people are willing to do in order to have you around. One of my friends was so desperate to get rid of his then-girlfriend that he bought me a ticket to Japan just to piss her off. Okay, yeah, so maybe I was being used, but still. He could have picked someone else to go on the trip with.
5. Stick to your principles and stand up for your friends.
Want an entourage? Be a strong person and let the people you care about know that you'll always have their back. But this isn't just about having an entourage, even if it is very rock 'n' roll. It's more about the fact that you’ll always have your pride and the respect of others, including your enemies. In almost every instance where I’ve stood my ground, I’ve won, because I was doing the right thing and the opposing side knew it. You might run the risk of getting arrested by a uniformed asshole and spending the night in jail while the friend you were defending holds a bag of ice over his swollen black eye, but as long as you weren’t doing anything wrong, the City of Mountain View can’t charge you with a crime.
6. If you must impulse-buy, make it awesome.
I’m in Australia right now. My friends and family are just now finding out, because I didn’t get around to telling them. This is because I bought the plane ticket 4 days before it was scheduled to depart. I know. Awesome, right?
I can’t do this all the time of course, and I live in a shitty apartment and eat cereal for dinner every night, but who cares? I don’t think about those things and I definitely won’t remember them when I’m on my deathbed. However, there is absolutely nothing that will eclipse the memory of having impulse-bought a trip to Australia and having the time of my life. Unless I take too many drugs. See #3.
7. Keep your mind open to new experiences.
You can’t be a rock star and not have something to write about. Sometimes things will turn out well and sometimes they won’t; sometimes you’ll face your fears and overcome them and sometimes you’ll shit your pants. Whatever. No experience is a bad one if you can later turn it into a hit song.
8. Don’t worry about what others think.
Your parents will take issue with your refusal to get a “real” job. Your friends will worry about your finances. Your younger sister will tell you that you need to grow up. But it’s your life, and you can’t spend your one shot at earthly existence trying to please others. Well, you can, but then you’d be wasting it.
9. Always use a condom.
While I realize that having a sexually transmitted disease is very rock ‘n’ roll, it is also very painful, itchy, deadly, and unsexy. It’s okay to sleep around, but be smart about it. No, I’m not writing from personal experience.
10. Never fall in love.
Nothing gets in the way of spur-of-the-moment traveling and casual sex like having a special someone in your life. Don’t do it. You could be out and about in a foreign city with new friends, wreaking havoc on the locals, or you could stay in and do boring things like watch a movie while cuddling (if your special someone is present), or sit in front of your computer and write (if they are not). Your choice.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
"Don't download any porn while I'm gone. We have plenty of it here for free."
Occasionally I will get calls and texts that were meant for someone other than me. I always know right away if a message was intended for me or not, because if a friend of mine sends a text, it's usually written in acceptable English with the occasional SMS shorthand. If a text was intended for the person(s) who had the number before me, the writing is indistinguishable from that of a mentally challenged hamster.
Examples of actual texts that I have received:
Wat u doin Friday night
Merry xmas cali kush on dec holla me super phat xmas bags hit me
I got ol g kush and sour diesel on deck
Happy mothers day! :)
Depressing, isn't it?
Most of the time I'm nice and simply tell the misinformed party that they've got the wrong number. But tonight, I was in a particularly mischievous mood, and decided to engage in conversation. I guess I just wanted to see how long it would take them to figure out that I wasn't the person they were looking for.
Bro do u see what Monica is putting on her Fb bout u?
What'd she say?
She started this ratchet roast shit on Fb talkin bout everybody!
Not me but she said shit bout u! Bout mae Mae! Bout tati bout chavoinn
At least she's being fair.
Huh Im confused? Lol
I mean she's talking shit about everybody, not just me. So it's fair.
Lol did u see it?
No, I'm reading a book right now.
Lol oh ok well just thought i let ya know gnite
I love how this person doesn't mind that I think it's fair for Monica to publicly roast all of her friends, but is done with the conversation when I say I'm reading a book.
Just an aside, to anyone that thinks I'm pretentious for making fun of others who might not have had the same educational opportunities, I say bullshit. Anyone who has made it through first grade will have been taught the correct way of spelling words like "what" and "you" and "about." Anyone that finished high school - hell, middle school - will have been expected to spell those words correctly in all their English classes over the years. So if you really think about it, it is actually more pretentious to deliberately misspell short, simple words that all native English speakers are familiar with by the time they are adults.
Street cred can suck a fat one.
I love how this person doesn't mind that I think it's fair for Monica to publicly roast all of her friends, but is done with the conversation when I say I'm reading a book.
Just an aside, to anyone that thinks I'm pretentious for making fun of others who might not have had the same educational opportunities, I say bullshit. Anyone who has made it through first grade will have been taught the correct way of spelling words like "what" and "you" and "about." Anyone that finished high school - hell, middle school - will have been expected to spell those words correctly in all their English classes over the years. So if you really think about it, it is actually more pretentious to deliberately misspell short, simple words that all native English speakers are familiar with by the time they are adults.
Street cred can suck a fat one.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
"I try to take pride in my work, but doing this job is like being asked to polish a turd."
Dear Republicans,
I guess I'll start off by saying something nice, so...
Thank you for the years of entertainment that you've provided America. I mean it. You guys have always been a little nutty (and racist and sexist and homophobic and just generally intolerant), but you've really outdone yourself with this last batch of presidential hopefuls. It's always fun to see people trying to justify their beliefs when they refuse to employ any logic whatsoever. Political debates are boring by tradition, but you've made them laugh-out-loud hilarious. Congratulations!
Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business.
When will you learn that religiosity is not a trump card over reason? That all humans should be allowed to marry whomever they want regardless of how you feel about their personal choices which do not affect you at all? That basic health care is a right and not a privilege? That young men and women should not have to sacrifice their lives so that you can buy a second vacation home? That when you lie, people will find out?
Most importantly, when will you learn that choosing an attractive running mate is useless if at least one of you is bat-shit crazy? Maybe you should stop being bat-shit crazy.
Sincerely,
Reeny
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
"I have the bloody leg he gave me still in its box."
So here's my take on Instagram. Not that anyone will care, because Instagram has like eleventy billion users and I, of course, have to be the lone dissenting voice.
You can probably guess where I'm going with this. I don't like Instagram. Now, before all you hipsters look over your fake glasses at me and throw your cigarette butts in my direction, let me just say that it's not because I don't like the photos that come out of the app, or because I think the people who use it are stupid. (Or unoriginal. Or annoying. Or delusional about the fact that they became Ansel Adams overnight and think that every photo they take with their 5-megapixel camera phone is suddenly worth sharing.)
The plain and simple fact is that when it comes to photo manipulation, I prefer Photoshop. I say this not as an artiste, or as a photographer, but as a control freak. There's no way I will ever allow some one-step application to mess with my pictures knowing that I'll lose the original copy forever.
My photos might look over-edited, but damn it, at least it was by my own hand.
You can probably guess where I'm going with this. I don't like Instagram. Now, before all you hipsters look over your fake glasses at me and throw your cigarette butts in my direction, let me just say that it's not because I don't like the photos that come out of the app, or because I think the people who use it are stupid. (Or unoriginal. Or annoying. Or delusional about the fact that they became Ansel Adams overnight and think that every photo they take with their 5-megapixel camera phone is suddenly worth sharing.)
The plain and simple fact is that when it comes to photo manipulation, I prefer Photoshop. I say this not as an artiste, or as a photographer, but as a control freak. There's no way I will ever allow some one-step application to mess with my pictures knowing that I'll lose the original copy forever.
My photos might look over-edited, but damn it, at least it was by my own hand.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
"She's not so bad if you don't look at her for who she really is."
One topic of conversation that has come up over and over lately is the movie Gattaca. It's been quite a while since my last viewing, so I decided to revisit the film. I loved it the first time I saw it, and after seeing it again, nothing has changed, except that as a writer now I might love it even more.
SPOILER ALERT: I talk about the ending here, so if you haven't yet seen Gattaca, then please close your browser window, get thee to a video store post haste, and watch the damn movie before continuing on.
Gattaca is a prime example of good writing. Of course I love the story and the way it combines so many different movie genres into one, but what makes it really great is the incredible depth given to each character. Everyone in the story has a secret, an ailment, or a past that they must come to terms with. And even though the film doesn't focus as much attention on everyone else's background as it does our protagonist, it does give us a glimpse at the some of the difficulties that the other characters might have to endure.
My favorite character is not one that most people would expect it to be. Don't get me wrong; I think the three leads are great. Even though they are stock characters - Ethan Hawke as the hero, Uma Thurman as his romantic interest, and Jude Law as his confidant and friend - they are far more complex than a two-hour movie could ever allow. The guy we're supposed to cheer for is an obsessive fraud, his girlfriend is snoop who is plagued by insecurity, and his sidekick, a crippled alcoholic suffering from depression, is actually genetically superior to him. But, well-written and multidimensional that each of these people may be, none of them are my favorite character.
No, my favorite character is the one that took me by surprise the first time I saw Gattaca. My favorite character is the lab technician who administers Vincent's blood and urine tests: Lamar.
When we are first introduced to Lamar, he comes off, in my opinion, as a creepy older guy who probably has a gay crush on "Jerome." Lamar watches closely as Vincent pees into a cup, then makes a wildly inappropriate comment about his junk. "A beautiful piece of equipment, there, Jerome. Have I ever told you that?" "Only every time I'm in here." Gross.
You'd think that Lamar would stop there, but he doesn't. He goes on to say, "I see a great many in the course of any given day; yours just happens to be an exceptional example. Don't know why my folks didn't order one like that for me." And now we have a situation bordering on sexual harassment, which Vincent must tolerate in order to stay employed at Gattaca. It is understandable then, that when Lamar asks if he's ever told Vincent about his son, the response he gets is a short "No, you haven't." After testing the sample, Lamar tries to make small talk about the upcoming launch to Titan, but it is clear that Vincent cannot wait to get out of the lab.
We don't see much of Lamar throughout the film. On the rare occasion that he does make an appearance, he is presented as an adversary who could expose Vincent at any moment. But he comes back at the end, just as "Jerome" is about to board the ship. Vincent panics when he realizes that he is expected to give one last urine sample and does not have any of the real Jerome's DNA on him. He is too distressed to even notice what Lamar is saying to him as he reluctantly yields a sample of his own urine.
"I never did tell you about my son, did I? He's a big fan of yours. He wants to apply here. Unfortunately, my son's not all that they promised. But then, who knows what he could do. Right?"
Lamar tests the sample and reveals Vincent's true identity: IN-VALID. But even more shocking is what he reveals next.
"For future reference, right-handed men don't hold it with their left."
He knew all along.
Suddenly, your perception of Lamar changes. He goes from being a creepy older guy with no filter to a sympathetic father figure who understands Vincent's struggle. Lamar's son is a fan of Vincent probably because Lamar told his son all about Vincent. Unlike Vincent's own father, Lamar encourages his son to pursue his dreams despite the failings of his genetic engineering, and uses Vincent as an example that this is possible. Why else would he have let him pass all those times before?
You start to realize that those inappropriate comments at the beginning of the film were actually just Lamar's subtle way of hinting that he knew the truth. He made no bones about his careful observation every time "Jerome" took a leak into a cup, probably because he wanted to see where it was really coming from. And even though he knew Vincent used trickery to get through every substance test, Lamar secretly cheered him on to succeed. The cool thing about Gattaca is that it is able to suggest all of this without ever saying any of it. And to do a complete 180 on a character with just a few lines of dialogue, well... that is some great writing.
SPOILER ALERT: I talk about the ending here, so if you haven't yet seen Gattaca, then please close your browser window, get thee to a video store post haste, and watch the damn movie before continuing on.
Gattaca is a prime example of good writing. Of course I love the story and the way it combines so many different movie genres into one, but what makes it really great is the incredible depth given to each character. Everyone in the story has a secret, an ailment, or a past that they must come to terms with. And even though the film doesn't focus as much attention on everyone else's background as it does our protagonist, it does give us a glimpse at the some of the difficulties that the other characters might have to endure.
My favorite character is not one that most people would expect it to be. Don't get me wrong; I think the three leads are great. Even though they are stock characters - Ethan Hawke as the hero, Uma Thurman as his romantic interest, and Jude Law as his confidant and friend - they are far more complex than a two-hour movie could ever allow. The guy we're supposed to cheer for is an obsessive fraud, his girlfriend is snoop who is plagued by insecurity, and his sidekick, a crippled alcoholic suffering from depression, is actually genetically superior to him. But, well-written and multidimensional that each of these people may be, none of them are my favorite character.
No, my favorite character is the one that took me by surprise the first time I saw Gattaca. My favorite character is the lab technician who administers Vincent's blood and urine tests: Lamar.
When we are first introduced to Lamar, he comes off, in my opinion, as a creepy older guy who probably has a gay crush on "Jerome." Lamar watches closely as Vincent pees into a cup, then makes a wildly inappropriate comment about his junk. "A beautiful piece of equipment, there, Jerome. Have I ever told you that?" "Only every time I'm in here." Gross.
You'd think that Lamar would stop there, but he doesn't. He goes on to say, "I see a great many in the course of any given day; yours just happens to be an exceptional example. Don't know why my folks didn't order one like that for me." And now we have a situation bordering on sexual harassment, which Vincent must tolerate in order to stay employed at Gattaca. It is understandable then, that when Lamar asks if he's ever told Vincent about his son, the response he gets is a short "No, you haven't." After testing the sample, Lamar tries to make small talk about the upcoming launch to Titan, but it is clear that Vincent cannot wait to get out of the lab.
We don't see much of Lamar throughout the film. On the rare occasion that he does make an appearance, he is presented as an adversary who could expose Vincent at any moment. But he comes back at the end, just as "Jerome" is about to board the ship. Vincent panics when he realizes that he is expected to give one last urine sample and does not have any of the real Jerome's DNA on him. He is too distressed to even notice what Lamar is saying to him as he reluctantly yields a sample of his own urine.
"I never did tell you about my son, did I? He's a big fan of yours. He wants to apply here. Unfortunately, my son's not all that they promised. But then, who knows what he could do. Right?"
Lamar tests the sample and reveals Vincent's true identity: IN-VALID. But even more shocking is what he reveals next.
"For future reference, right-handed men don't hold it with their left."
He knew all along.
Suddenly, your perception of Lamar changes. He goes from being a creepy older guy with no filter to a sympathetic father figure who understands Vincent's struggle. Lamar's son is a fan of Vincent probably because Lamar told his son all about Vincent. Unlike Vincent's own father, Lamar encourages his son to pursue his dreams despite the failings of his genetic engineering, and uses Vincent as an example that this is possible. Why else would he have let him pass all those times before?
You start to realize that those inappropriate comments at the beginning of the film were actually just Lamar's subtle way of hinting that he knew the truth. He made no bones about his careful observation every time "Jerome" took a leak into a cup, probably because he wanted to see where it was really coming from. And even though he knew Vincent used trickery to get through every substance test, Lamar secretly cheered him on to succeed. The cool thing about Gattaca is that it is able to suggest all of this without ever saying any of it. And to do a complete 180 on a character with just a few lines of dialogue, well... that is some great writing.
Monday, July 2, 2012
"Okay, I'm eight years old. This is for real now."
It's been far
too long since I've posted something, and I'm starting to feel like a negligent
parent who has abandoned her child. (Yet another reason not to have kids. If I
can't even maintain a blog, how will I ever maintain a living, breathing,
humanoid replica of myself?)
It's summer in
L.A. and the city is coming alive. I don't mean that it's buzzing with activity
- this place is much too spread out for that - I mean Los Angeles is making an
honest-to-goodness attempt to be a functioning metropolis by investing in
Downtown. It's kind of cute, actually. Like The Little Engine That Could.
First step:
expanding Metro Rail to the Westside. When the project finishes, the Expo Line
will traverse the distance between Downtown L.A. and Santa Monica, but for now
you can take the train as far as Culver City. Since I work in Culver City, this
is a fabulous development for me... should I ever feel like walking for two miles
in sweltering heat from the rail station to the office. At the end of the day,
it'll still be a one-hour commute, but hey, at least it won't be because I was
sitting in traffic on the 10.
Second step:
opening up a Target at 7th and Figueroa. I haven't yet decided if this is good
news or bad news. On the one hand, it's good news because I love Target, but on
the other hand, it's bad news because, well, I love Target. I don't know how
that store always manages to suck me in, but it's pretty much impossible for me
to enter and exit a Target without spending at least a hundred dollars.
Third step:
bringing in residents. Many former hotels have been remodeled into studio
apartments that are renting out for cheap, in the hopes of attracting people
to the city's loft-living lifestyle. I'll be honest though, it sounds much
cooler than it really is. My "loft" is more of a
tiny-apartment-with-kind-of-high-ceilings, and the only chance of having an upper level
here is if I ever decide to buy a loft bed.
Fourth step:
bringing in brand-name retailers. There is a huge Guess? ad on the corner of
7th and Grand that appears to be covering up construction of a new store.
Unfortunately, it's just an ad, and Guess? doesn't have any plans to open up a
store in the area any time soon. But it's the appearance that counts. Maybe it'll
be enough to fool other retailers into thinking that Downtown is turning into a major
shopping scene. Hey, it worked on Target.
If Downtown
L.A. does manage to attract more major retailers, it will lead to even more
urban development, more job opportunities, more city-dwellers, more tax dollars, more
nightlife, more tourists, more expensive rents, more traffic...
Um, never
mind. I can handle the drunks, the tourists, and the possible increases in rent, but I
draw the line at more traffic.
Friday, May 4, 2012
"Why don't more serial killers attack in Venice? Plenty of places to dump a body, and no one would miss a tourist."
FADE IN
SCENE: INT. WOMEN'S RESTROOM - DAY
(REENY IS WASHING HER HANDS AS EVITA WALKS IN, WEARING A JACKET AND CARRYING ALL OF HER BAGS. SHE IS IN A HURRY.)
REENY: Hey, are you leaving for the day?
EVITA: Done with work, but I still have class after this.
REENY: (intrigued) I didn't know you were in school. What are you studying?
EVITA: (trying to get out of there) Computer Science.
REENY: (not getting it) That's really interesting. Do you like it?
EVITA: (patiently) Yeah, it's pretty cool so far. I'm looking forward to class today because we're doing Android programming.
(EVITA WALKS TOWARDS THE STALLS, HOPING REENY WILL NOTICE THAT SHE STILL HASN'T PEED YET.)
REENY: (very excited) Wow, cool! You mean like A.I. stuff?
EVITA: (blank stare) No, I mean like... the phone.
REENY: (disappointed) Oh. Right. I knew that.
(AWKWARD PAUSE AS THE TWO PUZZLE OVER REENY'S UNABASHED NERDINESS. WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, EVITA GOES INTO A STALL.)
FADE OUT
SCENE: INT. WOMEN'S RESTROOM - DAY
(REENY IS WASHING HER HANDS AS EVITA WALKS IN, WEARING A JACKET AND CARRYING ALL OF HER BAGS. SHE IS IN A HURRY.)
REENY: Hey, are you leaving for the day?
EVITA: Done with work, but I still have class after this.
REENY: (intrigued) I didn't know you were in school. What are you studying?
EVITA: (trying to get out of there) Computer Science.
REENY: (not getting it) That's really interesting. Do you like it?
EVITA: (patiently) Yeah, it's pretty cool so far. I'm looking forward to class today because we're doing Android programming.
(EVITA WALKS TOWARDS THE STALLS, HOPING REENY WILL NOTICE THAT SHE STILL HASN'T PEED YET.)
REENY: (very excited) Wow, cool! You mean like A.I. stuff?
EVITA: (blank stare) No, I mean like... the phone.
REENY: (disappointed) Oh. Right. I knew that.
(AWKWARD PAUSE AS THE TWO PUZZLE OVER REENY'S UNABASHED NERDINESS. WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, EVITA GOES INTO A STALL.)
FADE OUT
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
"Dusting my cobwebs off. I haven't been out in two years!"
Today is my last day in Seattle and I'm spending it with my parents again. I never, ever, ever thought I would feel this way, but I am homesick for L.A. Either I've started to like living there, or I just really hate Seattle. Probably the latter.
I feel bad though, because I know my parents miss me and are hurt that I don't want to be closer to them. The fact is, my parents are great people and I have no problem spending time with them. My dad and I have a lot in common, so we tend to get into these long discussions about subjects that I actually find interesting. My mom spoils the hell out of me by taking me shopping and cooking my favorite foods when I'm here.
The problem is not the parents, but where the parents have chosen to settle down. I recently caught up with someone that I grew up with, and he shared my sentiments about Seattle. He has traveled all around the world and has lived in many different countries, which I admire and envy. However, there is one crucial difference between us that doesn't leave me wishing I could trade places with him: after months of living like a gypsy, he always returns home.
I asked him why he keeps coming back to a place he hates, and he simply answered, "Family."
Sorry, Mom and Dad, but I'm a little too selfish for that.
Which brings me to my next point. I'm at the age right now where many of my friends are starting to have kids of their own, or at least want to. Every time this topic comes up in conversation, I always adamantly insist that I have no interest in having children, and the person I'm talking to always responds with the same utter disbelief.
"You don't want kids? Why?"
Well, let's see. Disposable income. No 18-year leash to a man I no longer want to be with. Free time to do what I want. The ability to travel and move around without worrying about uprooting someone in their developmental years. Fewer mouths to feed. Not having to stay at a job that I abhor just to have a steady income. No PTA meetings. Being able to sleep in. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Sometimes I think about how much my parents have sacrificed in order to raise my sister and me. (Yes, "me" is being used correctly here. Look it up.) They worked long hours, always worried about money, and had to put off doing what they wanted every Saturday in order to drive us to piano lessons. When the family took a vacation, we went to Disneyland even though I'm sure they would have preferred Italy.
The worst thing of all, though, would have to be giving up everything for a child, only to watch her grow up and move far away with no intention of ever returning.
I used to joke that my biggest reason for not wanting children was that I would never enter any relationship in which I am guaranteed to not have the upper hand. But when I examine the relationship I have with my parents, I know now that I wasn't joking.
Sometimes the narcissist in me thinks it would be great to produce a bunch of carbon copies of myself, because clearly, I'm awesome. Then again, why would I ever want to have kids knowing that they will inherit from me the tendency to be stubborn, selfish, mouthy little brats who think they're smarter than everyone and will undermine parental authority at every turn? I am many things, but I am definitely not stupid.
I feel bad though, because I know my parents miss me and are hurt that I don't want to be closer to them. The fact is, my parents are great people and I have no problem spending time with them. My dad and I have a lot in common, so we tend to get into these long discussions about subjects that I actually find interesting. My mom spoils the hell out of me by taking me shopping and cooking my favorite foods when I'm here.
The problem is not the parents, but where the parents have chosen to settle down. I recently caught up with someone that I grew up with, and he shared my sentiments about Seattle. He has traveled all around the world and has lived in many different countries, which I admire and envy. However, there is one crucial difference between us that doesn't leave me wishing I could trade places with him: after months of living like a gypsy, he always returns home.
I asked him why he keeps coming back to a place he hates, and he simply answered, "Family."
Sorry, Mom and Dad, but I'm a little too selfish for that.
Which brings me to my next point. I'm at the age right now where many of my friends are starting to have kids of their own, or at least want to. Every time this topic comes up in conversation, I always adamantly insist that I have no interest in having children, and the person I'm talking to always responds with the same utter disbelief.
"You don't want kids? Why?"
Well, let's see. Disposable income. No 18-year leash to a man I no longer want to be with. Free time to do what I want. The ability to travel and move around without worrying about uprooting someone in their developmental years. Fewer mouths to feed. Not having to stay at a job that I abhor just to have a steady income. No PTA meetings. Being able to sleep in. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Sometimes I think about how much my parents have sacrificed in order to raise my sister and me. (Yes, "me" is being used correctly here. Look it up.) They worked long hours, always worried about money, and had to put off doing what they wanted every Saturday in order to drive us to piano lessons. When the family took a vacation, we went to Disneyland even though I'm sure they would have preferred Italy.
The worst thing of all, though, would have to be giving up everything for a child, only to watch her grow up and move far away with no intention of ever returning.
I used to joke that my biggest reason for not wanting children was that I would never enter any relationship in which I am guaranteed to not have the upper hand. But when I examine the relationship I have with my parents, I know now that I wasn't joking.
Sometimes the narcissist in me thinks it would be great to produce a bunch of carbon copies of myself, because clearly, I'm awesome. Then again, why would I ever want to have kids knowing that they will inherit from me the tendency to be stubborn, selfish, mouthy little brats who think they're smarter than everyone and will undermine parental authority at every turn? I am many things, but I am definitely not stupid.
Monday, April 9, 2012
"Does smart-ass run in your family?"
Last Tuesday, I flew up to Seattle to stay with my sister, Donna. Here's my assessment of the trip so far:
Seattle is sunny, but cold.
I mean that both literally and metaphorically. The sun has been out every day but I've yet to leave the apartment without a jacket. Even though I'm supposed to be on vacation, I still worked. And while my sister's apartment has been buzzing with social activity all week, I, for the most part, have been rather antisocial.
On Wednesday, we went to see The Cribs perform at The Crocodile. I saw Gary Jarman in the audience during the opening act and our eyes met. For some reason I didn't introduce myself to him, which is unusual because I'm not normally shy, and he was standing there all by himself anyway. I'm still kicking myself over the lost opportunity to meet the lead singer of one of my favorite bands.
On Thursday, I borrowed Donna's car and visited my parents. As soon as I entered the house, I made a beeline for the piano, where I stayed for the better portion of my time there.
On Friday, Donna and I spent the afternoon on her sofa. We both had our laptops open and somehow managed to communicate almost entirely through Facebook, even though we were sitting right next to each other. Later that evening her friends came over, at which point I locked myself in the bedroom to write an article while they drank beer and ate chips and played drinking games.
On Saturday, I fell asleep on the couch while another group of friends occupied the living room and filled it with an apparently fascinating conversation.
Sunday was Easter, which meant going over to the parents' house - this time the whole family was there - and having dinner. I played piano again.
And all throughout the week, when I wasn't sleeping, playing piano, or writing an article, I was trying to plow through a book that I found on Donna's shelf the day I arrived in Seattle. It's a pretty large volume and I don't expect to finish the whole thing, so whenever I have the opportunity to read, I do, which means that I'm often buried between pages while my sister entertains her friends. Luckily, a couple of the guys that were over on Saturday saved me some time, by giving me an essential spoiler before I fell asleep in their presence.
Have I always been this uninterested in other people? I used to think of myself as a person who preferred the company of others to being alone, but I find that the older I get, the less tolerance I have for stupidity. It's not that I think my parents, my sister, or her friends are stupid - on the contrary, they are all great people whom I genuinely like. It's more the fact that I've had to deal with so much stupidity over the years that socializing now bores me. I've reached a point where small talk and getting everyone up to speed on what I'm doing with my life feels like work that is draining and tiresome.
I have a friend in Australia that I Skype with on occasion. Because of the time difference, we usually have to meet on the weekends when neither of us is working. He likes to make fun of me for staying in on Friday nights, and I don't bother making excuses for it. The funny thing about all this is that we don't even talk much when we're logged on, because we're too busy playing each other in Words With Friends or Draw Something.
When I reflect on the various aspects of my life, I realize now that I was never as good with people as I thought I was or would have liked to be. I was horrible at sales, I had no talent for customer service, and I hated doing group projects in school. The jobs where I excelled the most were jobs where I could work independently and didn't have to deal with clients - playing piano, writing, editing - and during my college years, I was happiest studying alone. Even in my leisure time I prefer solitude. I shop alone. I eat out alone. I go to the movies alone. I travel alone. I know that there are probably many people who will think this is lame. Guess what? I don't care.
Self-discovery is an interesting thing. When I first moved to L.A., I never thought of myself as an introvert; I was just someone who hadn't lived there long and didn't have a lot of friends in the area. But in my hometown of Seattle, where I am surrounded by familiar faces, it is obvious to me now that I am definitely an introvert.
I used to think that because I was confident, unafraid to talk to people, and always joking around, that there was no way I could possibly be an introvert. But I, like most people, had it all wrong, and it wasn't until I started reading more on the subject that I learned what it really means to be introverted. It does not mean that I am shy, socially awkward, rude, arrogant, or uncaring (even though I have been known to exhibit these qualities from time to time). It simply means that I am less interested in the world around me than I am the ideas inside my own head. And you know what? There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. The stuff that goes on inside my head is fantastic.
I did make some social "progress" earlier tonight, though. I looked up from my reading long enough to have a short conversation with Donna before she went to bed.
"Did you finish the book?"
"No. But I read the most important parts."
"How did you know what the important parts were?"
"I skimmed for keywords based on the spoiler your friends gave me."
I won't reveal the name of the book, but I will give you the spoiler. Are you ready?
Everyone, whether they know it or not, wants the same thing in life, and that is to find someone to love, and be loved in return.
I know what you're thinking. Duh, right? Well, falling in love requires human interaction, and let's be honest, most humans are idiots. I am aware that my cynical outlook on my own species will probably doom me to a life of loneliness, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Now that I think about it, the majority of conversations that happened this week did revolve around love and relationships. Funny how I don't pay any mind to what people are saying, but if I read the exact same thing in a book then it must be something worthy of consideration.
Maybe it's time to start getting friendly. Not because I want to change my personality, but because no one will realize how lovable I am until I put down that book and talk to someone. As soon as I snatch up Mr. Right, I will go right back to ignoring him.
Seattle is sunny, but cold.
I mean that both literally and metaphorically. The sun has been out every day but I've yet to leave the apartment without a jacket. Even though I'm supposed to be on vacation, I still worked. And while my sister's apartment has been buzzing with social activity all week, I, for the most part, have been rather antisocial.
On Wednesday, we went to see The Cribs perform at The Crocodile. I saw Gary Jarman in the audience during the opening act and our eyes met. For some reason I didn't introduce myself to him, which is unusual because I'm not normally shy, and he was standing there all by himself anyway. I'm still kicking myself over the lost opportunity to meet the lead singer of one of my favorite bands.
On Thursday, I borrowed Donna's car and visited my parents. As soon as I entered the house, I made a beeline for the piano, where I stayed for the better portion of my time there.
On Friday, Donna and I spent the afternoon on her sofa. We both had our laptops open and somehow managed to communicate almost entirely through Facebook, even though we were sitting right next to each other. Later that evening her friends came over, at which point I locked myself in the bedroom to write an article while they drank beer and ate chips and played drinking games.
On Saturday, I fell asleep on the couch while another group of friends occupied the living room and filled it with an apparently fascinating conversation.
Sunday was Easter, which meant going over to the parents' house - this time the whole family was there - and having dinner. I played piano again.
And all throughout the week, when I wasn't sleeping, playing piano, or writing an article, I was trying to plow through a book that I found on Donna's shelf the day I arrived in Seattle. It's a pretty large volume and I don't expect to finish the whole thing, so whenever I have the opportunity to read, I do, which means that I'm often buried between pages while my sister entertains her friends. Luckily, a couple of the guys that were over on Saturday saved me some time, by giving me an essential spoiler before I fell asleep in their presence.
Have I always been this uninterested in other people? I used to think of myself as a person who preferred the company of others to being alone, but I find that the older I get, the less tolerance I have for stupidity. It's not that I think my parents, my sister, or her friends are stupid - on the contrary, they are all great people whom I genuinely like. It's more the fact that I've had to deal with so much stupidity over the years that socializing now bores me. I've reached a point where small talk and getting everyone up to speed on what I'm doing with my life feels like work that is draining and tiresome.
I have a friend in Australia that I Skype with on occasion. Because of the time difference, we usually have to meet on the weekends when neither of us is working. He likes to make fun of me for staying in on Friday nights, and I don't bother making excuses for it. The funny thing about all this is that we don't even talk much when we're logged on, because we're too busy playing each other in Words With Friends or Draw Something.
When I reflect on the various aspects of my life, I realize now that I was never as good with people as I thought I was or would have liked to be. I was horrible at sales, I had no talent for customer service, and I hated doing group projects in school. The jobs where I excelled the most were jobs where I could work independently and didn't have to deal with clients - playing piano, writing, editing - and during my college years, I was happiest studying alone. Even in my leisure time I prefer solitude. I shop alone. I eat out alone. I go to the movies alone. I travel alone. I know that there are probably many people who will think this is lame. Guess what? I don't care.
Self-discovery is an interesting thing. When I first moved to L.A., I never thought of myself as an introvert; I was just someone who hadn't lived there long and didn't have a lot of friends in the area. But in my hometown of Seattle, where I am surrounded by familiar faces, it is obvious to me now that I am definitely an introvert.
I used to think that because I was confident, unafraid to talk to people, and always joking around, that there was no way I could possibly be an introvert. But I, like most people, had it all wrong, and it wasn't until I started reading more on the subject that I learned what it really means to be introverted. It does not mean that I am shy, socially awkward, rude, arrogant, or uncaring (even though I have been known to exhibit these qualities from time to time). It simply means that I am less interested in the world around me than I am the ideas inside my own head. And you know what? There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. The stuff that goes on inside my head is fantastic.
I did make some social "progress" earlier tonight, though. I looked up from my reading long enough to have a short conversation with Donna before she went to bed.
"Did you finish the book?"
"No. But I read the most important parts."
"How did you know what the important parts were?"
"I skimmed for keywords based on the spoiler your friends gave me."
I won't reveal the name of the book, but I will give you the spoiler. Are you ready?
Everyone, whether they know it or not, wants the same thing in life, and that is to find someone to love, and be loved in return.
I know what you're thinking. Duh, right? Well, falling in love requires human interaction, and let's be honest, most humans are idiots. I am aware that my cynical outlook on my own species will probably doom me to a life of loneliness, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Now that I think about it, the majority of conversations that happened this week did revolve around love and relationships. Funny how I don't pay any mind to what people are saying, but if I read the exact same thing in a book then it must be something worthy of consideration.
Maybe it's time to start getting friendly. Not because I want to change my personality, but because no one will realize how lovable I am until I put down that book and talk to someone. As soon as I snatch up Mr. Right, I will go right back to ignoring him.
Monday, April 2, 2012
"These idiots will buy anything from a smiling white face."
There is a popular trend that's bothered me for quite some time now, but out of courtesy to the many friends of mine who are guilty of following this trend, I've never said anything. Well, it is a crime against English, and as a writer I can no longer hold my tongue. Pen. Fingers. Whatever.
So at the risk of alienating my friends, as well as my entire readership of 11 people, here it is:
Using hashtags on websites that don't support hashtagging is stupid.
On Twitter, a hashtag links to a search query that populates tweets similar to yours. On almost every other website in the world, a hashtag is just an eyesore that doesn't do anything. See? #eyesorethatdoesntdoanything
Try clicking on that. Oh, you can't.
I'm not exactly the biggest Twitter fan, but I do understand that a 140-character limit requires a few workarounds to get all the information out to your followers. At the very least, a hashtag used on a supporting website will actually take you somewhere.
But what the hell is everyone's excuse for using hashtags on Facebook?
Most people write poorly enough as it is. The last thing we need is an excuse to string together a bunch of words without any spacing, capitalization, or punctuation. There is far too much ugly plaguing the English language already, now that text-message shorthand has made its way into our writing. Let's not add to the cancer.
#dinosaurloversunite
So at the risk of alienating my friends, as well as my entire readership of 11 people, here it is:
Using hashtags on websites that don't support hashtagging is stupid.
On Twitter, a hashtag links to a search query that populates tweets similar to yours. On almost every other website in the world, a hashtag is just an eyesore that doesn't do anything. See? #eyesorethatdoesntdoanything
Try clicking on that. Oh, you can't.
I'm not exactly the biggest Twitter fan, but I do understand that a 140-character limit requires a few workarounds to get all the information out to your followers. At the very least, a hashtag used on a supporting website will actually take you somewhere.
But what the hell is everyone's excuse for using hashtags on Facebook?
Most people write poorly enough as it is. The last thing we need is an excuse to string together a bunch of words without any spacing, capitalization, or punctuation. There is far too much ugly plaguing the English language already, now that text-message shorthand has made its way into our writing. Let's not add to the cancer.
#dinosaurloversunite
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
"It's a woman who may or may not have a penis."
Why do I get the feeling that I am the only person on this planet who does not wish to share my every move with every other person on this planet?
I'm looking at you, Facebook.
Is there no one else out there that values privacy? Hard as it may be to believe, I am actually a rather private person. Sure, I have a public blog. But I only share what I choose to, and having that choice is what makes me enjoy writing this blog and loathe logging on to Facebook.
Let's start off with check-ins. No, I don't want everyone to know where I am all the time. Even if I were somewhere really cool, like a yacht party off the coast of Italy with George Clooney. Because when I come back to work after a spectacular five-day weekend at sea, I can tell my boss and jealous coworkers that I needed the extra time off to negotiate humanity's freedom with hostile alien forces trying to take over Earth, and they will be none the wiser. It's not dishonest. It's diplomatic.
Spotify is another app that bugs me. I like it for the ability to sample music without having to pay for it, but dislike the social additives of publishing playlists and sharing songs that I listen to in my News Feed. Enjoying music is a very personal experience for me and I don't see any reason to suddenly involve others. Besides, how am I supposed to convince my friends that I have sophisticated musical taste when they can see that I've been listening to Color Me Badd and Ace of Base all day?
But that's not what really bothers me about these social reading applications. What really bothers me is that there is no filter between the time you read a story and the time it gets posted on Facebook. In the old days (like, 8 months ago), you had to manually post a link to a story you liked, telling your friends that this particular piece of writing somewhere on the Internet was worthy of their attention. Now, as soon as you navigate to a story using a social reader, the application will share that story with your friends whether you like it or not.
Two obvious problems come to mind: the first, of course, is that I don't want everyone to know what I'm reading all the time - philosophy of Kant, yes, how to make tea without setting your house on fire, no - and the second is that I don't know until after I've read an article whether or not it will be worth sharing. After checking out many of the so-called "news stories" that my friends have shared using a social reading app, I can conclude that most of what we find on the web is definitely not worth sharing.
I haven't even touched on the fact that Facebook reports every time you add a new friend, write on someone's wall, or comment on a picture. This bothers me immensely. Even if I didn't use any apps, I'd still feel like my online activity was exposed for all to see. Can't we just go back to the good old days, when everyone minded their own business and only shared what they did when someone asked them to share?
Imagine you're in my shoes.
"Hey, Reeny, what did you do this weekend?"
"Oh, you know. I volunteered at the hospital, listened to some indie rock, and finished reading War and Peace finally. No biggie."
Which response would you prefer?
"Oh, that's cool."
OR
"Really? Then why did Facebook say that you checked in at Chuck E. Cheese's, listened to a playlist called 'Endless Nickelback,' and read your own blog over and over?"
Saturday, March 10, 2012
"700 miles? That has to be the world's longest booty call."
A few nights ago, I told a guy who was hitting on me to lose 50 pounds first. This was a new low for me, but since I'm obviously very shallow, a new low isn't actually that far down.
Corny jokes aside, I am very sorry to say that this portly would-be Casanova absolutely deserved my rude brush-off. Because my "Drop 50 pounds, then maybe we'll talk" was a knee-jerk response to his "I totally wanna do you."
Dating in L.A. is hard. I have made a slow and steady migration southward along the West Coast of the United States and I've traveled to a few different countries overseas. Nowhere else in the world have I had as much difficulty finding a date as I have in the City of Angels. It's not just the brash come-ons from overconfident fatties. It's that dating, which in and of itself is already a challenge, is now made even more challenging by all the additional problems that come with simply living in L.A.
It's hard enough to find someone you can talk to, who shares your interests, your values, your goals, your vision of the future regarding marriage and kids, and who is attractive enough that getting busy doesn't require drowning yourself in alcohol. It'd be great, too, if that special someone liked you back. This is true no matter where you live, but if you happen to live in L.A., you'll soon discover that discovery is not enough.
Let's start with the fact that here, it is possible for two people to have a Los Angeles address and still live two hours away from one another. If the definition of dating someone requires going out on dates, then distance and traffic will make it an annoying and time-consuming ordeal.
Then there's the problem of finding a place to go. All the good places will be packed with wannabe celebrities and normal people hoping to brush shoulders with real celebrities. What this means for me is a 45 minute wait for a table, snotty service when we finally get a table, and stupid conversations overheard from the surrounding tables.
And since everyone in L.A. has to drive everywhere, parking is a bitch. Even if you find a spot, you still have the task of deciphering three or four parking restriction signs and figuring out which ones apply to you. What day of the week is it? What time is it? Do I have to have a permit? What color is the curb? Is there a meter? Sometimes it's better to just save yourself from a huge headache and pay the $20ass rape valet parking fee. Nothing kills a good overpriced dinner buzz like a parking ticket.
All of this assumes that you have found someone you'd actually want to go through all the trouble for, and despite its large population, the pool of dateable people in Los Angeles is pathetically small. Not everyone is chubby and delusional, of course. I recently met someone who was very attractive and fit, but unfortunately, he would not stop talking about how good-looking he was. He even felt the need to tell me that he knew he could get away with acting like a moron because girls would still like him anyway. He was sober. Needless to say, I didn't give him my number.
I could go into the various ways that douche-baggery ravages this city, but that's another blog post altogether.
So let's see... in the hopes that I've met someone who isn't completely retarded, I can spend an hour and a half getting ready, another hour and a half driving to the date, 20 minutes looking for parking, 45 minutes waiting for a table, half an hour driving to the next spot (because you always go somewhere else if the date is going well), another half-hour looking for parking there, another half-hour waiting to get in... or I can just take a shower, get some writing done, go to bed at a decent time, and not worry about whether or not he's retarded.
Yeah, I think I'll do that.
Corny jokes aside, I am very sorry to say that this portly would-be Casanova absolutely deserved my rude brush-off. Because my "Drop 50 pounds, then maybe we'll talk" was a knee-jerk response to his "I totally wanna do you."
Dating in L.A. is hard. I have made a slow and steady migration southward along the West Coast of the United States and I've traveled to a few different countries overseas. Nowhere else in the world have I had as much difficulty finding a date as I have in the City of Angels. It's not just the brash come-ons from overconfident fatties. It's that dating, which in and of itself is already a challenge, is now made even more challenging by all the additional problems that come with simply living in L.A.
It's hard enough to find someone you can talk to, who shares your interests, your values, your goals, your vision of the future regarding marriage and kids, and who is attractive enough that getting busy doesn't require drowning yourself in alcohol. It'd be great, too, if that special someone liked you back. This is true no matter where you live, but if you happen to live in L.A., you'll soon discover that discovery is not enough.
Let's start with the fact that here, it is possible for two people to have a Los Angeles address and still live two hours away from one another. If the definition of dating someone requires going out on dates, then distance and traffic will make it an annoying and time-consuming ordeal.
Then there's the problem of finding a place to go. All the good places will be packed with wannabe celebrities and normal people hoping to brush shoulders with real celebrities. What this means for me is a 45 minute wait for a table, snotty service when we finally get a table, and stupid conversations overheard from the surrounding tables.
And since everyone in L.A. has to drive everywhere, parking is a bitch. Even if you find a spot, you still have the task of deciphering three or four parking restriction signs and figuring out which ones apply to you. What day of the week is it? What time is it? Do I have to have a permit? What color is the curb? Is there a meter? Sometimes it's better to just save yourself from a huge headache and pay the $20
All of this assumes that you have found someone you'd actually want to go through all the trouble for, and despite its large population, the pool of dateable people in Los Angeles is pathetically small. Not everyone is chubby and delusional, of course. I recently met someone who was very attractive and fit, but unfortunately, he would not stop talking about how good-looking he was. He even felt the need to tell me that he knew he could get away with acting like a moron because girls would still like him anyway. He was sober. Needless to say, I didn't give him my number.
I could go into the various ways that douche-baggery ravages this city, but that's another blog post altogether.
So let's see... in the hopes that I've met someone who isn't completely retarded, I can spend an hour and a half getting ready, another hour and a half driving to the date, 20 minutes looking for parking, 45 minutes waiting for a table, half an hour driving to the next spot (because you always go somewhere else if the date is going well), another half-hour looking for parking there, another half-hour waiting to get in... or I can just take a shower, get some writing done, go to bed at a decent time, and not worry about whether or not he's retarded.
Yeah, I think I'll do that.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
"He's not a douche bag. He's just French."
Last night, I went to a goth masquerade party in Koreatown. That makes two consecutive goth weekend outings, which is odd, because I hardly consider myself a goth.
Okay, so I have black hair, a twisted sense of humor, a wardrobe full of dark colors, and an unwavering love for 80s music, but I swear I am not goth.
Having said that, I will now proceed to share the most inappropriate goth-related story I can possibly think of that I can still get away with, without making myself look too bad and without getting an email about it from my boss. Here goes...
I will admit that eyeliner on a guy, when done right, can be kind of hot. Seriously though, not goth.
I'm writing about my recent immersion in the goth subculture because people have been asking me to update my blog, but I don't really have anything new and interesting that I can share. At least not publicly. While I'm incredibly flattered that some of my friends have taken an interest in my writing, I'm also slightly terrified at the idea of exposing myself to everyone. I mean, I run around the apartment in my underwear, but no one sees that. Having my blog scrutinized by people I actually know feels much more naked. And now that people from work have started reading it, I have to be extra careful about what I post online.
Having said that, I will now proceed to share the most inappropriate goth-related story I can possibly think of that I can still get away with, without making myself look too bad and without getting an email about it from my boss. Here goes...
I lived in the Bay Area for six years before moving to Southern California. I never lived in San Francisco proper, but I had a very good friend who did, and we would frequently go out together in the city. We both worked at Nordstrom back then, so we were both always dressed up and ready to hit the town.
One afternoon, my friend called me, as usual. A new club had opened across the street from his apartment building and he wanted to check it out, as usual. He needed a wingman, as usual. I agreed to come with him, as usual. We would often grab dinner before going out, so as soon as I got off work I drove straight to his place. As usual.
The first thing he said to me upon answering the door was: "You're gonna wear that?"
It was the middle of summer, so I was wearing a white skirt, a powder blue tank top under a denim blazer, white sandals, and a plaid powder blue headband. I thought I looked nice. He was also dressed in typical Nordstrom attire - a black suit without the tie - so I wasn't sure what the problem was.
We arrived at the club, showed our IDs, paid the cover, got our wristbands, and made our way inside. I found out soon enough why my friend didn't care for my outfit.
The place we went to was one of those clubs that did different themes every night, and on that particular night, the theme was "Bondage-A-Go-Go."
It wouldn't have been so bad if all that was going on was a bunch of weirdos in freaky attire dancing around to industrial music. What this place had was weirdos in leather jumpsuits, weirdos in assless chaps, weirdos in fishnet dresses with nothing underneath, weirdos on swings, weirdos behind bars, weirdos that were tied up, dominant weirdos whipping submissive weirdos, sadistic weirdos giving electric shocks to masochistic weirdos, weirdos simulating kinky sex, weirdos actually having kinky sex, weirdos getting involved with more than one weirdo at a time, old weirdos, even older weirdos, transvestite weirdos, post-op weirdos, and of course, weirdos wrestling in a plastic tub full of fake blood.
I was horrified. My friend, on the other hand, was really enjoying himself, especially when a security guard spotted me and demanded to see my wristband to make sure I hadn't wandered in there by accident. Trooper that I was, I stuck it out for as long as I could, but as soon as I got splattered with fake blood by a couple of over-eager weirdos going at it in the plastic tub, I was ready to go.
When I saw my friend talking to a cute blonde girl, I decided that it was an appropriate time to make my exit. I texted him that I was leaving and took off.
About half an hour later, he called me. I asked if he'd exchanged numbers with the blonde. He told me that she was an accountant working in Palo Alto and that she had offered to violate him with a strap-on. So, no.
The lesson here, kids, is that you should always do your research before going someplace new. Ask questions. Bring a change of clothes if you have to. And it never hurts to find out if someone wants to torture you anally before giving them your phone number. I may not be goth, and I may still find myself in questionable situations from time to time, but at least I'll never again make the mistake of wearing powder blue to a club whose theme for the night is "Bondage-A-Go-Go."
Saturday, February 4, 2012
"Respect the fade."
I have been inspired by all those "Sh*t People Say" videos to create one of my own. However, since I'm a writer and not a filmmaker, I have a feeling that anything I produce using a camera will be a low-budget, barely audible recording of extremely poor quality that won't be much fun to watch. So I'll just write the script and let someone else worry about the video part.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is my foray into screenwriting. Okay, not really.
By the way, I'm writing what I know and what I know is very specific. There might be a total of three people in the world other than myself who will find this funny. If I'm lucky, maybe one of those three will read this blog post and show it to the other two.
And now, without further ado, I give you:
Sh*t People Say at Post-Production Houses
REENY: Where's the media for this project?
MANOELA: These Spanish soap operas are so annoying and the files always have problems.
ANDREA: The problem is not with the software. What did Media Services say?
MEDIA SERVICES: The media is fine. Talk to Andrea in Application Support.
OMAR: Did you check the end credits?
SARA: I hate all these teen soap operas.
ANTON: I hate these freaking vampire shows.
REENY: I'm working on an awesome feature that hits theaters next week.
SARA: I hate you.
WILL: Does anyone want to work this weekend?
ANTON: Is it drop frame or non-drop frame?
REENY: Wanna grab lunch?
MANOELA: I just got back from lunch.
REENY: Coffee break, then?
MANOELA: Okay.
DOMINIC: Hey, how was your weekend?
REENY: Hey, why are you sitting at my desk?
OMAR: Did you check the glossary?
REENY: How do you title this?
SARA: You got me. Ask Emmett.
EMMETT: I have no idea. Ask Omar.
OMAR: I don't know. Ask Will.
WILL: I'm not sure. Ask Creative.
CREATIVE: Screw all of you guys.
MANOELA: Why are they called Creative, anyway?
REENY: I can't access the media again.
KIRK: Seriously, it's right there. I can see it.
ANTON: Where's the script for this project?
MANOELA: I'm getting really tired of working on Spanish soap operas.
SEAN: What's the project number?
MALU: Can you give me the path?
MIK: Do you have a screenshot?
SIRANUSH: What's your ETA?
REENY: Are there any bagels left?
OMAR: Did you check the documentation?
WILL: Pete has a ton of stuff on his desk you can knock over.
PETE: Will asked you to deliver a message to me?
MANOELA: This Portuguese translator does not know Portuguese.
REENY: Seriously, where's the media?
WILL: Please give Reeny media access.
KIRK: I did, like two hours ago.
REENY: I lost access.
REENY: Is "douche bag" one word or two?
DEVON: Two.
REENY: I hate filling out timesheets.
ANTON: I hate subtitling.
SARA: I hate closed-captions.
MANOELA: I hate these freaking Spanish soap operas!
WILL: You don't have to come in this weekend if you don't want to.
DOMINIC: Where's the repo file?
REENY: I don't care. You're in my seat.
MANOELA: What time did you get here?
REENY: Just now.
MANOELA: Wanna take a coffee break?
REENY: Okay.
EVITA: ****!
LEONARD: Do I really have to title all of these songs?
ANTON: Can you read that?
SARA: What the hell is this person saying?
OMAR: Did you check online?
WILL: I lied. Can you come in this weekend?
REENY: How am I supposed to research this name if I can't visit any porn sites?
KIRK: The German team had the same problem a couple months ago with gambling sites.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is my foray into screenwriting. Okay, not really.
By the way, I'm writing what I know and what I know is very specific. There might be a total of three people in the world other than myself who will find this funny. If I'm lucky, maybe one of those three will read this blog post and show it to the other two.
And now, without further ado, I give you:
Sh*t People Say at Post-Production Houses
REENY: Where's the media for this project?
MANOELA: These Spanish soap operas are so annoying and the files always have problems.
ANDREA: The problem is not with the software. What did Media Services say?
MEDIA SERVICES: The media is fine. Talk to Andrea in Application Support.
OMAR: Did you check the end credits?
SARA: I hate all these teen soap operas.
ANTON: I hate these freaking vampire shows.
REENY: I'm working on an awesome feature that hits theaters next week.
SARA: I hate you.
WILL: Does anyone want to work this weekend?
ANTON: Is it drop frame or non-drop frame?
REENY: Wanna grab lunch?
MANOELA: I just got back from lunch.
REENY: Coffee break, then?
MANOELA: Okay.
DOMINIC: Hey, how was your weekend?
REENY: Hey, why are you sitting at my desk?
OMAR: Did you check the glossary?
REENY: How do you title this?
SARA: You got me. Ask Emmett.
EMMETT: I have no idea. Ask Omar.
OMAR: I don't know. Ask Will.
WILL: I'm not sure. Ask Creative.
CREATIVE: Screw all of you guys.
MANOELA: Why are they called Creative, anyway?
REENY: I can't access the media again.
KIRK: Seriously, it's right there. I can see it.
ANTON: Where's the script for this project?
MANOELA: I'm getting really tired of working on Spanish soap operas.
SEAN: What's the project number?
MALU: Can you give me the path?
MIK: Do you have a screenshot?
SIRANUSH: What's your ETA?
REENY: Are there any bagels left?
OMAR: Did you check the documentation?
WILL: Pete has a ton of stuff on his desk you can knock over.
PETE: Will asked you to deliver a message to me?
MANOELA: This Portuguese translator does not know Portuguese.
REENY: Seriously, where's the media?
WILL: Please give Reeny media access.
KIRK: I did, like two hours ago.
REENY: I lost access.
REENY: Is "douche bag" one word or two?
DEVON: Two.
REENY: I hate filling out timesheets.
ANTON: I hate subtitling.
SARA: I hate closed-captions.
MANOELA: I hate these freaking Spanish soap operas!
WILL: You don't have to come in this weekend if you don't want to.
DOMINIC: Where's the repo file?
REENY: I don't care. You're in my seat.
MANOELA: What time did you get here?
REENY: Just now.
MANOELA: Wanna take a coffee break?
REENY: Okay.
EVITA: ****!
LEONARD: Do I really have to title all of these songs?
ANTON: Can you read that?
SARA: What the hell is this person saying?
OMAR: Did you check online?
WILL: I lied. Can you come in this weekend?
REENY: How am I supposed to research this name if I can't visit any porn sites?
KIRK: The German team had the same problem a couple months ago with gambling sites.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
"There are very few problems that can't be solved by going commando."
Dear Seattle,
I'm sorry you suffered the storm of the century. I talked to my parents yesterday and they told me they were stuck eating ramen noodles all week because they couldn't go out to buy food. In other words, they had to know what it's like to be me for a week.
I'm not sorry that an L.A. Times blogger - one who lives in Seattle, by the way - called the city out for its poor handling of the snow. Poor girl. She must miss the sun so much.
I'm sorry that many people mistook the tone of my previous blog post for anger. That wasn't my intent, and I wasn't angry. The intent of that post was to make fun of Art Thiel for writing a dissertation about Seattle's topography, climate, and the type of snow it receives in response to Kim Murphy's article, which was about preparedness. To avoid confusion, I went back and punctuated my writing with emoticons in order to make it painfully obvious that I was having fun at Art Thiel's expense.
I'm not sorry for writing that post. It was a hoot. I was laughing the whole time. And I don't care if I was the only one.
I'm sorry for calling you guys babies. What I really meant to say was "big fat crying babies."
I'm not sorry for thinking you guys are big fat crying babies. It's true.
Sincerely,
Reeny
I'm sorry you suffered the storm of the century. I talked to my parents yesterday and they told me they were stuck eating ramen noodles all week because they couldn't go out to buy food. In other words, they had to know what it's like to be me for a week.
I'm not sorry that an L.A. Times blogger - one who lives in Seattle, by the way - called the city out for its poor handling of the snow. Poor girl. She must miss the sun so much.
I'm sorry that many people mistook the tone of my previous blog post for anger. That wasn't my intent, and I wasn't angry. The intent of that post was to make fun of Art Thiel for writing a dissertation about Seattle's topography, climate, and the type of snow it receives in response to Kim Murphy's article, which was about preparedness. To avoid confusion, I went back and punctuated my writing with emoticons in order to make it painfully obvious that I was having fun at Art Thiel's expense.
I'm not sorry for writing that post. It was a hoot. I was laughing the whole time. And I don't care if I was the only one.
I'm sorry for calling you guys babies. What I really meant to say was "big fat crying babies."
I'm not sorry for thinking you guys are big fat crying babies. It's true.
Sincerely,
Reeny
Saturday, January 21, 2012
"Hey, Art Thiel: Shut the hell up!"
That's what I said out loud after reading this long-winded diatribe by Seattle sportswriter Art Thiel. If you think I'm out of line, then I suggest you read it as well. Don't worry, I'll wait. I also apologize in advance. ;)
Done? Okay, good. Now I can continue. Where was I? Oh yeah...
Hey, Art Thiel: Shut the hell up!
Waa, waa, waaaaaaaa. Did you get beat up by a Californian when you were in grade school? Maybe you're on your period. ;) Or maybe you're just another typical Seattleite, overly sensitive and hyper-protective of your beloved hometown. So an L.A. Times blogger thinks Seattleites are wimps, so what? All that sobbing about the mean lady who called you names didn't exactly make you look like a tough guy. :p
I have never read a piece of writing that was so angry, so defensive, and yet so boring at the same time. Congrats for pulling that off. ;) My friends like to tease me for going off on nerdy rants, but obviously they've never seen anything written by you when you've felt insulted. You basically published a thesis paper on Seattle terrain in comparison to other cities that get snow. Wow. Next to you, I look cool, and that never happens! :D
I live in a city that people love to make fun of. Who cares? I make fun of it too. :) I mean, I could have named this blog Romantic L.A. (yeah, right) or Classic L.A. (please!) or even Sunny L.A. (closer to the truth, but far too cheerful for my purposes) but I didn't. I know this place isn't perfect, and that's why I don't get all upset when people talk trash about it. But you know what? The imperfections of this city are what inspired me to start writing. :) You gotta learn to roll with the punches, buddy.
I've read about the recent snowstorm in Seattle. :( My family lives there. :( A friend of mine was in an accident because of the snow. :( I feel bad for you guys, I really do. :( But it doesn't change the fact that the city is full of babies - yourself included - and it's definitely not gonna stop me from giving you a hard time for producing more whine than all the vineyards in France. ;)
Yes, I know it's the wrong word. This blog was meant to be read to an audience at open mike nights, okay? :p
And lest you think I'm one of those Angelenos who doesn't know what she's talking about, then let me just say now that I was born and raised in Seattle. :p I lived there for more than 20 years before I left, so I know how awful the weather is and how idiotic the drivers are. I'm not wrong in my assessment of Seattleites being overly sensitive, either. ;) I'm one of those transplants you mentioned, only I was smart and moved in the opposite direction. And you know why? Because it freaking snows up there! :p
One more thing. If you're still upset about having to give up your lunch money to a Californian, then go see a therapist, and shut the hell up. :D
***
UPDATE: I posted this on Twitter and Art Thiel retweeted it to 1,865 followers! I'd be happy if even 10% of those followers clicked on my link. So I tweeted the following response:
@Art_Thiel That was cool of you to retweet. Sorry for calling you a baby. I have to admit I still had fun writing it, though :p
Art displayed my link on his page without comment, but there were others who did have something to say to me, and none of it was nice. Of course, they were all from Seattle which is hilarious, not to mention it only served to prove my point further. I tweeted this for them:
I should be upset that my blog post garnered mostly negative responses, but since they all came from Seattle folk I actually find it funny!
People, there's no point in living if you can't poke a little fun at yourselves.
***
UPDATE: Sarcasm doesn't come naturally to those that are easily offended. Since all these poor, helpless Seattleites on Twitter thought I seemed angry in this blog post, I went through and punctuated it with emoticons to make it less scary sounding. They have been highlighted in blue for your benefit. There, all better now?
I've also written an apology to the city of Seattle, which you can read here.
Done? Okay, good. Now I can continue. Where was I? Oh yeah...
Hey, Art Thiel: Shut the hell up!
Waa, waa, waaaaaaaa. Did you get beat up by a Californian when you were in grade school? Maybe you're on your period. ;) Or maybe you're just another typical Seattleite, overly sensitive and hyper-protective of your beloved hometown. So an L.A. Times blogger thinks Seattleites are wimps, so what? All that sobbing about the mean lady who called you names didn't exactly make you look like a tough guy. :p
I have never read a piece of writing that was so angry, so defensive, and yet so boring at the same time. Congrats for pulling that off. ;) My friends like to tease me for going off on nerdy rants, but obviously they've never seen anything written by you when you've felt insulted. You basically published a thesis paper on Seattle terrain in comparison to other cities that get snow. Wow. Next to you, I look cool, and that never happens! :D
I live in a city that people love to make fun of. Who cares? I make fun of it too. :) I mean, I could have named this blog Romantic L.A. (yeah, right) or Classic L.A. (please!) or even Sunny L.A. (closer to the truth, but far too cheerful for my purposes) but I didn't. I know this place isn't perfect, and that's why I don't get all upset when people talk trash about it. But you know what? The imperfections of this city are what inspired me to start writing. :) You gotta learn to roll with the punches, buddy.
I've read about the recent snowstorm in Seattle. :( My family lives there. :( A friend of mine was in an accident because of the snow. :( I feel bad for you guys, I really do. :( But it doesn't change the fact that the city is full of babies - yourself included - and it's definitely not gonna stop me from giving you a hard time for producing more whine than all the vineyards in France. ;)
Yes, I know it's the wrong word. This blog was meant to be read to an audience at open mike nights, okay? :p
And lest you think I'm one of those Angelenos who doesn't know what she's talking about, then let me just say now that I was born and raised in Seattle. :p I lived there for more than 20 years before I left, so I know how awful the weather is and how idiotic the drivers are. I'm not wrong in my assessment of Seattleites being overly sensitive, either. ;) I'm one of those transplants you mentioned, only I was smart and moved in the opposite direction. And you know why? Because it freaking snows up there! :p
One more thing. If you're still upset about having to give up your lunch money to a Californian, then go see a therapist, and shut the hell up. :D
***
UPDATE: I posted this on Twitter and Art Thiel retweeted it to 1,865 followers! I'd be happy if even 10% of those followers clicked on my link. So I tweeted the following response:
@Art_Thiel That was cool of you to retweet. Sorry for calling you a baby. I have to admit I still had fun writing it, though :p
Art displayed my link on his page without comment, but there were others who did have something to say to me, and none of it was nice. Of course, they were all from Seattle which is hilarious, not to mention it only served to prove my point further. I tweeted this for them:
I should be upset that my blog post garnered mostly negative responses, but since they all came from Seattle folk I actually find it funny!
People, there's no point in living if you can't poke a little fun at yourselves.
***
UPDATE: Sarcasm doesn't come naturally to those that are easily offended. Since all these poor, helpless Seattleites on Twitter thought I seemed angry in this blog post, I went through and punctuated it with emoticons to make it less scary sounding. They have been highlighted in blue for your benefit. There, all better now?
I've also written an apology to the city of Seattle, which you can read here.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
"My bed smells delicious. Unfortunately it smells like coffee."
Victory! I've found the only two pages on Wikipedia that are up and running today.
This one and this one.
You can thank me later.
If you don't have time to read about Congressional bills, then just sign the petition here. It only takes a second. Well, maybe a little longer if you have a slow connection and you decide to log on at the same time as everyone else, which is pretty much guaranteed to happen. But four seconds tops.
This one and this one.
You can thank me later.
If you don't have time to read about Congressional bills, then just sign the petition here. It only takes a second. Well, maybe a little longer if you have a slow connection and you decide to log on at the same time as everyone else, which is pretty much guaranteed to happen. But four seconds tops.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
"She would reek of Vietnam!"
A lot of my friends are fans of How I Met Your Mother, but up until recently I had only seen a few episodes in passing. My feelings on the show were neutral. Not great, not terrible, just okay. However, when people started pointing out similarities between Robin's character and myself, my vanity got the better of me, and I started watching the show marathon-style a few weeks ago.
I'm halfway through Season 6 now. I'm getting worried that I won't know what to do with myself once I run out of episodes on Netflix, because as much as I hate to admit that I was wrong - and I seem to be doing that a lot lately - How I Met Your Mother is actually pretty good.
I get the jokes now. Turns out you have to watch it from the beginning to get the jokes. Also, I have to give credit where it's due, because many of the catchphrases I hear on a daily basis come from that show. "Legen... wait for it... dary," "Challenge accepted," "Lawyered," and even "True story" were made popular by How I Met Your Mother. I have to say though, I'm a little disappointed that my friends have no imagination whatsoever when they speak or write.
But I'm getting off track. Wow, I'm even doing the red-herring-filled narrative like Future Ted! Anyway, the whole point of this blog post is that it is absolutely uncanny how much I have in common with Robin Scherbatsky. She may be tall, Canadian, and crazy about firearms, but the differences end there.
Here are just some of the ways in which we are alike:
We're both transplants.
We're both extremely independent.
We're both tomboys.
We're both reluctant to commit to anything.
We both hate kids. Okay, hate is a strong word, but we definitely don't want kids.
We both had a short-lived career in music.
We're both skeptics.
We both like to wear boots. Then again, that's every girl. Scratch that.
We both would rather travel and live abroad than settle down.
We both say "but, um" a lot.
We both like hockey, though she definitely likes it way more than I do.
We both had unfortunate experiences in Japan.
We both love dogs.
We both can't stand it when there's a hotter girl in the room. Oops, every girl again.
We both think "shut up" is an appropriate default response.
We're both friends with a morally depraved womanizer who wears suits all the time.
True story.
I'm halfway through Season 6 now. I'm getting worried that I won't know what to do with myself once I run out of episodes on Netflix, because as much as I hate to admit that I was wrong - and I seem to be doing that a lot lately - How I Met Your Mother is actually pretty good.
I get the jokes now. Turns out you have to watch it from the beginning to get the jokes. Also, I have to give credit where it's due, because many of the catchphrases I hear on a daily basis come from that show. "Legen... wait for it... dary," "Challenge accepted," "Lawyered," and even "True story" were made popular by How I Met Your Mother. I have to say though, I'm a little disappointed that my friends have no imagination whatsoever when they speak or write.
But I'm getting off track. Wow, I'm even doing the red-herring-filled narrative like Future Ted! Anyway, the whole point of this blog post is that it is absolutely uncanny how much I have in common with Robin Scherbatsky. She may be tall, Canadian, and crazy about firearms, but the differences end there.
Here are just some of the ways in which we are alike:
We're both transplants.
We're both extremely independent.
We're both tomboys.
We're both reluctant to commit to anything.
We both hate kids. Okay, hate is a strong word, but we definitely don't want kids.
We both had a short-lived career in music.
We're both skeptics.
We both like to wear boots. Then again, that's every girl. Scratch that.
We both would rather travel and live abroad than settle down.
We both say "but, um" a lot.
We both like hockey, though she definitely likes it way more than I do.
We both had unfortunate experiences in Japan.
We both love dogs.
We both can't stand it when there's a hotter girl in the room. Oops, every girl again.
We both think "shut up" is an appropriate default response.
We're both friends with a morally depraved womanizer who wears suits all the time.
True story.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
"Second coming... are we talking about Jesus or sex?"
I think it's time I weighed in on the Tim Tebow conversation. Everyone else is talking about it and I'm starting to feel left out.
I have a question for Mr. Tebow. Unfortunately, he probably won't ever get around to answering it because he's a famous quarterback and I'm... well... not. But I'll ask it anyway.
My question is this: Do you think that if God weren't so busy fixing NFL games in favor of the Denver Broncos, that he might have enough time to deal with other pressing issues like poverty, hunger, AIDS, cancer, the national debt, the environment, the mortgage crisis, the conflict in the Middle East, the decline of the euro, the fall of Rome (again! WTF Rome?), homelessness, unemployment, petty crime, white-collar crime, health care, gay rights, or even Michael Bay movies?
Probably not. I mean, there are hundreds of sporting events going on all over the world, and God has to listen to each and every prayer regarding the outcomes, determine which side is more earnest, and make decisions for all of those games. And then go see his bookie.
I just don't understand how Tebow can honestly believe he has God in his corner. For some inexplicable reason, which we can never know, God is pulling strings here and causing miracles there for the sole benefit of one guy. Why? Does this mean God loves Tim more than Tom? (I'm talking about Brady.) Again, why? And I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that God even cares enough about football to get involved in the first place when there are still so many unanswered prayers out there.
It's a painful slap in the face to see the Lord Almighty, the most powerful being in the universe, picking favorites among the rich and famous while ignoring the needs of those far less fortunate who really could use a little help. He seems kind of petty, in very much the same way humans are petty. God sounds like a dude who would rather turn on ESPN and kick back with a beer than read the news and try to make a difference in a way that actually matters. Did God create man in his own image, or was it the other way around and the author of Genesis just had dyslexia?
Every time I ask a Christian why God allows so much suffering in this world, I always get the same two answers:
1. The Cop Out
This is the insistence that suffering is a part of God's plan. We can never hope to understand it; we just have to accept it. One day, when we're all in heaven, sitting around a bonfire and singing "Kumbaya" together while making s'mores, God will tell all. He will explain why he allowed kids in Africa to be born with AIDS and why it was necessary for the Broncos to win all those games. Wow, can't wait.
2. The Illogical Justification
We suffer because we've sinned. Therefore, God can't or won't intervene in the life of baby born in Africa with AIDS because it was the baby's own damn fault. The baby may not have sinned yet, but it will. Okay fine, but he'll intervene during a football game to make sure that some quarterback - a guy who's already got it good - throws a pass to a wide receiver - another guy who's got it good - so that he catches it and manages to run to the end zone without members of the opposing team - guys who all have it good but not as much on that particular day - tackling him to the ground?
Tim Tebow, I'm not trying to criticize your gameplay. You've experienced incredible success at a very young age and I'm glad for you. Also a little jealous. But let's be real here. You got where you are because you train hard, you practice every day, you have a good coach and good teammates, and you're a virgin. I'm not kidding. 24 years without sex? If I had that much pent-up frustration, I'd be a black belt in karate.
Here's what I'm saying. You should take responsibility for everything that happens in your life, good or bad, because ultimately, you're the one in control. When you throw a game-winning touchdown, own it. Give yourself a pat on the back. And if you should screw up and lose a game, then recognize that you made a mistake or didn't play your best, and learn from it so that you don't repeat it.
But don't say it was God's will that your team won or lost. That is such a cop out.
***
UPDATE: The Broncos lost big time to the Patriots not even 24 hours after I posted this. I'll be honest, I'm kind of smug that God was absent from the game. Still Tebowing, Tim?
I have a question for Mr. Tebow. Unfortunately, he probably won't ever get around to answering it because he's a famous quarterback and I'm... well... not. But I'll ask it anyway.
My question is this: Do you think that if God weren't so busy fixing NFL games in favor of the Denver Broncos, that he might have enough time to deal with other pressing issues like poverty, hunger, AIDS, cancer, the national debt, the environment, the mortgage crisis, the conflict in the Middle East, the decline of the euro, the fall of Rome (again! WTF Rome?), homelessness, unemployment, petty crime, white-collar crime, health care, gay rights, or even Michael Bay movies?
Probably not. I mean, there are hundreds of sporting events going on all over the world, and God has to listen to each and every prayer regarding the outcomes, determine which side is more earnest, and make decisions for all of those games. And then go see his bookie.
I just don't understand how Tebow can honestly believe he has God in his corner. For some inexplicable reason, which we can never know, God is pulling strings here and causing miracles there for the sole benefit of one guy. Why? Does this mean God loves Tim more than Tom? (I'm talking about Brady.) Again, why? And I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that God even cares enough about football to get involved in the first place when there are still so many unanswered prayers out there.
It's a painful slap in the face to see the Lord Almighty, the most powerful being in the universe, picking favorites among the rich and famous while ignoring the needs of those far less fortunate who really could use a little help. He seems kind of petty, in very much the same way humans are petty. God sounds like a dude who would rather turn on ESPN and kick back with a beer than read the news and try to make a difference in a way that actually matters. Did God create man in his own image, or was it the other way around and the author of Genesis just had dyslexia?
Every time I ask a Christian why God allows so much suffering in this world, I always get the same two answers:
1. The Cop Out
This is the insistence that suffering is a part of God's plan. We can never hope to understand it; we just have to accept it. One day, when we're all in heaven, sitting around a bonfire and singing "Kumbaya" together while making s'mores, God will tell all. He will explain why he allowed kids in Africa to be born with AIDS and why it was necessary for the Broncos to win all those games. Wow, can't wait.
2. The Illogical Justification
We suffer because we've sinned. Therefore, God can't or won't intervene in the life of baby born in Africa with AIDS because it was the baby's own damn fault. The baby may not have sinned yet, but it will. Okay fine, but he'll intervene during a football game to make sure that some quarterback - a guy who's already got it good - throws a pass to a wide receiver - another guy who's got it good - so that he catches it and manages to run to the end zone without members of the opposing team - guys who all have it good but not as much on that particular day - tackling him to the ground?
Tim Tebow, I'm not trying to criticize your gameplay. You've experienced incredible success at a very young age and I'm glad for you. Also a little jealous. But let's be real here. You got where you are because you train hard, you practice every day, you have a good coach and good teammates, and you're a virgin. I'm not kidding. 24 years without sex? If I had that much pent-up frustration, I'd be a black belt in karate.
Here's what I'm saying. You should take responsibility for everything that happens in your life, good or bad, because ultimately, you're the one in control. When you throw a game-winning touchdown, own it. Give yourself a pat on the back. And if you should screw up and lose a game, then recognize that you made a mistake or didn't play your best, and learn from it so that you don't repeat it.
But don't say it was God's will that your team won or lost. That is such a cop out.
***
UPDATE: The Broncos lost big time to the Patriots not even 24 hours after I posted this. I'll be honest, I'm kind of smug that God was absent from the game. Still Tebowing, Tim?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
"No live goat for you tonight."
I have two announcements, both of which make me sad.
The first is that I just got back my editor's revised copy of the article I wrote for his magazine. He told me that he really liked it and only had to make a few small edits. Turns out "a few small edits" was a total rewrite of the whole thing.
And the second is that I may have to start a Twitter account. This is especially embarrassing because I have said for years that I would never use that service and that the people who do are sad attention whores. Apparently, it's the best way to network if you're a struggling writer and you want people to read your blog. Then again, it wasn't too long ago that I said I would never start a blog, either.
Haven't made any money yet and already I'm a sellout.
The first is that I just got back my editor's revised copy of the article I wrote for his magazine. He told me that he really liked it and only had to make a few small edits. Turns out "a few small edits" was a total rewrite of the whole thing.
And the second is that I may have to start a Twitter account. This is especially embarrassing because I have said for years that I would never use that service and that the people who do are sad attention whores. Apparently, it's the best way to network if you're a struggling writer and you want people to read your blog. Then again, it wasn't too long ago that I said I would never start a blog, either.
Haven't made any money yet and already I'm a sellout.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
"You look like a Chinese kung fu movie that was poorly dubbed."
In the past when I lived with roommates, I could always send someone out to get me soup if I wasn't feeling well. Now that I live alone, I no longer have the luxury of in-house pity servants, but I do have 24-hour delivery in downtown L.A.
I decided that I needed to find some other way to be productive since I didn't come into work today. I ordered noodles from a nearby Thai restaurant (really good noodles might I add), sat down in front of my computer, and proceeded to write. I had to ask someone a question for the piece I was working on, so I made what I thought would be a quick phone call, but it turned into a 45-minute conversation.
I was still talking to the guy when my delivery arrived. It then occurred to me that I had never bothered to change out of my writer's uniform, which is the same as what I sleep in, which is the same as underwear.
Moral: always put on clothes before ordering delivery. Sadly, this concept was somehow not obvious to me until today.
I decided that I needed to find some other way to be productive since I didn't come into work today. I ordered noodles from a nearby Thai restaurant (really good noodles might I add), sat down in front of my computer, and proceeded to write. I had to ask someone a question for the piece I was working on, so I made what I thought would be a quick phone call, but it turned into a 45-minute conversation.
I was still talking to the guy when my delivery arrived. It then occurred to me that I had never bothered to change out of my writer's uniform, which is the same as what I sleep in, which is the same as underwear.
Moral: always put on clothes before ordering delivery. Sadly, this concept was somehow not obvious to me until today.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
"I just wanted you to know that I accidentally touched the love box."
This is the story of what I did on the weekend of New Year's Eve.
The plan was fairly straightforward. I was scheduled to fly back to L.A. from Seattle on the morning of the 30th; I would arrive at 9 a.m. and meet my friend Manoela at 3 p.m. to drive to Vegas with her friends, all of whom were Brazilian and none of whom I'd met before. In between the airport and the road trip, I would go home to my apartment, drop off all my extraneous luggage, take a nap, pack a weekend bag, and show up to meet this new group of people fresh-faced and well-rested with a bottle of champagne in hand.
The weather gods had other plans for me.
Thanks to a thick layer of marine fog, all flights coming into and out of LAX were delayed. Including mine. Especially mine. I sat at the terminal and watched as one by one, all the other flights to Los Angeles boarded. Some were late by 15 minutes, others by as much as two hours, but my flight received the star treatment: indefinite delay. Yesssss. Every time I checked the airport monitors for my flight status, it had been pushed back by another hour. When my scheduled departure was moved yet again from 1 p.m. to 2, I gave up all hope on road tripping with the Brazilians.
I called Manu and told her that I wouldn't be able to make it. Not to Vegas - I was going there no matter what - but to the 3 p.m. meeting for our drive. I couldn't expect these people that I didn't even know to wait around for me, so I told her I'd find my own way there. Since I wasn't able to get a flight from Seattle to Vegas, I booked one from LAX to LAS for later that evening and crossed my fingers that I'd make the connection.
The gate agent had warned us that as soon as our plane was cleared to depart, we would take off even if it was far in advance of the scheduled delay. In other words, leaving the airport to go do something fun was not an option. We were advised to not even leave the gate area in order to hear the announcements. So I took out my phone charger, tethered myself to the wall, played Angry Birds, and waited. And waited. And waited.
I had never spent so much time in an airport before, and I've actually slept overnight in one!
And then something embarrassing happened. I was in the airport for so long that I started to nod off. I missed all of the announcements, including the one that I had been waiting all day to hear. If not for the gate agent specifically calling my name, I would have slept through the boarding process and missed my flight entirely, and if that had happened, I'd probably be writing this from inside a padded cell right now.
Fortunately, it didn't, and I finally arrived in Los Angeles at 6 in the evening.
Unfortunately, my flight to LAX was so delayed that I missed my flight to Vegas, and had to hang out at the airport (oh, goody!) for another couple of hours trying to get a seat on the next plane. Finally got one but of course, that flight was also delayed. Yay, more airport time! It's pretty much a miracle that it was still the 30th when my plane touched down at McCarran. By then, I had spent a total of 17 hours in transit. 17 hours!
But wait, it gets better. Remember that extraneous luggage I wanted to drop off? Let me paint a picture of just how much extra stuff I had. I came to Seattle with one carry-on suitcase and one backpack. I left with the same carry-on and backpack, five pairs of shoes, sweaters and jeans from my mom, tops and dresses from my sister, a new coat, make-up and skin care products, handkerchiefs (no, seriously), new underwear (there was a sale and I need something to wear when I'm writing), winter accessories even though I live in L.A., dental products because my sister works as a hygienist, a microdermabrasion machine... oh, did we forget that Christmas comes right before New Year's?
My family was so generous this holiday season that I needed an extra suitcase to put all my new toys in. Luckily, my parents had one they weren't using, so they gave it to me. It was the size of a house, had only two wheels and a handle that didn't extend, and weighed about 50 pounds after it was packed. No words exist that can possibly describe the sheer awesomeness of having to drag that thing around Vegas because, yes, there were two room changes involved that weekend.
What kind of moron goes to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway with two suitcases containing all their Christmas presents and five pairs of shoes? Me.
Now, having said all that, I had an amazing time in Sin City when I finally got there. I reunited with a friend who lives in the UK that I hadn't seen in over a year, won $100 at roulette, and even learned a little Portuguese. What do you know, the Brazilians turned out to be pretty cool people.
We celebrated the arrival of 2012 on the Strip with champagne and fireworks. There were signs at the hotel entrance warning us not to bring bottles out onto the street, but we decided to be rebellious and snuck two bottles out anyway. We giggled at our cleverness and reveled in the fact that we were the only people who would be having champagne at midnight. When the clock struck 12, hundreds of champagne bottles all over the Strip were uncorked and I was sprayed with bubbly rain from every direction. So much for being sneaky! But it was the best tasting rain ever, and the fireworks were beautiful.
I probably logged in about six hours of sleep over the course of three days, but it was totally worth it.
The plan was fairly straightforward. I was scheduled to fly back to L.A. from Seattle on the morning of the 30th; I would arrive at 9 a.m. and meet my friend Manoela at 3 p.m. to drive to Vegas with her friends, all of whom were Brazilian and none of whom I'd met before. In between the airport and the road trip, I would go home to my apartment, drop off all my extraneous luggage, take a nap, pack a weekend bag, and show up to meet this new group of people fresh-faced and well-rested with a bottle of champagne in hand.
The weather gods had other plans for me.
Thanks to a thick layer of marine fog, all flights coming into and out of LAX were delayed. Including mine. Especially mine. I sat at the terminal and watched as one by one, all the other flights to Los Angeles boarded. Some were late by 15 minutes, others by as much as two hours, but my flight received the star treatment: indefinite delay. Yesssss. Every time I checked the airport monitors for my flight status, it had been pushed back by another hour. When my scheduled departure was moved yet again from 1 p.m. to 2, I gave up all hope on road tripping with the Brazilians.
I called Manu and told her that I wouldn't be able to make it. Not to Vegas - I was going there no matter what - but to the 3 p.m. meeting for our drive. I couldn't expect these people that I didn't even know to wait around for me, so I told her I'd find my own way there. Since I wasn't able to get a flight from Seattle to Vegas, I booked one from LAX to LAS for later that evening and crossed my fingers that I'd make the connection.
The gate agent had warned us that as soon as our plane was cleared to depart, we would take off even if it was far in advance of the scheduled delay. In other words, leaving the airport to go do something fun was not an option. We were advised to not even leave the gate area in order to hear the announcements. So I took out my phone charger, tethered myself to the wall, played Angry Birds, and waited. And waited. And waited.
I had never spent so much time in an airport before, and I've actually slept overnight in one!
And then something embarrassing happened. I was in the airport for so long that I started to nod off. I missed all of the announcements, including the one that I had been waiting all day to hear. If not for the gate agent specifically calling my name, I would have slept through the boarding process and missed my flight entirely, and if that had happened, I'd probably be writing this from inside a padded cell right now.
Fortunately, it didn't, and I finally arrived in Los Angeles at 6 in the evening.
Unfortunately, my flight to LAX was so delayed that I missed my flight to Vegas, and had to hang out at the airport (oh, goody!) for another couple of hours trying to get a seat on the next plane. Finally got one but of course, that flight was also delayed. Yay, more airport time! It's pretty much a miracle that it was still the 30th when my plane touched down at McCarran. By then, I had spent a total of 17 hours in transit. 17 hours!
But wait, it gets better. Remember that extraneous luggage I wanted to drop off? Let me paint a picture of just how much extra stuff I had. I came to Seattle with one carry-on suitcase and one backpack. I left with the same carry-on and backpack, five pairs of shoes, sweaters and jeans from my mom, tops and dresses from my sister, a new coat, make-up and skin care products, handkerchiefs (no, seriously), new underwear (there was a sale and I need something to wear when I'm writing), winter accessories even though I live in L.A., dental products because my sister works as a hygienist, a microdermabrasion machine... oh, did we forget that Christmas comes right before New Year's?
My family was so generous this holiday season that I needed an extra suitcase to put all my new toys in. Luckily, my parents had one they weren't using, so they gave it to me. It was the size of a house, had only two wheels and a handle that didn't extend, and weighed about 50 pounds after it was packed. No words exist that can possibly describe the sheer awesomeness of having to drag that thing around Vegas because, yes, there were two room changes involved that weekend.
What kind of moron goes to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway with two suitcases containing all their Christmas presents and five pairs of shoes? Me.
Now, having said all that, I had an amazing time in Sin City when I finally got there. I reunited with a friend who lives in the UK that I hadn't seen in over a year, won $100 at roulette, and even learned a little Portuguese. What do you know, the Brazilians turned out to be pretty cool people.
We celebrated the arrival of 2012 on the Strip with champagne and fireworks. There were signs at the hotel entrance warning us not to bring bottles out onto the street, but we decided to be rebellious and snuck two bottles out anyway. We giggled at our cleverness and reveled in the fact that we were the only people who would be having champagne at midnight. When the clock struck 12, hundreds of champagne bottles all over the Strip were uncorked and I was sprayed with bubbly rain from every direction. So much for being sneaky! But it was the best tasting rain ever, and the fireworks were beautiful.
I probably logged in about six hours of sleep over the course of three days, but it was totally worth it.
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