In A Rabbit Hole

2011-01-29T11:26:00.001-08:00

2010-08-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

The Bigger Picture

2010-08-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my mom worked the morning shift. Being the misanthropist that she is, babysitters were untrustworthy and out of the question. So, I spent my summers at my dad’s office. I obediently sorted through receipts and alphabetized files until I encircled myself with neat stacks of contentment. Eventually, my parents found other ways for me to spend my summers. I spent one summer at my cousin’s house, watching Jen and Chris taunt the twins. We walked to Del Taco for lunch every day. The next summer, my uncle opened a dojo, and I watched my cousins learn karate. (I was obviously never one for participating.) Soon, my mom switched to an afternoon shift, and by then, I was old enough to be home alone.

I’ve sporadically visited his office since then, but it always seems with a heavy passage of time that I return. His officemate has two more kids than I remember. She’s going through a messy separation. My uncle looks the same, except simultaneously older and younger than I remember: younger because he doesn’t have a mustache anymore, so when he smiles, his whole face brightens up, and older because that bright smile reminds me so much of my grandfather.

Every time I come in, I see the same picture of me, unframed, taped to his wall. I’m nine years old, wearing a pink dress, plumper than the yellow Pikachu I’m holding. Seeing it hits every sentimental bone in my body. Among the post-its of scribbled phone numbers and notes is a picture of me bearing an embarrassing resemblance to a cherub.

In the interim, I’m working at his office while his coworker is on vacation. While cleaning his office, I went to close a cabinet door that was left open and noticed a framed picture of my late stepmother and tucked into the side of the frame is a picture of her and my father. I opened the other cabinet door to find a family portrait of my father, mother, brother and myself. My dad was never one for extreme sentiment, or sentiment at all, so it seemed. It was a nice surprise.

Postcards from Italy

2010-08-11T22:31:00.000-07:00

P.S. I'm currently obsessed with this Beach House cover.

New York, I miss you.

2010-05-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

2010-05-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

But I didn't understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

--Haruki Murakami

Mission San Juan Capistrano

2010-04-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

Jon and I drove down to San Juan Capistrano a few weeks ago when we both had work off. It was a perfect, cloudless day. We didn't have time to visit the train station and surrounding shops. Not gonna lie--the mission is much more aesthetically enjoyable now than it was when I went in elementary school. I didn't realize how close it is. Every drive seems long as a kid, it seems. SJC, we shall meet again.

2010-04-12T01:29:00.000-07:00

He suddenly recalled the famous myth from Plato's Symposium: People were hermaphrodites until God split them in two, and now all the halves wander the world over seeking one another. Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost.

--Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

2010-04-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

All sorts of half-forgotten acquaintances and abandoned friendships reappear in this spreadsheet of potential reasons to feel terrible about yourself. If you’re as petty as I am, you spend a lot of Facebook time gauging your own feelings of inadequacy in direct relation to other people’s success. All these people you couldn’t give a shit about a couple of years ago are now these omnipresent benchmarks and counterpoints to measure against whatever you have or haven’t got going on in your life.

-- "Welcome to the Quarterlife Crisis"

I share my blood with 3% of the population.

2010-04-03T01:52:00.000-07:00

The Japanese believe that your blood type is an indicator of your personality,* similar to the belief in the Signs of the Zodiac here in America. According to the superstition, people with type AB blood are cool, controlled, rational, sociable, popular, critical and indecisive.

Source.

My life has culminated to this very moment.

2010-03-14T23:48:00.000-07:00

Roger Ebert retweeted me. I'm practically a celebrity now. Soon, I'll be doing hard drugs. I can't wait!

Def Jams

2010-03-13T20:26:00.000-08:00

Mos Def - "History" (ft. Talib Kweli) from Downtown Music on Vimeo.

2010-03-11T00:38:00.000-08:00

Professor: How many of you are familiar with St. Francis of Assisi?
[A student raises his hand.]
Professor: Ah, finally! A student that studies theology. What can you tell me about him?
Student: He was the naked guy, right?

2010-03-09T22:00:00.001-08:00

2010-03-08T21:49:00.000-08:00

James F. Masterson in 1993^[17] proposes two categories for pathological narcissism, exhibitionist and closet. Both fail to adequately develop an age- and phase- appropriate self because of defects in the quality of psychological nurturing provided, usually by the mother.

The closet narcissist is more likely to be described as having a deflated, inadequate self perception and greater awareness of emptiness within. ...The closet narcissist seeks constant approval from others and appears similar to the borderline in the need to please others

Source.

Best Oscar Tweets of the Night

2010-03-07T21:57:00.000-08:00

"Oh, Sam Worthington, your glasses make me think you're imperfect and therefore accessible."
--Mindy Kaling

"Oprah's about to tell everyone in the audience there's an Oscar under their seat."
--Foster Kamer

"TEXT DUDE TO 11011"
--Foster Kamer

"A guy named T-Bone wins an Oscar, you wanna hear him talk."
--Roger Ebert

"Just got lost for a minute, sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah... Zach Effron's eyes!"
--Rob Corddry

Other things worth mentioning:
- Pedro Almodovar presented the nominees for Best Foreign Language Film, a category in which his film Broken Embraces should have absolutely been nominated.
- When they were announcing Best Director, the "voice" kept pointing out that tonight could produce the first female winner or the first African American winner. I felt like I was watching the 2008 Democratic National Convention, except this time, Clinton wins instead of Obama.
- That song from Up gets me every. fucking. time. I'm weepy just thinking about it.
- Did anyone notice that when they played the tribute montage to Horror films, a clip from Twilight was included? How the hell did New Moon end up sharing screen time with classics like Psycho and Carrie?
- The John Hughes tribute reminded me of everything I love about coming-of-age stories. Who's in for a brat pack marathon?
- I wish George Clooney could win an Oscar for being dreamy.

Brief conversations with jaded coworkers

2010-03-05T21:26:00.000-08:00

via text message

"We're meeting on Sunday to read the manual for the new system."
"I'll bring the salt and limes."
"Don't forget the red cups."

"I like my job. I like my job. I like my job."
"And repeat."

"Will you be coming out to supervise lunch with me?"
"Yes, but I'll be out a little late. It's cool, though. Your boyfriend is already out there roaming the dome."

"I see your gina."

"Is your gina still under the weather?"

"I stayed 30 mins after work and Bejeweled myself."

Do snails get sad?

2010-03-01T03:18:00.000-08:00

One evening, as Brian and I were leaving the apartment, I stepped on a snail. I heard the crunch, and knew before looking under my shoe that I wouldn’t like what I was going to see. The guilt occupied my conscience for a couple of minutes as we drove to the gym. But soon enough, I was huffing and puffing and sweating myself silly, and that slaughtered snail was a thing of the past. Unfortunately, I came home to a family of snails surrounding their dead loved one. Based on size, I assume the following: the snail I killed was the father snail; the second largest snail who laid itself on top of the dead snail is the mother snail; the two medium snails in the middle of the scene are the brother and sister snails; the smallest (and slowest) snail is the baby snail.

I sat at my doorstep for several minutes watching them crawl across the concrete. A myriad of questions flooded my mind. I know animals feel pain, but do they feel loss? Do they make sense of death? Will they wonder why their caretaker who braved the surface world will not be returning with sustenance? Did I crush him hard enough to kill him, or is he silently suffering? Would it be cruel to step on him again to put him out of any further misery? Can I give them something to make up for what I’ve done? How many more snails will suffer because of my careless walking?

Back to my first question: Do animals feel loss? I suppose to assume that they feel a sense of loss is to assume that they develop relationships the same way humans do. But that brings up too many questions of other feelings and thoughts they might possess (but probably don’t) like love, hate, and regret.

The subject of avoidable deaths reminded me of the recent death of a girl from the area—the result of a reckless drunk driver. She was a friend of a lot of acquaintances from high school. I felt disconnected by the several Facebook status updates I was reading about her, and how everyone felt about her loss. But then I read her story from the OC Register about how caring and thoughtful and beautiful she was, about how everyone loved her and got along with her, and about how she survived cervical cancer and continued her sunny outlook. I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, and then feelings of betrayal. This article tricked me. How dare it stir up such emotions? How dare it bring about so many questions?

So, I did what I always do when I have a question. I Googled. I Googled about the most avoidable death in my life—my stepsister’s. I was surprised to see that a relatively recent article had surfaced. My family is not one for feelings. We don’t share the way I’m sharing right now. Hell, no one really asks questions for that matter. Things happen, and then they’re quietly tucked away and never brought out again. Every once in a while, one of my cousins will mention what happened, and we’ll wonder what came of our uncle, but we don’t ask our parents. I don’t think our parents know either. They don’t want to know. As far are they are concerned, my uncle doesn’t exist anymore.

After reading the article, I could only feel grief. I could only feel loss. The anger and the confusion are long gone. All that’s left is sadness. I am sad because I have no recollection of my estranged uncle. I met him when was I very young, and he was with his first wife. But then he divorced her, married another woman, created two more estranged cousins (whom I eventually met at my grandfather’s funeral) before moving to Vietnam, gambling away all of his money, and finally returning to live with my grandparents. I am sad because, of all the memories I have of my uncle, he never looked this old. He really looks like my grandfather in that picture, which makes things hard to accept because my grandfather was a righteous man. He was the voice of reason. He embraced everything good in the world and returned the favor. I am sad because prison is lonely, especially without family or friends to visit you, without children who care for you, and I associate old age with a sense of frailty and dependence, with a need for support. I am sad because my dad lost a wife, I lost a sister, and my uncle lost a family. I am sad, but not sympathetic. And mostly, I am sad because I can Google all I want, but my questions won’t go away. It won’t keep me from stepping on snails. And it sure as hell won’t tell me if snails ever feel sad.

2010-02-23T22:51:00.000-08:00

I haven't lived. I've died a few times.

--Harold and Maude

2010-02-21T15:01:00.000-08:00

I want to be swept off my feet, you know? I want my children to have magical powers. I am prepared for amazing things to happen. I can handle it.

--Me and You and Everyone We Know

Morgan M. Morgansen's Date with Destiny

2010-02-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

This wordy world hit my sweet spot.

Source.

2010-02-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

The only obsession everyone wants: 'love.' People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you're whole before you begin. And love fractures you. You're whole, and then you're cracked open.

--Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

Wolfman

2010-02-06T10:03:00.000-08:00

Whoever put this together knows the way to my heart.

The Men in My Life

2010-01-24T20:53:00.000-08:00

Some videos of the favorite men in my life.

(Of course, Clooney is in color.)

Find more here.

Afterthoughts

2010-01-11T04:05:00.000-08:00

I am officially in routine mode. These last three weeks will soon be but a blip on my radar, some distant memory only to be revived when I go through photo albums. Most of my time was spent in cars, both moving and stationary: driving through the 5, maneuvering through mountains, loitering in parking lots, swapping secrets, fogging up windows, catching up on months of lost time, and a whole lot of listening.

After Christmas, my family drove up North to visit my aunt and snowboard. After a well-meaning, but poorly executed dinner by my aunt—including watery mashed potatoes with a lingering hair, chalky egg rolls, and the strangest combination of appetizers—I had my first experience on the slopes. After a painfully embarrassing face-first fall off the lift, I had the hardest time making my way down the mountain. Despite the hour and a half it took me to get down, the several children that sashayed past me, and the fact that I spent most of that time with tangled limbs, I absolutely loved it. However, what I really wanted to do was find a soft spot away from the snowboarders and skiers, and roll around in the snow. Waterproof pants are a gift from the gods, by the way.

One of my favorite parts of the trip was the drive back to our hotel from Lake Tahoe. Christina’s trusty GPS navigator, dutifully named Garmin and complete with English accent, lead us down a side road because it sensed that there was freeway traffic. About two or three miles into the alternate path, all of the homes disappeared, and the road was pitch black except for the headlights. We started making up stories about serial killers and zombies and little ghost girls that might suddenly appear in the darkness ahead. My cousin turned off the car lights for a split-second, and we saw absolutely nothing. We all screamed, even long after the lights were turned back on. I think we were half hoping, half dreading the idea that someone really would appear in the middle of the road. Before we knew it, Garmin lead us back onto the freeway, and it was like a brief episode of the Twilight Zone just ended.

When I got back to town, I spent as much time as possible with my friends that were in town for the holidays. I sometimes forget that everyone’s lives go on without me, or that a world exists outside of me. I thought it would be difficult to try to squeeze a year’s worth of passing into a couple of hours of conversation. I realized that the point isn’t to include as much as possible. The details don’t matter. When we finally find the chance to catch up again six months from now, neither of us will remember what we were complaining about. I will, however, remember that these conversations were thoughtful and honest. I will remember the belly laughs and the quiet confessions. I will remember looking at the clock, reluctantly calling it a night, and driving home with a satisfied smile. As I head to work in a couple of hours, these past three weeks will be nothing more than a set memories, but damn will they be good ones.

Tuesday, Nov. 17th

2009-12-16T02:11:00.000-08:00

Leonid Meteor Shower

Didn't see any shooting stars, but it was still a very enjoyable night.

2009-12-10T02:44:00.000-08:00

Every Tuesday night, one of my classmates surprises me with something sweet. Mint chocolate cookies, caramel apples, little candies--everything vegan and everything delicious. It's taken me a while to finally get a picture of something because I usually devour it during break.

In case you were wondering, it's a coffee and chocolate cupcake with chocolate frosting and coconut.

Unrelated: My bedsheets and blankets resemble that of an eight year old's.

2009-12-09T00:23:00.000-08:00

This is a love story. However, its roots are tangled and involve a good bit of my life, and when I recall my life, my mood turns sour, and I am reminded that no man makes truly proper use of his time. We are blind and small-minded. We are dumb as snails and as frightened, full of vanity and misinformed about the importance of things. I'm an average man, without great deeds except maybe one, and that has been to love my wife.

--From "We Are Nighttime Travelers" by Ethan Canin

2009-11-28T20:38:00.000-08:00

Snaked from Andrew.

Slow Hands

2009-11-24T01:38:00.000-08:00

I haven’t done a very good job of participating in my classes this semester. That is to say, I haven’t participated at all. I’ve gone full days without making a peep, except to tell the guy at the counter what number my hard drive is. I fidget in my rolling chair as my digital editing professor explains where to save project files for the tenth time. I read emails from my Blackberry and listen to the man-child directly in front of me whine about how terrible Macs are. I doze off in the arctic that is my video distribution class, trying my hardest to block out the jokes the guy to the left of me makes, which, by the way, are always in poor taste.

But on Tuesdays, I stay awake. I sit upright, front and center. I listen intently, nod vigorously, and doodle occasionally. For three hours every Tuesday night, my literature class dissects the pieces we’ve been assigned. We delve into specific characters, consider writing styles, and argue over themes of sexuality, gender, race, class, and what it means to be an American. By we, I mean they. As much as I enjoy the class discussions, my articulation comes from carefully crafted sentences, none of which can be created during an ongoing dialogue. Instead, I listen intently, nod vigorously, and doodle occasionally.

Rather than having my professor discuss every work on the syllabus, she assigned each student one short story or poem to analyze, and then that student would lead a discussion on the work. I conferred with my professor a week before my presentation and left her office confident that I would do swimmingly come the following Tuesday. Presentation Day came, bringing waves of nausea with it. The last time I had an oral presentation, I got so nervous that I dropped all of my index cards. I was so edgy that I would only answer my classmates with one-word responses. Finally, it was my turn to present. I looked up just in time to make eye contact with my professor; my eyes screamed sheer terror and desperation. I could feel myself ready to burst into tears.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. I just need to get it over with.”

Several deep breaths later, I braved the podium. My voice wavered as I introduced my poet and gave some cursory background information. Every once in a while, I’d look to my professor for the “nod of approval,” some sign that I was on the right track. I was always greeted with this infectious, “Great Gatsby” smile, both encouraging and gratifying, that acted as an invisible hand to nudge me along. Aside from an especially long, awkward pause where I lost my train of thought, my class discussion went smoothly. Had I not been constantly reassured, I would have stumbled a lot more. It sounds unnecessary and childish to need that kind of steady stream of support. I don’t need to be validated, right?

Wrong! I may not raise my hand to answer every question in class, but I still secretly hope to be noticed for my scholarly efforts. That way of thinking translates into my personal and professional life, too. I stand idly by, letting opportunities pass, hoping people will be able to read my mind and realize how special I am simply by talking to me. I know that’s a load of bullshit. But I continue to live passively, waiting for chance to find me.

Here’s to raising my hand in class.

French Unicorns

2009-11-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

The Blake Wright

No Lies, Just Love

2009-10-27T00:55:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Filter Magazine and the magic of Twitter, I was able to catch Monsters of Folk last Thursday in Santa Barbara. For those who don’t know, Monsters of Folk is the supergroup consisting of M. Ward (She & Him), Jim James (My Morning Jacket), Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes) and Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes; also produced and performed in a lot of Saddle Creek releases).

I was undecided about going at first. I hadn’t given Monsters of Folk a proper listen, and it was free, so would it really matter if I missed it? But I couldn’t pass up a chance to see Jim James. (He was really fucking badass, by the way.) Plus, 16 year old me would have been really upset if I didn’t see ~*Conor*~. With midterms leaving me severely sleep-stricken since Sunday, it was a miracle I stayed awake for the drive. Unfortunately, I didn’t stay awake for much else. It doesn’t matter who I’m there to see; if I’m in a seat, I’ll doze off. It happened with Stars, Cold War Kids, Devendra Banhart, and Radiohead. Monsters of Folk was no exception. Usually, I snap out of it after two or three songs. This time, I wasn’t awake for a full song until about an hour or so into the set. I would be lucid for the beginning; I’d knock out in the middle and wake up about 30 seconds before the applause.

It wasn’t until Conor Oberst started playing “Hit the Switch” that I slipped out of my slumber. As soon as I heard that shaky voice, all these wistful feelings came rushing back. Bright Eyes was a defining band for me. The immediacy in his words spoke to my innermost teenage angst. His music appealed to me the way Elliott Smith’s sad strumming does when I’m feeling down. I was a tortured soul with a broken heart without ever being in a relationship. I quoted him in my writing. I doodled his lyrics in my notebooks. Seeing him tear away at his guitar made me giddy. Suddenly, I had this schoolgirl crush on him, and I’d, like, totally die if he carried my books.

Since Thursday, I’ve been shamelessly listening to Bright Eyes—more for nostalgia than heartache though.

As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.

And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.

Restart

2009-10-22T00:27:00.000-07:00

I started this blog hoping I would begin writing again, but somewhere along the way, writing became less of an outlet and more of a job and a set of expectations. Ideas mulled in my head until they molded. School, work and sleep took up more time than I had anticipated. I realized I don’t want to just give my reader(s) [Hi Liz!] some cursory log of my day. I want to be able to look back and appreciate everything I’ve written. I’m not saying I’m going to start writing bleak short stories and take up chain smoking, but I’d like my posts to be coherent and polished, even if I’m only complaining about the douche bag who sits in front of me in my editing class.(That’s for another day.)

So here it is—my official internet promise to start writing at least weekly.

Starting…NOW!

2009-10-18T22:33:00.000-07:00

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

--Synecdoche, New York

2009-10-05T23:47:00.000-07:00

Here's the link just in case the video doesn't load.

Words are not enough.

2009-10-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

It kills me that people can't master basic punctuation.

San Francisco, I love you

2009-09-20T18:12:00.000-07:00

Pictures taken all over Union Square, Conservatory of Flowers, California Academy of Sciences, Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, SF Museum of Modern Art, Aquarium of the Bay, Golden Gate Park & Bridge. More can be found on my Flickr.

2009-09-08T00:10:00.000-07:00

It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in a life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.
--F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

It's Summertime

2009-09-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

Though it's hard to see its true possibilities...

So long sweet summer. See you next year.

I sometimes question the education system.

2009-08-14T00:10:00.000-07:00

Spell check on aisle 3, please.

10 Kittens T-Shirt

2009-07-23T08:25:00.000-07:00

I previewed my 10 Kittens T-Shirt to the world this week. I've been eyeing it on Amazon since the Three Wolf Moon craze back in May. The size of the kittens took me by surprise. They're almost life size. I think they multiply when I'm not paying attention. Or at least switch places. I explained to Jaimie that I had to wear it under a high-waisted skirt the first time as to not offend anyone. It's a lot of kittens to take in at once. It might be too much of a shock. I wouldn't want to be responsible for anyone fainting. As far as I can tell, no one openly hated the shirt. I even received a couple compliments in class. Although, those could have been sarcastic--obviously out of envy. The only problem I foresee is that I might be liking it a little too much. Thinking about the next time I get to wear it makes me tingle with excitement.

A Passing Feeling

2009-07-20T17:44:00.000-07:00

After a hearty discussion with Paul about lenses, I was inspired by the RVCA FW '09 Lookbook and Fashion Toast to play around with my 50mm lens that rarely gets play time. Rachel and a fashionably late Alex were kind enough to model for me. We hovered around Fairview Park until the sun disappeared into the skyline.

!!!

2009-07-17T11:19:00.000-07:00

The Flaming Lips & Ghostland Observatory: $53.75
Devendra Banhart: $30
Band of Horses: $33
Bon Iver: $31
Grizzly Bear & Beach House: $24.25
Múm: $26

Seeing the best fucking bands ever: Priceless

ETA: Please add the following to the list:
CocoRosie
Sea Wolf
Sara Lov
Daniel Johnston (!)
Yo La Tengo
Street Scene - August 28
Treasure Island Music Festival - October 18

Being poor never felt so awesome.

Cute Boys Make Me Nervous

2009-07-09T11:41:00.000-07:00

I just received this e-mail from Jaimie:

I'm pretty sure your soul migrated into another person's body and created this blog.

http://cuteboysmakemenervous.blogspot.com

The After Party

2009-07-07T23:19:00.000-07:00

"Do you want to grab food before the show on Friday?"

"Sure, but I have to be somewhere beforehand, and I'm not really sure when it starts."

"Where are you going?"

"Jan's mother passed away. The service is at 2 PM, but I won't be attending that. I'm only going to the after party."

"The after party?"

"Yeah. Everyone is going back to Jan's house after the service. I suppose 'after party' isn't the most appropriate way to put it."

"I think it's called a wake."

"Really? I think wakes occur before the burial."

"Hmm, I don't know."

...The next day...

"I got it. It's called an 'afterlife party'."

"I hope that when I die, they throw me an afterlife party."

Watercolors

2009-07-07T23:10:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you mix tri-color conditioning foam with Sigur Ros (specifically "Staralfur" played loud enough to drown out every other sound)?

AN EPIC CAR WASH!

Space Invaders

2009-06-24T23:11:00.000-07:00

Image by David Shrigley.

I am a firm believer in personal space. Ask any of my friends or coworkers. If you break the space barrier, I'll immediately begin retreating. It's not like my immune system will start breaking down, but I become very non-responsive until I have breathing room again.

One of my coworkers is the ultimate rule breaker when it comes to personal space. I see her get into the space of other secretaries, teachers and even students that come through the office. I'm cringing just imagining her pudgy arm wrap around someone's waist as she drags a body so close to her that even the most intimate of lovers are uncomfortable. There's something incredibly repulsive about her that can only be described by the fact that every time I have to dig through one of her desk drawers, my hand ends up sticky. Sometimes, while I'm passing by her desk, she'll grab my arm and pull me close to her. As she whispers to me, I can feel her moldy, hot breath on me. This is the part where I start holding my breath until I can get far enough away to breathe regular air. She's helped me develop the lungs of an olympic swimmer.

Anyway, rather than just be non-responsive and fidgety, I've learned to turn the blame onto me, apologize for getting into someone else's space and be able to back away without offending anyone. As for my coworker, she doesn't take such hints, but after an explicit conversation, we've worked things out and she usually catches herself when she gets too close to me. But now she makes this big deal like, "OH GOD, I'm in your SPACE. Back away from DIANA'S SPACE!" It's still a win-win situation for me because my desk doesn't have a lingering scent of liverwurst anymore.

Anyway, with it being summer, all the secretaries are bringing their kids to work. My favorite kid to see is Sage, Annette's daughter. Usually, kids find me uninteresting because I'm not physically playful with them (see: personal space issues), and I tend to ramble as I try to find common ground which just confuses them. Sage, however, doesn't seem to notice my awkward mannerisms and occasional rambling. In fact, she talks enough for the both of us that my presence, ears especially, is sufficient company for her.

I speak to children at the same level I would speak to my peers, and I forget that a lot of my comments which should rarely be taken seriously are in fact taken at face value. Take yesterday's conversation with Sage for example when I had just finished braiding my hair:

"Wow, did you just braid your hair?"
"Why yes I did."
"That was quick."
"Quick like a fox!"
"Foxes can't braid hair, silly!"

(Please ignore how utterly lame I am for ending a sentence with "like a fox!")

Anyway, there would be times throughout the day when I'd be walking back to my desk (I just noticed that not much occurs when I'm actually sitting at my desk; I avoid sitting at my desk as much as possible.) and Sage would appear in front of me, toe-to-toe, melding our personal space.

"Sage!" In such close proximity, it was easy for me to tower over her. It made my half-hearted scolding somewhat effective. "I need my personal space!"
"I don't!"

The more I tried to teach her about keeping a safe distance, mostly because I'm spastically clumsy and could accidentally trample her, the more she resisted the idea. I spread my arms out as a measurement of personal space, explaining that arm distance was sufficient. Slyly, she tucked her arms toward her chest and cozied up next to me. It got to the point where she pretty much attached herself to me, wrapping her little arms around my hips. When we all went out to lunch, she made sure to hold my hand.

I wasn't raised in an affectionate household. The most I got as a child was a kiss and a pat on the head. It has made hugging and basic physical affection a huge feat. It has also made the very idea of physical intimacy impossibly daunting. Anyway, the fact that Sage rejected my requests for space made me really respect and adore her. When it comes to quirks like this, I really need people there to push my boundaries. I think my generation has been raised to set up too many boundaries, too many walls, too many rules. I know this is going to sound odd, but we're almost too respectful of each other, of our "spaces". It makes us distant. It makes us impersonal. We're fearful of awkward situations that we can't go past simple, contrived interactions. In a sense, it's very dehumanizing. My hope is that there are more "space invaders" like Sage out there, pushing the boundaries with their sticky little fingers.

My Affair with Grizzly Bear

2009-06-21T14:25:00.000-07:00

Picture courtesy of Grizzly Bear's MySpace

In an effort to productively use what little free time I have this summer (by productively, I mean not getting plastered, wandering the mall or sleeping in until someone calls me to hang out), I've been going to a lot of shows. Ticketmaster has collected a hefty amount of service charges from me these past couple of weeks as Kristen and I continue to build our summer show schedule. So far, we saw Camera Obscura last week, Grizzly Bear last night and have tickets to see Andrew Bird, Devendra Banhart and Band of Horses in the near future. The Grizzly Bear show was really on a whim because I decided I wanted to go to a show that weekend and saw that they were playing. I listened to some of their songs, asked Kristen if she wanted to come, and we were set.

Picture courtesy of IGIF

I have never been so glad that I decided to go to a show. Grizzly Bear is one of those bands that already has a great sound, but suddenly becomes life-changing, miraculous and beautiful live. I feel like they're a band you can only truly appreciate after you see them play. Their ability to harmonize so effortlessly is beyond belief. There was a point during the set when Ed Droste was singing, and the stage lights turned this ethereal aqua color, illuminating the band, and it was such a gorgeous moment I almost wanted to weep. It was probably the closest thing to a religious experience I will ever have. I'm a little bummed that I didn't go to the Wiltern show as well, but I'll definitely be going to every show in the area on their next tour.

Graceless Glee

2009-06-01T00:10:00.000-07:00

I caught the pilot episode of Glee this weekend. It held an uneven dramatic tone that I didn't care for and the story presented was uninteresting, but the musical moments secretly lit me up with glee (har har). There is something absurdly alluring about breaking into song and dance that I can't quite explain. I think it's the enthusiasm. The cheesy grins, theatrical vocals and perfected choreography represent the zealous and elegant extrovert I will never be. Choreographed dancing is justified as opposed to my awkward moves. I resemble a less graceful Carlton, from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, dancing to Tom Jones. Only in my wildest dreams could I reach a level of dancing intensity that would be considered respectful or interesting. If such talents were within me, I'd probably be on the corner of Harbor and Adams right now singing the Glee Cast's rendition of "Don't Stop Believing".

Natural Disaster

2009-05-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

I have a tendency to be unnecessarily uncoordinated and clumsy. By unnecessary, I mean that I will find myself in situations where I'm about to trip/slip/tumble down, back, or in this case, to the left, and I'll briefly consider pausing movement and adjusting my stance as to keep me from hurting myself, but then I'll decide to move forward anyway.

At work, my desk drawers slide open when there is any kind of substantial weight in it, and as inconvenient as it is, I've never felt strongly enough to get it fixed. Anyway, I was getting ready to leave the office yesterday when the bottom left drawer of my desk slid open. I shoved it shut, and as soon as I took a step, the drawer slid back open. So there I was, backpack on, car keys in my hand, ready to leave, when I realized there was a large desk drawer between my legs. Rather than bending over and pushing the drawer shut before continuing my journey, I decided to keep moving. Unfortunately, my body moved faster than my right leg. The right half of me fell over the drawer, taking the rest of my body with it. In an attempt to save myself, I reached out for balance. Oh boy, I've never been so unsuccessful. The first thing my hands grabbed were the plastic wall files attached to my desk. By the time I hit the floor, my right leg was still hooked onto the drawer, and I had taken two wall files and three clipboards down with me. I felt like Godzilla taking down a skyscraper. The clatter of it was loud enough to bring everyone out of their offices, including an entire family in the middle of a parent meeting. I hopped up from the floor, pretended like nothing happened and hid my embarrassment by busily cleaning up my mess.

There's a small cut and some swelling on my knee and a faint line bruise in the middle of my shin, but my leg should be back to its pasty white color in no time.

Family Matters

2009-05-18T00:43:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, Michele invited me to her baby shower. I was really touched, as I always am, when coworkers invite me to personal get-togethers. It really means a lot that my time at work goes past Office Space normalcy. As much as I enjoy the smelly children and irate parents, knowing that I've developed close relationships, albeit somewhat transitory, makes showing up every morning a little easier.

When Michele told me she was registered at Babies "R" Us, I figured shopping would be a breeze. However, as soon as I hit Jamboree Road, I was lost in the generic suburbia of Tustin. By the time Kristen and I found Babies "R" Us, I was ready for a nap. I was surprised by the size of the store. It was as big, or possibly bigger, than my local Target. I suppose it makes sense if I think of Babies "R" Us as a Target for babies. They need everything we need, but smaller, with more protective features, and for "sensitive" skin. Nevertheless, it was a daunting experience. After studying the store map, I made my way around the store and settled on a bath time gift set and a Baby Einstein: Baby MacDonald DVD.

Baby Shower Day came and I was surprisingly nervous. I've never been to a shower, and all my coworkers along with the rest of the shower attendees were 10-20 years older than me. As expected, conversations revolved around family. I listened to my coworkers talk about their husbands, their children, home maintenance, mother-in-laws, etc. I love their stories, but I never have anything to add. My family experiences dwindle down to a nasty divorce, an obsessive-compulsive mother whom I see for about half an hour on a regular day, a father who calls two or three times a week to make sure I'm doing alright, and a brother who spends his time at home locked in his room with his girlfriend. And although that sounds terribly black and white, I love my family and we still have great moments together, but never as much as I'd like.

Anyway, BSD (Baby Shower Day) was a success. It was held at Newport Landing in Newport Beach. Michele's old coworkers, new coworkers, family and friends were all there, including her father, who took pictures of anything that moved. While we waited for our food, we played two baby shower games. I dominated the baby word scramble, but failed miserably with the nursery rhymes. I was immediately at a disadvantage because I was raised by an immigrant Vietnamese mother! However, the baby word scramble won me a mug from Hawaii complete with fruity hard candy and post it notes with a hula girl. My life is now complete.

The most memorable part was the gift-opening. It's frightening to see how much crap a baby needs. Burp cloths, a separate trash bin for diapers, a portable mechanic breast pump? The portable breast pump came with a backpack and purse so you could pump milk in the car which sounds awfully distracting. I don't know if one could get a ticket for using a breast pump in the car, but I feel like that should be included in the handbook.

My favorite gift was a pink onesie that Michele's mother gave her. There was an outline of a shell on the front with the word "Opihi" underneath it. Michele explained that in Hawaii, opihi is the Hawaiian name for saltwater snails that live on rocks along the shore. The snails attach themselves to a rock and then never let go. Even the strongest crashing wave can't pull it away. Hawaiians view opihi as a delicacy, so many people go opihi picking. Since opihi are so hard to pick, and pickers must use an extra sharp knife; several people are taken into the sea every year trying to get them. Anyway, when Michele became pregnant, she and the family began calling the baby Opihi. It was such a sentimental moment and Michele teared up as she explained the background story of the onesie.

There's something incredibly endearing about seeing a family together. Listening to sisters that sound exactly the same, that have the same kind of spunky attitude, and seeing parents swelling with pride and excitement - nothing compares to that kind of genuine joy or personal connection.