Ad Adventurum

It's been a while

2009-12-24T13:52:00.001-08:00

I haven't written much lately. I suppose I can blame school for that, or my six-month-long coma, but why create excuses? I don't want to say I'm returning to blogging, just that it's nice to keep my writing honed. I mean, it's not like I haven't written. I've written for school, essays and such, but that doesn't stimulate my creative side. On the contrary, writing an essay is like traipsing sloppily through a math problem. It's all trial and error, and my good essays are those on which I got lucky.

So, an update for my friends: yes, I'm back in school. It'd been a long time, too long, and the reacclimation hurt more than jumping into an icy bath. I started fast and strong, but my efforts tapered with procrastination. I ended up reading approximately 30% of what was assigned and yet I somehow managed to pass my classes. I wrote a paper on Frankenstein and I hadn't read Frankenstein in almost ten years. I wrote papers on literary theorists without reading their work. I wrote a paper on how to perform CPR without knowing what CPR is. Cardiopulmonary reattachment, right? I got an A on that paper.

I got a much needed mental jolt at school. It was like jump-starting a dilapidated junker that was used to run moonshine and pick up street walkers.

I miss the days when I'd dribble metaphors in my sleep. Now I'm lucky if I can conjure a couple in a week. I hope to get that way again soon.

One thing's certain, though. A post like this would've taken me a long time to edit. It's like a poem, they're never done. Whitman worked on Leaves of Grass for decades. Frost, I think, felt the same way with his poems, short and sweet as they were. Eliot wrote The Wasteland over the course of several years. I guess it's not a good thing that I edit less. WHATEVS, I do what i want.

The Ghetto Gourmet: Soup Edition

2009-08-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, you like to eat. If you're even more like me, you're also broke, cheap and lazy.

I haven't spent an extended amount of time at home lately, so I haven't been going to the grocery to restock on food. That means when I do wind up spending even one night at my house, I'm usually home alone with very little food options except for the things left in the pantry and embarrassingly old leftovers in the fridge.

If you're really like me, your desperate MacGuyver-like culinary instincts will kick in and find a way to round up a motley lot of ingredients to create a palatable, yet ghetto meal for yourself. If you're smart enough (READ: Cheap), you can make yourself a tasty meal at home for less than a Del Taco meal!

This edition will cover making soup incorporating things you really need to use before they go bad.

The essential ingredient for this soup is your run-of-the-mill cup of instant noodles. To add some kind of nutritional value to this meal, I added one egg - the last one I had in my fridge. I also added 1/3 full small takeout box of rice in there because this was a box of rice that's been in my fridge for at least two weeks after I took it home from work a week after a board meeting we had (Like I said, embarrassingly old).

Additional ingredients I'd strongly recommend but aren't required is soup broth and some sort of additional flavoring. I had an open container of chicken broth in the fridge that needed to be used, and I still had a bit of sesame oil to add to the mix. I would have added some soy sauce if I didn't have the chicken broth, but the powered soup flavoring and the chicken broth would have enough salt. If I had some Hot Cock (Sriracha) sauce, I could have added that, and opted out on the Tapatio or Tabasco sauces.

Start making your soup by filling your noodle cup with the advised amount of water and let it all sit in the cup for a minute or so and then pour the contents into a small saucepan (NOTE: I highly advise against substituting your broth for water. This mix is already pretty salty, you might as well dilute it, but maintaining taste).

Turn on the heat if you haven't already, then add your additional flavoring (I put about a teaspoon or so of sesame oil) and once the noodles were soft enough to yield, I added my rice. This rice was so old it almost was hard as uncooked rice, making me think it would take longer for the rice to soften than the noodles. Because I added so much rice into the mix, I eyeball added probably around 3 cups of chicken broth, or until it looked like the starch/soup ratio looked balanced to me.

I then added a dash of cayenne pepper into the mix, just to give it a little bite, and once the noodles and rice looked soft enough, I turned off the heat dropped the egg into the saucepan and gently stirred.

...and there you have it (I added the furikake topping for the looks, I didn't really like it in this soup).
Nomz away, and should you decide to make this yourself, share your experiences here.

Adventures in True Blue Love

2009-08-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an undying love(/hate) for Los Angeles.

Anyone who's known me for the past few years knows that I've become a devoted Dodgers fan.

Growing up, I didn't have many people around me who I knew that loved baseball. I was raised in a house where basketball was the sport, and of course, the Lakers was our team (and still is). But as I stayed local for college and as I went out deeper into the many pockets of the Greater Los Angeles Area, I'd meet people who are Dodger fans. One former boss drove him and a few others to a game all the way from Hollwyood in his GEM car.

It was pretty much inevitable that I became a Dodgers fan, especially when I moved to Lincoln Heights, so close to the stadium where I could see the fireworks from our alley, befriending Dodgers fans and dated a pretty big baseball fan...being a bigger sports fan than I give myself credit for, the Dodgers made it very hard for me not to love them.

Of course, I am more than aware of the history of Elysian Park and Chavez Ravine and what happened to that small, tight-knit community that once lived there. For some, it’s the reason why they can’t support a team that did that to those people. As sad as I am that such a cultural gem of an area is no longer with us, I can’t blame this baseball club for what eventually happened to these people.

And then there’s this book I’m currently reading, Chavez Ravine: 1949 by photographer Don Normark, of the pictures he took of the people and sights of this world that soon ceased to be, and some of the surviving residents and their recollections of living there. These pictures represent a time gone by, of places and people that are no longer there or accessible, including the school that remains intact where it still stands, but is now completely buried beneath one of Dodger Stadium’s parking lots.

As tragic as the residents of that time had to leave their home and their community, the inevitable fact of the matter is that if it didn’t happen to them in 1949, much like every small and tight-knit community in this eternally progressing city, it was going to happen to them eventually. It just so happened that a bunch of Big Leaguers needed to find a new home at the time and the City had some land to sell at the time.

But as most of the people of Chavez Ravine dispersed to other areas of Los Angeles, another community emerged. A community of fans of this baseball team has become a part of this city and plays a part of bringing a fanbase and a different kind of community together.

I’ve had a very crazy week, which has regretfully kept me out of the loop on how my baseball team has been doing. I could kick myself for missing out on some amazing things happening, including my “boyfriend” Andre Ethier maintaining his Comeback Kid posterboy status with is walk-off homer at the bottom of the 9th last night, as well as Dodger Stadium usher William Gomez preventing Milwaukee Brewer’s Prince Fielder from getting into the Dodger locker room, preventing what could have ended the Dodgers’ successful and already drama-filled season.

Reading William Gomez’s story and his history with the team and the ballpark is just a reminder that “When a door closes, another one opens;” as unfortunate that the people of Elysian Park of old was forced out of their homes in such a manner, another community emerged from it - a community that helps, in part, to bring a little part of this metropolis of L.A. closer together, and create a history and legacy of its own, spanning well beyond the hills on which the stadium rests.

Want to be a part of Dodgertown, USA?
Be a fan on Facebook.
Follow them on Twitter.
There’s always their Official Site.

Flying Lessons Learned

2009-08-06T12:04:00.000-07:00

[It appears that my girlfriend's taken my writing spirit and written another blog entry. Fortunately, I have many other spirits in my spirit jar. Without further adoodoo:]

Lessons learned. Or rather, lessons updated/relearned/revisited/reminded of.

Also, "Why Delta is Better Than Other Airlines."

You know, I used to consider myself to be a bit self-absorbed until I saw how people react to a delayed flight. I am not the only one on this flight that has been delayed 3 hours, but I may be one of the only ones not throwing a fit. Seriously, you're not the only one who's pissed off your flight was delayed.

(But when it comes to my boyfriend not texting me back within 2.3 minutes of the original sent text, ohhh boy, watch out because all hell is about to break loose and someone's going to end up with something thrown at their head).

I decided to entertain myself. As a girl with middle-child syndrome, I’m rather good at this. Perhaps all these people grew up with a lot of siblings and just don't know how to entertain themselves. Doubtful. But I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.

I decide to go sit at a bar by myself (which leads me up to where I am now). The lady next to me had some kind of voucher and her ticket said she was also on my flight. I asked her if they were giving them to everyone and she told me yes and to go get one. I go back to the gate and ask if I can have whatever they are giving out (please) and the woman laughs and says, "Okay. You'll take whatever we're giving out." At least she's in a good mood. I'd be screaming at the morons demanding earlier flights if I were her. She then asks if I'd like to move seats. She observes that I have a middle seat and I sigh because that’s the worst seat ever. Then she says, "oh, you don't need to move. The two people next to you moved, you now have the row to yourself. Would you still like to move?" I have all 3 seats to myself! That's only my favorite thing ever, aside from missing my flights and having to fly standby for the next one and then getting upgraded to first class. Now I can sleep on the flight.

Then, she tells me I have a $7 meal voucher (food is way more expensive than that, but that's nice of them). She also tells me that Delta is offering a $50 credit toward a future Delta flight. What?! I thank her and run off like a giddy schoolchild with my meal voucher and $50 credit.

Okay, as I'm claiming my prizes (I’m pretending they're prizes to get myself more excited so I don't get all pissy), this woman next to me is complaining, of course. She’s complaining that she has kids and a father and she's so inconvenienced and she's sorry for complaining but, she's inconvenienced. Bitch, you're not sorry for complaining, or you wouldn't do it in the first place. What the hell are you talking about. No one's sorry for complaining, that's the whole point of complaining.

What would you like this person to do? Put you on a magic carpet and fly you to your destination? Because we all don't have appointments and stuff to do tomorrow, right? You're the only one? I’m just as inconvenienced and I’m not bitching. I’m skipping around with my seven dollar meal ticket like a monkey with a banana.

I thought it was nice that Delta agents stayed so calm and helpful. And even offered any sort of compensation. Not many airlines do so much as apologize for delayed flights. So go sit down woman. There's clearly nothing anyone can do or we wouldn't all be sitting around waiting. What would these people like? They would have rather flown on an unsafe aircraft? I don't get it.

So the moral of today's story:

Do not complain. No one cares.
And you're annoying.

Oh. Hai.

2009-08-04T12:39:00.000-07:00

Hello, potential readers of the Ad Adventurum.

If you actually try to read this blog, I am here to say that Frank and I haven't completely abandoned this blog...just yet.

Speaking for myself, I've been spending these hot, summer days out and about, going to the beach, getting eaten by waves, going to baseball and soccer games and hiking! Most of the time I'm on the computer is when I'm at work, and I'm not about to blog while on the metaphorical clock, and when I'm on my own computer, I've been working on pictures and other projects.

And don't worry, (I think) Frank and I are still friends. We're not citing artistic differences or anything, unless he's out there galavanting with the undead. Then we're going to have words. I'm happy to see some activity on his MyBrute account and heading to the beach every now and again, and one can only hope that there is some BBQing involved with him.

Do expect a few posts I've got brewing in the next few days, especially since I have some pressure from people knowing about the blog when I attended the first annual Blogger Prom a few weeks ago, and now I feel this little blog that could really should.

So stay tuned for hiking adventures and what caused two blisters on the roof of my mouth! And for Frank...I miss you.

More Than Meets the Eye

2009-07-02T08:15:00.000-07:00

Despite what people kept telling me and what reviewers kept saying again and again (even more to list) how TERRIBLE this movie is, I went to watch Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen last night.

Citizen Kane it's not. I did not expect to see anything near that, nor did I expect to see a cohesive plot (or one at all), well-written dialogue (both human and robot), OR even good acting (which I did; Rainn Wilson as the stuffy Princeton Astronomy professor and Shia Labeouf channeling an alien language while having an epileptic seizure is not an easy feat). What I did expect were explosions, gratuitous body shots and ROBOTS.

So if you like robots, explosions, and above all, AMERICA, you WILL like this movie.

Seriously, hating this movie is as good as hating the USA. Yes, that's even hating the USA with Obama as president. This world of transformers protecting the human race is a world with Obama as president, and as the Autobots team up with the US Army to protect our kind from rogue Decepticons around the world, our robot heroes masquerade as automobiles that come from the good ol' US of A. Their fearless leader, Optimus Prime, is a flame-accented semi that can't be made anywhere else, those waste of CGI production jive-speaking twins were Chevy Aveos, and despite my personal misgivings of changing his car, Bumblebee is no longer a VW Beetle but a Camaro in this Michael Bay franchise. All the same, because he's a sexy Camaro...a sexy AMERICAN MADE Camaro.

And what of these Decepticons? The opening scene set in Shanghai, China has the US Army and the US-car masked Autobots battle this Chinese machine Decepticon that is defeated pretty easily. Why? NOT a US-made machine! This creature was assisted by some Decepticon automobile, but it was a European-made AUDI, which was cut cleanly in half by what? An American-made car/Autobot.

And when The Fallen, this ancient bad guy Decepticon is once again ready to wreak havoc on our fleshy human-dominated world, Decepticons guised as machines around the world spring back to life, including a Volvo earth digger? Come on! Let's kick these robots in their balls! Because they have them! At least one of them has a pair, and he certainly got dinged in its metal 'gnads! YEAH! That's what the Decepticons get for killing Optimus Prime! USA! USA!

This movie is so USA that after Sam Witwicky's parents drop their son off to Princeton, an ivy league college, they head to Paris, France, only for Mr. Witwicky to dine at a French cafe drinking an All-American Budweiser as Mrs. Witwicky spits out her escargot dish.

I'm not going to glaze over the gaping plot holes. Sure, they're plot holes in a membrane-thin plot, but even the most patriotic can catch them. Because surprisingly enough, this movie DOES make you think. I was preoccupied marveling at how Megan Fox's character managed to keep her lips eternally bubblegum lip glossy pink and her mascara perfect and not smudgy even after traveling across the US by plane then being thrown around and teleported to Egypt, or how much work it took for her to keep her riding khakis scot-free after all the running around the desert and explosions bent on exploding her pretty face. More importantly, I kept wondering what went through John Turturro's head when he came out of his trailer every day while filming this movie and how much he had to prepare for his gratuitous butt shot. I was also waiting to one of Megan Fox's boob to pop out her very cute top, not because I necessarily wanted to see it, but because I thought it was a physical inevitability with all the running, jumping, sliding on the ground she was doing while running for her life...AND THE REST OF HUMANITY AND OUR SOLAR SYSTEM AS WE KNOW IT.

So there you go. Explosions that are even simplified by slow-moing the good parts of the explosions. Robots. Lots of robots. Robots fighting each other. Panty shots of nubile coeds, biker chicks and John Turturro. What more are you expecting? If you are expecting more, I have Delicatessen as my Netflix rental right now, but that's so un-American of you.

A Heartfelt Letter

2009-06-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

[My loyal and clutch girlfriend saved me from writing today by writing a letter to a good friend. This is why I love her even though she claws frantically in her sleep.]

Dearest Alcohol,

First & foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan. My friend, you always seem to be there when needed. The perfect post-work cocktail, a beer at the game, and you're even around during the holidays, hidden inside chocolates, warming us when we're stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings.

However, lately I've questioned your intentions. While I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, I feel that your influence has led to some unfortunate consequences:

1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity take place after 2 a.m. Why would you make me call my friends when I know for a fact they do not want to hear from me during the day, let alone at night?

2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal, but why do you suggest that I eat a taco with chili sauce, along with a big Italian meatball sandwich and some stale chips (washed down with wine and topped off with a Kit Kat after! A few cheese curls & chili cheese fries?). I'm an eclectic eater, but I think you went too far this time.

3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me that I need to do more yoga to improve my balance, I see no need to hammer the issue home with frequent trips to the ground. It's completely unnecessary, and I’m tired of playing detective with the black and blue marks on my body in the mornings. Similarly, it should never take me more than 45 seconds to get the front door key into the lock.

4. Furthermore: The hangovers have got to stop. This is getting ridiculous. I know a little penance for a night’s debauchery may be in order, but the 3 PM hangover immobility is completely unacceptable! My entire day is shot. I ask that, if the proper precautions are taken (water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin) prior to going to sleep/passing out face down(!) on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be minimal and in no way interfere with my daily activities.

Alcohol, I have enjoyed our friendship for some years now and would like to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pockets.

In order to continue this friendship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above and address them immediately. I expect an answer no later than Wednesday at 3 PM (pre-happy hour) on your possible solutions and hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.

Your Biggest Fan,

Eliana

The Anatomy of a Migraine II

2009-06-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

Last week, I talked a little bit about suffering from migraines, more specifically what usually happens to me when I suffer from one.

I've been given several tips on how to get rid of them aside from the quick and dirty powerful painkiller route, including a temporary respite from the pain by digging your finger a bit above your right eye socket and massaging the meaty part between your thumb and pointer finger. The advice that was practiced on me and managed to pass on to another seemed to be the best way around it.

When my boss came into our office, she found me with my head on my desk and looking all which ways of haggard. It didn't take long for her to put down her things and volunteer to give me a neck massage. "I'm an expert at this," she assured me.

And an expert she was. After remarking how astonished how such a pretty calm person can have so much tension in her neck and shoulders, she quickly went to work BRINGING THE PAIN. So I do have muscles so tense, they're almost firm as a bone, and with the force my boss was putting on my tense tissue I had moments thinking they'd just snap. It was a good pain, mostly, the pain you know that you'd benefit from later, but some of it was just plain PAIN.

"I think I need a break," I said to my boss a few times, after she laid her strong, slender fingers into my neck, and she agreed...I was working on a big project and reassured I needed to take it easy. Little did she know that I was subtly trying to tell her I needed to take a break from extreme tenderizing she was doing to my neck.

I finally asked her to stop, when I thought I couldn't take any more. After a little cool down, I realized I had some trouble keeping my head up; my neck was so wobbly. She managed to dissolve the tension from my neck and shoulders. Just to take some extra precautions, she also advised I do a headstand against our filing cabinet, which I did.

After all that, I still had a bit of pressure where the headache was, but within two hours, it was completely gone, and did not suffer from any of the post-migraine wooziness that usually comes along with it. My neck was a wee tender the next day (quite possibly because my skin was slightly bruised...!), but I felt great.

I was a new person. That little session was a testament I gotta make sure take better care of myself and that I need to exercise a bit more...stretch those neck muscles after holding my head up looking at a computer screen all the time.

I also wanted to pay this new knowledge forward, ready to assist those who may be suffering from what I had to. My opportunity didn't take long, as that Saturday my friend was our other friend's party completely down for the count and was about to drive herself home in such a terrible state. I quickly went to work on her, but showed a bit of mercy. Everyone could see the noticeable difference after a nice massage did for her - though I couldn't help the little lump of stressed muscles in her back which I'm sure caused a lot of the pain. I'm glad to know she got that looked at and I hope is feeling much better.

I'm sure there's supposed to be a lesson behind this, and I am now poised to lay on some awesome wisdom on you, so here I go:

Migraines suck. It's not easy to massage your own shoulders/neck, so hope that you know a no-mercy type of person to go to Tenderizing Town on your neck muscles to relieve that bad boy. You'll thank me later for it (Heck, I may help you myself).

Less Writing, More Pictures

2009-06-16T16:45:00.001-07:00

Man, it's tough coming up with witty writing. Instead, I'm just gonna post some cool pictures I found today.

Here is a picture from wiki of the beaches of Normandy 55 years ago:

Here is a picture from APOD of the moon rising over Turkey:

Here is a lolcat from lolcat thing:

The Anatomy of a Migraine

2009-06-12T23:58:00.000-07:00

[Writer's Note: There will be a part of this entry where I'll be talking about some TMI stuff people may not want to read about. Don't worry, I'll indicate when that part comes and goes. Just wait for my sign. <3cmr]

Those of you who have had a real migraine would agree: they're up there on one of the worst things ever, and know the difference between a migraine and "A really bad headache." Okay, they're not the really worst things ever, but unlike sore throats, sinusits, most, if not all forms of cancer and most debilitating diseases, I would wish a migraine on my worst enemy.

My getting migraines are usually few and far between. My first real migraine (aka not a really bad headache) was in July of 2007, since then, I've had at least one a year. Crazy enough, I've had two within a month's span, the last one being yesterday (Thursday).

I knew I was in denial when I felt the pressure on the right side of my head. "Maybe it's sinus pressure..." I thought to myself, as I showered with a runny nose.

I took some pain reliever in hopes it would go away by the time I was at work, but my ability to smell the most subtle things, like the dough I smelled as I drove by the donut place, or being able to pick out the different types of exhaust as I walked to my office, perhaps really smelling the dust of all the construction in my office should have tipped me off.

"Maybe I'm just hungry..." Still trying to convince myself, as I heated up a can of chicken noodle soup for myself and ate it with crackers and drank lots of water.

That's when the nausea set in.

**********TMI TMI STOP READING HERE TMI TMI**********

My head felt even worse, and now the stomach was doing all kind of horrible on me. I kept convincing myself, "Keep it down, keep it down." But my stomach said that it's time to let this sucker out! "No!" I kept telling myself, "It's nothing bad I ate, and throwing up will NOT make me feel better!" But just like a few weeks ago, I felt crappy enough that it was worth the try.

Just like a few weeks ago, though I had no one else in the office with me at the time, I hurriedly took the keys to the restroom area and made my way to the toilet.

And just like last time, even though I had something in my stomach, barely anything came out. I had my glasses off at the time, but when I was pretty much finished, I noticed the floaty bits of yellow on the surface of the water looked like an uncanny cartoon rendition of a tyrannosaurus rex. Even in my moment of suffering, I had to appreciate the absolute beauty in misery by witnessing it, and for that moment or two, I felt not that crappy.

I would have taken a picture of it if I didn't rush out of the office to vomit, and I very well couldn't have run back to my office to return with a camera at risk of it floating into something else or someone else coming in at that time and witness me return to a toilet stall with vomit in it with camera at hand. Maybe if people are absolutely curious, I may be able to recreate it to an approximate image stored in my memory.

Making Vomitsaurus Rex, as I expected, didn't make me feel better at all.

**********TMI TMI SECTION OVER TMI TMI**********

With the nausea a little better but still present, I was progressively getting worse and the pressure on the right side of my head became even more intense. I was so close to just closing the door to my office and sprawl out on the dirty, dirty floor and tried all my pressure point techniques.

I resorted to lay my arm out in front of me and place my head upon on it, allowing my forearm to smush my eyeballs into my head, creating a sort of pressure that relieved the pain from my head. After staying in that position for some time, I tried lifting my head to see if it was gone, but I should have known that as soon as I lifted my head to face my computer screen, the pain came roaring back and I was back in the same state, if not worse.

Just as I lifted my head from another head down, eye smush attempt, an office mate came in with a tuna salad concoction she made, inspired by one I did on my own, and as soon as she walked in, I could smell the tuna and spices she put in it. I had to refuse in the nicest way possible without tackling her to the ground as I wanted to bolt to the bathroom once again.

Tune in next week to see what happened when my boss came into the office to see me in this state...

Steady Onward

2009-06-09T01:41:00.000-07:00

It's time for another drunk post I think.

You know what's sad? Our knowledge being limited by our imagination.

You know why? Because our imaginations are feebly limited.

This idea is dandy for those who don't realize this, but imagine what unthinkable possibilities there are in the universe! It's impossible, but try because it's the only way to near conceiving such things.

Consider 10,000 years ago a nomad conjuring the thought of the thought of the thought of something as abstract as the internet. Sure, maybe a super genius through heavy meditation may conclude that it may be nice to have a massive depository of information accessible at an instant. And he may conclude that maybe, somehow, it'll be possible to share thoughts with others instantly. But how probable is that?

Given how fast our knowledge is accumulating, who knows with what we'll be astounded come thirty years. Look at the iPhone. LOOK AT IT. What would you have made of this ten years ago? Having access in your palm to more information than all of human civilization has had access to since the inception of cuneiform.

Can you imagine what people 10,000 years ago would think of the iPhone? (It's a good book.)

Now you see how feeble is our imagination.

PS Have you seen shows or read about those ridiculous assertions regarding life on other planets? Some scientists (I'm sure at producers' behest) have surmised at life on other planets. On massier planets, some say, all living creatures will be squat and eat helium-filled floating fish while hopping around on their one foot.

Remember the futurists of the sixties predicting cars zooming across the sky propelled by nuclear reactors with ten ton robots at the wheel? They're the same quacks trying to predict life on other planets today.

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

2009-06-05T19:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers: You're going to have to bear with my semi-self-indulgent entries. I'm sure to get it out of my system soon. If not, you're just going to have to deal with it, won't you?

I got the opportunity to catch up with a friend during a long drive home this morning. This friend just finished her Masters program at UCLA (GO BRUINS!), and we were talking about all the graduation hoopla. In that conversation she asked if I could photograph her for her graduation photos. I was flattered and honored she asked me, and I excitedly accepted. She then told me that she's never taken graduation photos before, which I told her that wasn't such a big deal, and that my mom's insistence caused me to have two batches of awkward-looking graduation photos.

From there, the subject somehow got to my college graduation picture and my telling my friend that she has to promise me, should I ever go missing, she needs to make sure that the picture they use on the reports and what not is NOT my UCLA graduation photo.

No, I don't have a digital file of that image to share with you, and I'm glad. I'm not saying it's a bad picture...it's actually a fairly decent photograph, but I really don't like how I look there. My hair looks like a well-tamed helmet framing my face, and I put on a bit of makeup that looks fine but very...doll-like. It just isn't me.

I will take this opportunity to make you, my reader(s), to promise me by hook or by crook that any of my 2003 UCLA graduation photos are NEVER used should I wind up missing (Besides, that was six years ago to the month, so it's not the most accurate and up to date photograph).

For your convenience, I have picked out the photo I would wish to be used should I go missing:
Some may notice this is my current social networking profile picture (a few sites). This picture works on a few levels: It was taken at a time when I was feeling pretty sick, so I'm not looking my best, and I'm sure if I were to go missing, I may have fallen into some ditch or got lost in a cornfield and will look to some level of haggardry. The fact I'm in the picture with a purple mouse puppet conveys my general air of irreverence; you know I'm not quite myself if I wasn't.

Heck, let's be honest and if I were to be recovered from some sort of distress, I'm most likely going to look like this:

So look for that girl. There's a good chance I may be dirtier and smellier than in this video, so I warn you now.
(Sorry for subjecting you to that - I think you deserve to know the truth)

AGING! ADVENTURE!

2009-06-03T19:54:00.000-07:00

For the five readers that actually bother following my entries, you may have noticed I've been kind of MIA on this blog. Most of that time was crazy times, part of that was crazy lazy times, and the other part was crazy in the fact that I was out there in the world, away from the computer and having real adventure!

I guess it all started when I started off my month house sitting for my friend, the same weekend I was going to help out with this really cool shopping event and help celebrate my friend's birthday by dragging him to a Dodgers game even though he didn't really want to. Then it was my sister's birthday and I went with her and Henjobin to celebrate her quarter century mark. The next day I was back in Orange County dressed the way I dressed an awkward prepubescent at a Yelp event, then kind of kicked of Birthday Week by eating a whole bunch of Korean BBQ, experimenting with making spicy chicken wings to BBQ, went to the beach, then to a Southern vampire party, then it was my actual birthday where I had a good breakfast in Long Beach and spent a few hours at Disney Californa Adventures before hauling back to LA to go to a Dodgers game against the Angels followed by fireworks! I did a few Memorial Day BBQ things, but I focused most of my energies to prepare for the 2009 Acura LA Bike Tour where I was going to ride 23 miles around LA at 5AM on Memorial Day.

And I have proof:

I even made a video:

It never seemed I could sleep in thanks to too much on my mind and my roommate's cat going into heat for the first time, and just when I thought I could get to sleep in, my friend calls me up asking if I can take her to the ER because she cut her thumb open cutting a mango. That took me to taking her to her Dr. in Arcadia, then to Irvine to pick up a house key, then to LA to figure out how to get home since it was decided I was driving up to Monterey to overnight in a hostel, which was pretty damn cool. Then I took the Amtrak down from Monterey to Oxnard, which took an entire day, but was a pretty nice ride (nicer with bloody marys). I made it home in time to make it to my friend's birthday party, and man, I'm still around to tell the tale.

Needless to say, I ended my year 28 with a bang and 29 has been pretty crazy. Let's see how the rest of my 20's rounds out...

PS - I have do have photographic proof for all of these things (and I do not exaggerate) I've mentioned in this entry, but I can only upload so much at a time. KBBQ? Spicy wings? Baseball games? Disneyland? Yeah, I got it. If you return to this post, I very well will link to everything mentioned here, or you can just visit my Flickr.

My Recent Weight Gain

2009-06-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to deny the fact that you’ve gained weight when your stomach, as one of my friends put it, “looks like a watermelon, you stupid fat fuck. Get your lard ass to the gym already, you fat tub of shit.” I laugh stuff like that off because what else can you do, right?

Funny friends aside, I have no problem with my recent weight gain. My girlfriend calls me her Healthy Boy because I don’t know why the fuck she thinks this is healthy. She rubs my belly and says, “I like it! It makes you look healthy.”

“Healthy like an E. Honda super human sumo wrestler?”

“Sure, whatever.”

I mean, she encourages me to exercise--very tactfully I should add by asking if I’d like to go hiking with her. “Why? I’m already healthy,” I laugh.

I wouldn’t mind being actual healthy and not 17th century baroque healthy though. Hell, I’m not even Rubenesque, I’m just oblong. You know what else is oblong? Earth. Earth is oblong. I’m as fat as a fucking planet. All the fat cells in my body are colluding against my aesthetic. My limbs are twigs flailing against a basketball.

Anyway, I wouldn’t mind being actual healthy. It’s nice being able to walk with your own legs. Rolling isn’t a flattering form of transportation.

Bad Writing III

2009-05-21T00:30:00.000-07:00

[Due to popular-enough request, here's part three of bad writing. Parts one and two.]

Apparently alcohol and anesthetic don’t mix. I woke from a coma three weeks later with the ultimate pain in my leg. The bullet had pulverized my femur and severed my femoral artery like a hot steak knife through a balloon. They reattached it with a piece of artery from a hoodlum who had been gunned down by police after shooting some drunk passed out in an alley minutes after I was admitted. My femur was replaced with titanium like Lieutenant Dan’s.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Forrest Gump, and how he persevered through so many injustices. Then I thought of Jenny, the slut with AIDS. You assume she had AIDS because she was so promiscuous. Then I wondered how Forrest didn’t get AIDS, and how his son didn’t have AIDS, then I considered the fact that maybe she didn’t have AIDS. If so, why was it so alluded? Was it cancer then?

These thoughts troubled me for days until my family visited. They filled my outpatient recovery room with warmth and joy like that experienced by a house filled with the scent of onion and garlic. They offered to pay for my stay at the hospital but I declined because they were poor.

The next morning the surgeon approached me and asked, “how’s the leg?”

“It’s not doing so great,” I told him.

“Well, I hope it gets better. Because I put you in a coma, I’m going to pay for your stay at the hospital.”

“That’s great,” I exclaimed.

Explosive Diarrhea

2009-05-18T23:59:00.000-07:00

I have 23 minutes to write an entry before my time is up. The more observant among you will notice that I’m referring to the time left before the day is over, but you are wrong. I have 23 minutes to disarm a bomb here at the library.

What am I doing at a library so late you ask? Well, it’s a good story, so grab some pop corn or nothing. I was researching Buddhism’s impact on the Mexican male’s dominance over females between the ages of 15-25 in the 1990s. I read most of Hooper’s A Brief History of Buddhism, Berringaring’s The Pervasiveness of Buddhism, and Palladorianos’s The Dissemination of Zen. Apparently, there was no influence.

Being the slow reader that I am, it took me nearly sixteen hours to read through those books. By the end of the last book I realized that the library had closed.

“Ah, but the lights should have turned off! This story is a farce!”

Nay, good reader. Here’s the good part! The lights stayed on because the librarian was arming the bomb she left to explode the library! Weird, huh? Anyway, I realized this only because I heard the arming sequence. It sounded like a phone dialing, sort of, but louder and higher pitched and when she was done, I heard a computerized voice: “Arming sequence complete. Bomb has been activated.” I don’t know where she got the bomb.

“Uh, so why aren’t you trying to disarm the bomb?”

Hah, funny that you ask that. I tried, but I mean, it’s a bomb! Have you tried disarming a bomb? I have no idea what the hell to do! It’s a pack of explosives with an alarm clock counting down to midnight. What am I supposed to do?

I’m going to put it in the toilet. Yes, with the lid down. That’ll work, right? Alright, I’m doing it. Hold on. Okay, it’s in there. Okay, the library’s exploded. Well, this sucks. At least the Wi-Fi still works.

Adventures in Bad Writing II

2009-05-15T14:54:00.000-07:00

[Time for more bad writing! Here’s part one.]

The sun kissed my fresh bullet wound with a gentle warmth. I was awakened by the cold steel of a revolver to the back of my head as it struck me like a pile of bricks burying my hangover. I told him to take my wallet, it was all I had. He took it and then shot me in the leg.

There was bread in the air and it was the only thing that kept me going. I staggered to the bakery leaving a trail of blood across the floor like a river of red death. “I’ll like some bread please, sir,” I asked the gentleman behind the counter, built strong like a wolf and with the hands of a killer, a medieval knight perhaps, or a small bear.

“There’s no bread,” he said nonchalantly as though it weren’t a bakery. “This is a coffee shop,” he continued, “we don’t serve bread. Only coffee and pastries.”

“I’ll have a pastry then,” I said feeling faint. I’d lost a lot of blood and perhaps I was delirious, but I don’t think I was. It was a damned fine pastry, flaky like pie dough, chewy like a good pastry. There was strawberry jam inside, it reminded me of my leg. “Hey, gotta phone?” I asked the shopkeeper. “My leg’s busted.”

I took the phone and collapsed. I woke up in the hospital with a team of surgeons working on my leg. “What is this?” I asked them.

“He’s out,” said one surgeon.

“He’s out?” asked the anesthesiologist.

“Yes, he’s out. He’s conscious.”

“He’s out or he’s conscious?”

“He’s conscious.”

“Well, let’s put him back out.”

“Put him out? He is out. He needs to be unconscious.”

“What do you mean he’s out? He’s conscious.”

“That’s what I mean, he’s out. He’s out of the anesthesia.”

“Oh!” Said the anesthesiologist knocking me out again. Or in. I wasn’t quite sure then.

Holding Patterns

2009-05-13T00:08:00.000-07:00

Do you sometimes wake up in the morning and realize your life is reminiscent of the classic Bill Murray comedy, Groundhog Day, but only a lot worse?

What makes it a lot worse is that you're not nearly as funny as Bill Murray, this indefinite starting over again isn't distilled in a 90-minute comedy, and instead is real life, which is often more tragic and time does not go back to 6:00am the previous day and instead rolls out to the next day, week and year ad nauseum, finding yourself older, possibly fatter and more bitter than before, and whatever consequences you've accrued the previous day IN FACT carries on with you moreso than just a memory.

It kind of stinks knowing full well of your real-life limitations of the situation of letting history repeat itself. Instead of dreading of hearing I've Got You Babe waking up, you still channel Cher, wondering if you can turn back time. Either way, you've got to accept the harsh truth and move on from there...but what is there to do? With time working against you, there's only a finite number of options to help you get out of such a pattern without the do-overs. Wing it? Go carpe diem and see if you organically fall out of it? Or once you're actually aware of such a bad habit, try to figure out what's causing this pattern to repeat and change things to prevent it from happening again? But how does one start in this process in the first place?!?

Answers: Maaaaaaaaybe...; TONS; YES?!?; Perhaps not.; Perhaps the best way to go.; You tell me...this is MY start in figuring all this out!

Jerks

2009-05-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Oh sweet cheeses of the heavens, do I hate people sometimes.

I say this at a strangely ironic time when I've managed to surround myself and try to reconnect with the people I really care for and love, but no matter how hard one tries, the jerks seem to wiggle out of the woodwork like the wily roaches that they are. This is seriously a difficult entry to write right now, with my heart filled with happiness thinking of all the people I have in my life, but still. WTF JERKS?!?!?

I have to admit even though it's kind of embarrassing to say that UCLA tends to have a high output in the Jerk department. I went to UCLA, and I'm not going to say that I didn't get out of there a jerk, cause there are some who think I did.

For example, when I used to go around with my ex who went to illustrious UC Berkeley campus and was wearing some kind of Cal paraphernalia, at least ONE person would walk by saying "GO BEARS!" or ask if he knew what the final score was for the football game. I have never or have seen any other Bruin walk by someone with a UCLA this or that and say, "GOOO BRUINS!" (I haven't seen anything similar for 'SC, BTW). I used to make the excuse that there are just more of us Bruins down here in LA, and perhaps seeing a Cal fan down here is a treat. But they seem to do that up north as well, and I can guarantee a Bruin up north wouldn't be all a-giddy seeing a UCLA sweatshirt worn about town.

This past Saturday I was working at an event, taking money for peoples' admission. As I look up at the person I was helping, I realize that I've seen this gal before. Where is she from? How do I know her? I've worked with her before, or have the same friends. So I say, "You look familiar...!" Without looking up, she continues to fiddle with her change and retort, "Yeah, I look like a lot of people." While I reeled for a moment for such a snarky reply, I persisted and kept thinking, "Did you go to UCLA?" And she just affirmed my inquiry and walked away.

It's later that I remember her name and where I know her: She's a hometown friend of a good friend of mine second/third year and we went on many dinners and adventures together! And yes, she did finally get a look at me but did not bother to try to acknowledge an old connection.

Now I'm not writing this to say that all the jerks of the world are UCLA-raised, as there are very awesome people from UCLA who are jerk-free, and there are buckets of jerks who couldn't even go near UCLA.

Take, for example, the lady in the truck today. I'm trying to make a left turn at a light where I have a protected turn during rush hour when the cross traffic gets the red and there are two cars still trying to turn left into two full lanes of traffic, leaving them blocking the intersection. The last car was this lady in the truck, who all of a sudden is in the middle of the intersection when I'm supposed to be able to take my special left turn. And then she gets angry. AT ME. She throws her hands in the air in frustration and looks at me and shoots me some dirty looks and mouths something I can't understand. I'm just sitting in my car watching all of this, and thought, "Wait...am I angry right now? Am I psychically cussing her out? I don't think so..." and just realized she's getting mad at me for no reason at no fault to me. WHY?

Thankfully I have a small car and am able to maneuver past her big truck so I can make the left at the protection of her frustrated self blocking the opposing traffic. I didn't see if she happened to have UCLA plate frames or not. Would it surprise me? Not really.

Justified Bumming

2009-05-05T00:23:00.000-07:00

I am currently the Mayor Pro-Tempore of Box City.

I'm not lying. There's a large branding campaign going on there, and the name of the city is EVERYWHERE.

Okay. I'm house sitting for my friend who moved to a new place less than a week before she planned on going on a trip that took her across the ocean. She had thought of taking her babies (two boy cats) over to their old daddy's to sit, but it seemed the stress of putting them in a new house and then shuttled off to a different place for two weeks would have been too traumatic for them. Instead, they get to hang out with their cool aunt who still won't let them stay on the couch and sleep in bed with her which is kind of a mutually disappointing arrangement).

House sitting is always an interesting thing. It's almost like living that person's life for the duration of the time you're there, except you're trying to do your own thing, too. Last year, I had to house sit for my boss when her entire family was out of town. In a way it made things convenient, since I worked out of her home office, and I got a taste of what it would be like to work at home. It also showed me why it's probably better I don't work at home when trying to maintain a 9-5 job. When I was staying there, I also was responsible for walking their dog, but not being a dog owner myself, I wasn't entirely sure of the whole process of dog walking, particularly that dog. But I think I got things figured out.

This house sitting situation isn't quite as convenient as the aforementioned house sitting gig. Instead of having the advantage of sleeping at my workplace, I'm actually staying about 7 miles in the opposite direction from work, and against traffic. Since the place is still Box City, most of the house is still packed up, and I wonder if I can do simple tasks like cook something or watch TV (I can watch TV and access Internet, but the DVD player is still packed away somewhere.

Perhaps it's better I'm not equipped to cook on the brand new stove, as to not stink up the place of onions or even worse, burn the house down.

If there's any big challenge, it's the fact I'm sleeping in a new space. It's a bit unnerving for a bit, but it's just something to get used to. My host's concern for me was that this new house is right in front of a pretty big street in a pretty big city, but having grown up across the street doesn't bother me. What bothered me was when I wake up to a machine sighing...like a fan or a tape drive turning on and then falling asleep. Or ready to mince me into bits. I have yet to figure that out.

On Drinking

2009-05-01T16:49:00.000-07:00

It’s impossible to recuperate from a night a ton-heavy drinking without drinking some more in the morning. It’s a necessary tenet by which I’ve lived for a few years now. I don’t understand why people suffer through nauseating and painful hangovers when they can drink their problems away.

On that note, I don’t understand why people don’t drink all their problems away. It’s easy enough: just drink. Presto, fucking solved.

Son failed his Algebra test? Scotch.

Can’t find your keys? Rum.

Wife cheating on you? Vodka.

Car accident? Tequila!

Conversely, why not celebrate every bit of happiness with a belt or two? I can always go for a drink after a day of laboring in construction, why not your wife? I’m sure it’ll hit the spot after forcing a nine pound gremlin through her vagina.

Hell, there’s no solid reason not to drink to pass the time. Why in the world would anyone sit around doing nothing, waiting for time to pass? It doesn’t make any sense. Whether you’re waiting at the airport between flights, waiting for the wine at church, or waiting to feel sleepy at night, just drink.

This is why it’s imperative that everyone have a flask. You never know when good or bad things or no things at all will befall you.

Be a Hero. Eat bacon.

2009-04-29T22:40:00.001-07:00

There is a war going on. Man versus virus. Viruses are pure evil, their only goal being to wipe out all life on Earth. There’s no way we can win this war, at least not now. Our only hope is to cripple their advance, to clip their firepower. We must kill pigs. Hit the virus where it hurts. Oh, don’t feel for the pigs, they’re like virus tanks. You don’t feel bad for human tanks, do you? Shit, I might feel bad for a pink tank, but still—this is war.

You can’t get swine flu from bacon. You can get swine flu from pigs, but not bacon. I’m not saying we should all go out and cook ourselves some human bacon to curb the oncoming pandemic either. I’m just saying we should eat more bacon. Or we should have been eating a lot more bacon.

All these years I’ve been preaching about bacon’s supreme might and, to a certain extent, their deadly potential if fallen into the wrong hands. If only the world had listened. Instead of eating bacon, we were torturing foreigners, killing babies and skinning animals. And for what? Nothing.

I hate to say it, world, but I told you so. Now you have to deal with media inflation, fear, less travel, death, and a surge in face mask sales. The best part of this is that I’m fairly certain the price of bacon will drop, affording us the perfect time to initiate our delicious attack.

No, turkey bacon doesn’t count. First of all it’s not pork. Second, avian flu is so five years ago, and a devious trick. A perpetual Thanksgiving would have been the obvious strategy, but that would’ve brought upon an eternal nap. Humans are most susceptible when napping and every virus knows his.

Go now, eat bacon.

The Environmental Conservative

2009-04-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

A lot of people say that when you get old er have have more money, one becomes more of a fiscal conservative. I wouldn't want to speak too soon, but I can only foresee my becoming a fiscal conservative if I keep on making so little money, I'd be trying tooth and nail to keep it for myself. What I'm more concerned about is becoming one of those crazy environmentalists people love to loathe.

I jumped on this bandwagon pretty young, and I can remember making a giant earth that covered the entire back of my binder cover with puffy paint, and wrote an award-winning poem titled, "If I Could Give the World a Gift." I even typed it out (on a typewriter). I was amazed when I saw a family that recycled/reused/composted practically everything they used, and took an annual trip to the dump to throw away their one small shopping bag of actual trash. I wanted to be that family.

Since then, I've been somewhat mindful on being on Ed Begley Jr.'s team; being mindful not to waste too much, tried to recycle as much as possible, avoid anything with CFCs, and know my plastics.

Then I started noticing...things. I'd get a little irked when people would opt to trash recyclables instead of recycling them. I started to notice the collection of various styrofoam and plastic cups, bowls and bottles I used that I had full intention to use again and again and again. I started taking home plastic utensils and cups I used when eating out just so I can wash them and use them again.

Now I have my bamboo utensils in my purse, always at the ready, which I use at any chance I get - even at other peoples' places when they're going to use plastic utensils. A lot of the packaging, foil, toilet paper rolls I can get my hands on are saved so I can round them all up and donate to an art center so kids can use them for their art projects. I reuse a lot of containers myself, and avoid buying certain items sometimes because of unnecessary packaging.

I went to a friend's party not that long ago, and when I asked if I could bring anything, I was asked to bring water or hot dog buns. I refused to buy water. I didn't think it was cost-effective to buy bottled water that leeched chemicals bottled in containers that yes, could be recycled, but still used up a lot of energy and resources for its existence. Instead, I bought beer, which seemed like a better use of my money and resources.

There are oftentimes when I secretly cringe inside when there's a lot of preventable waste going on, and sometimes I curse mistakes I make when I'm out and about doing things. I love driving sometimes, but I drive much more efficiently now and rarely turn on the A/C unless I'm pretty much melting.

Along with my dream to own my own home, I dream to have a nice yard where I can set up a compost bin and have a nice garden of herbs and edible plants I can use in my cooking.

More than anything, I'm afraid when I become older and more senile when my Social Graces switch no longer works and I flip out on someone who doesn't recycle. Or when I have a meltdown when I realize how big a carbon footprint a dumb decision of mine has made. Although I like eating meat, I'm always a tinge sad whenever I do eat it some, and I can see myself having violent mood swings at the table while menopausal.

I maybe hope to be as good to the earth as I can, but at the same time, try to maintain a rational, functional, civilized person. There's a happy medium to all this, right?

Hustlin'...with Heart

2009-04-20T22:47:00.000-07:00

I AM GOING TO ASK YOU FOR MONEY OR YOUR UNDYING SUPPORT (Money would be better).

This physically-induced asthmatic trained for six months in preparation for running 26.2 miles in New Orleans, Louisiana, a feat I did just six months before Hurricane Katrina hit (2005). It's not an easy task, but I ran over 500 miles, including doing a training run one early October morning along the Salzach River in Salzburg, Austria, and running my fastest mile ever completely alone during my celebration run (a practice, but full 26.2) three weeks before running the real marathon.

I did this with the help of the AIDS Marathon Training Program, who pairs you up with people of your running pace (of which I was the second slowest pace), helps you train to to the distance, flies you and puts you up at your marathon destination in exchange for raising money for the program and their cause. I helped raise over $3,000 for AIDS Project Los Angeles, an awesome organization that provides comprehensive assistance for those living with HIV and AIDS.

Running a marathon is an experience I think everyone should do it if one's physically able. I didn't think I could, but I did, and I promised myself before I couldn't, I'd do it again. Once I did, I also promised myself that I'd run through another charity program so that my efforts will help benefit an organization I believe in.

I still haven't run that next marathon, and was almost going to do it this year, but I didn't wind up having the time to train for such a thing right now. Instead, I've signed myself up for a couple of not-as-physically-crazy events coming up.

THIS SATURDAY, I am walking a 5k in Fullterton at Orange County's Donate Life Run/Walk 5k/1k with some good friends as we walk with our good friend, Michael.

Last time I saw Michael was the day before he left for vacation, then a week on-site for work, before at the age of 34, suffered from a massive heart attack. He fought the most excellent fight, and the next time I saw him, he was doing excellent cooking me a pork ragu with a brand new heart. Seven months later, he's ripe and ready to walk this 5k already raising over $1,000 for the California Organ & Tissue Donor Registry. In these seven months, he's already rock climbed and has the OK to go mountain biking once again, and can already do more pull ups than I can do...ever.

To read more about Michael's story, you can visit his blog.
Please donate and support Michael for this event by going to his support page.

When I arrived at the doorstep at the house of the woman who became my boss, the first thing she said to me was, "You ran a marathon. We do it as a fundraiser!" I knew I was getting into something good. My work, Great Leap, is a multicultural performance company that's been around for 31 years, and when I found out what soon became my place of employment, I knew I found my cause for my next marathon.

Only, I didn't make the time for the rigorous training program I'd have to do in order to run 26.2 miles on Memorial Day, Monday, May 26th for this year's L.A. Marathon. Instead, I've put in the elbow grease to fix the 1971 Schwinn Collegiate I got for free so it can take me through the 20-mile course through Los Angeles for the L.A. Bike Tour.

I may not be in the optimal shape, and my 5-gear cruiser may not be the ideal bike for some of those inclines, but I believe in the performance company I work for, and I also believe in helping myself make sure I get another paycheck.

You want to help Los Angeles-based, multicultural programming and help me put food on my table? Donate by going to Great Leap's site by donating! You can either write a check (Comment for instructions), go to our website, or donate on your smart phone (or computer) through GeoGive!

A Mighty Epiphany

2009-04-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

It’s hard finally admitting this, but writing isn’t my first passion. I have my passions itemized, and writing didn’t even make the top ten. As a matter of fact, after years of writing, I can comfortably say that I hate it. I hate writing. I fucking hate it. I only started writing because friends said I was good. I’m doomed to a life of banality doing something I loathe, doomed to days upon days filled with enough tedium to pack a library with math books. There will be nothing more than thinking and writing and killing myself slowly, agonizing over my waning creativity.

My real passion has always been history. It felt good to write that. It’s the first thing I’ve written in a year that’s brought me. I want to be on the front lines deciphering the past through marks on a wall or by analyzing the position of a body in a grave.

If it weren’t for my tricking myself into becoming a writer, I’d be in central Mexico proving that the Aztecs were wiped out first by hegemony, then by culture, and then by the conquistadors. Instead I’ll spend the next fifty years of my life waiting to write a book and doling out non sequitur like a quadriplegic shitting his pants in a restaurant: helpless and ashamed.

Just kidding.

Sick at Work

2009-04-15T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hi. It's me again, and I'm still alive but feeling pretty crummy at work.

Even though I am feeling better, I run a terrible risk of making myself even sicker by going to work. Why? For some strange reason, my office can actually double as a meat locker...it's so cold ALL THE TIME.

Take this picture for example:

That's me in February, and even though I'm dressed like this for the outside, I keep it on for the inside and ADD the fingerless gloves so I can actually type without digits freezing off. So yes, those are mismatched fingerless gloves I'm wearing, with a cashmere scarf, a corduroy peacoat, and a warm and wooly sweater underneath. I don't remember, but I'm sure I was wearing a thermal beneath that sweater.

Although it's not AS cold as it was then, it's still cold, and I'm sick, which means I'm prepared to freeze myself to death or become cryogenically frozen. I may not have such a big issue with the latter, but I'm not as imaginative as Walt Disney or as mediocreally humorous as Fry in Futurama, so I'll spare the future from myself by going when it's naturally acceptable.

This is what I look like today:

It's me again, with my GIANT cup o' tea, wearing my warm, weatherproof coat and a hood over my head, which is also covered with a wool hat.

Peeling off a layer, I look like this:

This is me with just the hoodie and hood pulled down, still wearing the hat.

Peeling off one more layer:

I've got my snug-fitting Snoopy shirt and a 3/4-sleeve thermal. I like keeping Snoopy close to my heart - he keeps me warm.

And no, I'm not peeling off any more layers, sickos (wait...I'm the sicko, you're the pervo).

It wasn't too long after shooting that last shot that I quickly put the layers back on, because I was getting COLD.

I also have our office radiator on and it's at my feet, trying to keep me warm.

If I don't see any noticeable progress by the end of the week, I'm giving up this fight.

Yes, I am a wimp.

That's Sick.

2009-04-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

Almost four years ago, I got progressively sick on a trip from Mountain View, CA back down to LA, and didn't shake the bug until the middle of June.

I do not blame whatever germ that I picked up while up there, I blame my fatalistic mentality and denial of microbiology.

For some reason, I had it in my head that I no longer wanted to deny myself from the signs my body was telling me and refused to take any medicine to suppress my cough, or take some antihistamine to pretend I was congested. I was convinced that I shouldn't succumb to some dumb little organism that is attacking me en masse and that my body was just going to right myself if my body was ready to do combat the bug.

I spent those seven weeks going around as if I was in some perpetual haze, walking around as if I was perpetually going through an outer body experience.

I'm pretty sure that probably had walking pneumonia for part of that time, and by week 5.5, I realized the meds I said I didn't need were actually useful to my getting better: The cough suppressant wasn't there to stop me from expectorating the mucus in my throat; it was there to prevent me from fatiguing me from extended coughing fits. The acetaminophen gave me a bit of energy when it kept the fever at bay.

Now when (that) I'm sick, I don't go and OD on all the cold meds, I try to see if I can try to use more natural methods to help me feel better before I go for the heavy hitters (the drugs). As soon as I got home, I drank some water, made myself some chicken noodle soup with egg and lots of cayenne pepper, did a few rounds with the neti pot, and as soon as I post this blog entry, I'm going to do a bit of research and pass out for the very early day I have ahead of me.

Being sick sucks. Germs are millions of little bastards possessing my body and I am ready to fight. WATCH OUT!

a slice of frank!

2009-04-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

I read for the first time in months yesterday. It was a short story by Hemingway, "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber." Among the highlights was his description of a lion’s slow death, “. . . he turned his heavy head and swung away toward the cover of the trees as he heard a cracking crash and felt the slam of a .30-06 220-grain bullet that bit his flank and ripped in sudden hot scalding nausea through his stomach.” This is how it feels to have anxiety.

When I was seven and eight I played T-ball and I would cry and tremble with anxiety before every game, and throw up before most games. This continued through junior high and high school. I was unable to brush my teeth some days because opening my mouth would make me vomit. I’d get sharp cramps in my intestines as though I were digesting a glass vial filled with poison that’d exploded. It was purely psychosomatic as whenever I sat on a toilet the pain would fade instantly. There was great relief and guilt on days I feigned illness.

This was compounded by my not discovering I was lactose intolerant until I was 20. I’d have cereal in the morning and my face would be purple with pain by fifth period and I’d too scared to ask to use the restroom.

My anxiety manifests itself in other ways. I enter catatonic states in public, especially around my family. I don’t talk to anyone. I feel like Boo Radley: uncomfortable, awkward, and much too aware of myself like if my skin is tightening against my organs. Liken it to test anxiety when you study for hours only to forget vital facts when trying to answer questions. When meeting strangers or speaking to authoritative figures I literally forget how to hold a conversation. My muscles tense, I lacrimate, and any information I’d acquired about the person dissipates. I end up kicking myself in the ass afterward when what I wanted to say comes flooding back.

I eventually became conditioned to avoid social situations, or confrontations with authoritative figures, like a child learns not to touch an iron. I cringe irrationally at the thought of social mishaps, even those so small that they are innocuous to others. A limp handshake, a misspoken word, a minor stutter all stay with me for months and, when involuntarily conjured, make me feel like that lion that was shot through the stomach.

I Like Sportz

2009-04-06T23:52:00.000-07:00

Almost a year ago, my friend who was out of town for grad school was planning on coming home for a bit and we tried to plan to hang out, and wanted to know when I was free. I told her something along these lines:

"Well, tonight (Monday) I'm going to Hooters with Natilie to watch the Dodger game and eat hot wings, then tomorrow I'm going TO a Dodgers game, I think we can hang out Wednesday, but I was thinking about going to visit my family since I haven't seen them in a while and I can watch the Lakers game there, Thursday I made plans with another friend and Friday is the next Lakers game."

In one fell swoop, this close friend found out how much I'm into sports.

If I can equivilate my zeal for sports to anything, I can say I like it and admit to liking it as much as I like Star Wars. I'm not fanatic for either one of them, but get on either topics, and I can carry a pretty healthy conversation on them.

...and it's not like I'm trying to puff out my chest and show off I'm a girl who likes sports, in fact, it can be really tiring, especially this time of year.

Today is Opening Day for Major League Baseball, and in particular, opening day for my baseball team, the Los Angeles Dodgers (Who won against the Padres tonight! WOO!!!). Freeway rivals The Los Angeles Angeles of Anaheim played against the Oakland A's tonight and won (BOO), and I have a more vested interest in the A's now that Nomar Garciaparra is now on the team (I don't care if he's Mr. Glass).

Tonight was also the NCAA Championships, where Michigan State lost to UNC, which made me sad. I'm glad I'm not too into NCAA otherwise I'd go crazy around this time of year with a month of craziness I managed to catch the end of the Lakers-Clippers game last night and witness how the Clips managed to get past a 20 point deficit to almost take the game into overtime had Baron Davis made that last 3-point attempt in their cute, classic Clippers away uniform (Yay Clips being in LA for 25 years this season!).

I was lucky to catch the tail end of that game while having dinner after making the long haul to Anaheim to watch the Ducks play against the San Jose Sharks with tickets I won. NHL season is wrapping up right now as well, and I'm glad I'm not as into it as I am the NBA and MLB, because with the playoffs for the former and the season starting for the latter, I would have way too difficult a time trying to follow everything I'd want to. Oh, there's also the UEFA Champions League in its Quarter finals in Rome across the pond. The world-class football club I got to see when I was in Germany is in it: Bayern München, only since they play games in Europe time, games happen in the morning around here, which is a bummer.

Oh, there is what we call soccer over in these parts happening too, and I'm almost afraid to get into that.

Good thing I don't follow competitive cheer and golf.

Adventures in Fail.

2009-04-01T18:43:00.000-07:00

I was duped for an April Fool's prank: Fake Holiday FAIL
I'm running late for an event tonight: Punctuality FAIL
My friend to be my date flaked out on me: Friendship FAIL
My basketball team is losing right now: Lakers FAIL
I'd watch, but the digital converter I have works just as well as if I didn't have it: Technology FAIL
This isn't a real entry: BLOGGING FAIL

I quit.

BONUS: These pants are too long for my short legs: GENETICS AND FASHION FAIL

Acceptable PDA

2009-03-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

Tenets of acceptable behavior for couples in public.

1. No touching. Exception: the occasional back-hand brush while walking side by side. The following rule should prevent this.

2. A three foot distance should be maintained at all times. Exceptions: none.

3. Eye contact should be exercised only when responding to a question. Exceptions: mating rituals.

4. Hugs should be transferred via third party.

5. Kissing is allowed when it is certain nobody is looking. God is always looking.

6. No fornication. This includes, but is not limited to: cock sucking, twat rubbing, tit juggling, humping, ass ramming, horse fucking, 69, fisting, double penetration, and coprophilia. Exceptions: situational.

7. No laughing.

Fueled by Validation

2009-03-25T17:24:00.000-07:00

Everybody needs validation. Some claim it’s not necessary, that their lives are fulfilling and satisfying. These people are liars. They are liars and evil for making us who use validation as fuel feel bad. I mean, what point is there in writing if nobody’s commenting? How do I know I have any readers other than my friends?

Do I need to provide points of interest? Did you know that any unsolicited merchandise you receive is yours to keep? If a company sends you merchandise without your permission, and expects you to return the item if you aren’t satisfied, they’re idiots.

I got the Wall Street Journal every day for three months before the bastards realized I wasn’t going to pay for it. The worst part is that these trial period assholes prey on naivete. I received several “bills” and “late notices” demanding that I pay for something I never requested. Others, my parents for example, would’ve been duped.

Was that sufficient? Do I have to post something controversial? A dissenting opinion perhaps? No, I already expressed my disdain for voting, a disdain I do not condone as it defeats the purpose of my argument.

Maybe some gossip? I don’t know any gossip.

Leave a comment. Chumps.

Ode to Joy

2009-03-24T09:43:00.000-07:00

"You better not blog this." -Joy

As I wrote in my last blog entry, I usually have a short list of topics I feel like writing at one time, and when I just arrived home, ready to write one particular entry, I saw that my friend called, who happened upon two tickets to the Finals of the World Baseball Classic. Drive bys and home intrusions aside, I do like where I live because it's thisclose to Dodger Stadium, and working Downtown makes me the most likely candidate in situations like these.

There was no doubt I was going. But I wanted to find someone to use that extra ticket to come along with me. All else fails, I would have gone alone, but I was certain I'd find someone to go with me.

That proved to be an EPIC FAIL. Those who wanted to go either lived too far away, was too stinky, had to work, etc. Other friends either didn't love me enough, was too lazy, had an actual life and were doing other things, or plain ignored my existence. I finally went to my list of friends who don't even like sports, but had the time and possibly were in the general vicinity to be able to go.

One of them was too far away, and the other one was my friend Joy.

Despite her general dislike for all things sports, I was banking on her adventurous spirit and sometimes sense of spontaneity to get her to say yes...that and the hope she was NOT at home in Long Beach. I caught her right when she was in her car to head back that way, and was presented with a really hard sell.

She later told me when I called her to ask her to a baseball game, she thought, "She must be high or something to ask me to go to a baseball game!" But I really was. I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to attend a world-class sporting event that's in my backyard, and I was hoping to find someone with whom to enjoy it. I told her that this event was kind of like the World Series for the MLB (Though I didn't say MLB since that means nothing to her), but an actual WORLD championship since other countries actually played against each other. It just so happened she was watching TV and realized the game is what she was watching, and decided to go with me. HOORAY!

We eventually made it from our street parking spot to the reserve level, left field in an area with a lot of Japan fans behind me and a small group of Korea fans in our immediate vicinity. Joy was quietly for Japan, and I was partial to Korea since Japan defeated USA. If anything, it was amazing to be in such a spirited crowd, waving flags and those things I call "budda-buddas," those inflatable noodles that make hollow noises, and she was having a blast, especially when we loaded up on Dodger dogs and nachos.

The game was intense, and the crowd was feeding off that energy and the Korean and Japan pop blasting from the PA system. When Korea made the amazing bottom of the ninth play to tie up the game, I was F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G O-U-T and though I was screaming and gave Joy two spirited arm squeezes of excitement, I was aware of my good friend's lower constitution and contained myself lest I break off her arm Wookiee-style.

In the end, her team won, but we both agreed it didn't matter who won, it was a fun game. On the long walk back to the car, Joy first expressed how nice it was to have this nice walk, but told me that it was my excitement and enthusiasm that I exuded on the phone with her that sold her on the idea of going to an event she otherwise couldn't care less about, and got to witness excitement ten times more than my excitement once we were in the stadium.

So here's to my friend Joy, the person least likely to go to a baseball game, but evoked the spirit of adventure to have an amazing time.

I Shaved My Head

2009-03-20T17:48:00.000-07:00

It’s haircut time!

My plan was to hide my face and remain anonymous like this phony:

I’ve grown my beard out to 1.5 inches, and I don’t have the patience to keep it going. My hair reaches the bridge of my nose and I look like a fucking hippy. I’ll never be able to hide my face, not successfully at least. I’ll never hear, “who is that mysterious and also very sexy man staring at my breasts?”

You know it’s bad when your flunky girlfriend disobeys a direct order to remain yes-mannish and insists you get a haircut against your wishes. How dare she talk, her hair is at least a dozen times longer than mine. She can lasso hippos with her mane. I saw a midget repelling off her back not long ago, and she didn’t notice because his weight was negligible against the weight of her hair. She’s a loon, how dare she suggest I get a haircut!

I’m off now, I’ll report with more sullen tripe when I return.

I’ve returned an hour later with no hair. I shaved only half my beard as the trimmer gave out halfway through. The left side of my face looks like an animal, the right side looks like dirt. I wish I had a camera. I’m bald with half a beard.

Adventures in...I Forgot.

2009-03-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

I am not writing this entry a day late to write about my adventure in forgetfulness. In fact, for the past few days leading up to Wacky Wednesday, I had a few things I wanted to write about, but thing upon other thing caught up to me and by the time I gave half a damn to write something, it was passed midnight and I really didn't care.

If you want to catch a glimpse of my planning process of writing in this adventure blog, I have a few topics stored in my head as I go about my everyday life, and when it comes to the day of writing, if one of them bubbles up more than the others, I write that one.

Yesterday, I had at least three leads I could have gone with, but when I missed posting, today opened up at least three more things I could ~~complain~~ that no one would care to read. As to not spoil any future entries I'm sure I'll eventually get to in a moment of desperation, I won't tell you about the ones I have lined up. Instead, I want to get into the brilliant entry that I plumb forgot I was going to write.

I remember exactly where I was when I came up with it. I just got into my car, grumbling the whole way as I looked up the hill where President Obama was holding a Town Hall meeting three blocks away that I couldn't attend, and was ready to make the haul from Downtown LA to Burbank. At that moment, the seed of inspiration was planted in my head to write about something with which I'm not all too familiar, so unfamiliar even I was going to title this entry "Adventures in [insert forgotten subject here]." I was actually excited about writing about it, if not for the fact I completely forgot what I was going to write in the first place, and I'm sure I couldn't even begin to remember what it was about without even parking where I was parked, carrying what I had and thinking about everything I was thinking about at the time.

It might have been genius. It could have been trash. We'll never know now.

Either way, it's a good thing I picked up a helmet today. Maybe it will help me protect the noggin from any more dings to prevent more of this from happening.

Maintaining Friends and Their Santies on Social Networking Sites

2009-03-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

[As I was contemplating on the one of few entries I wanted to write this Monday, I made a quick check-in with Facebook to see that a previously-advised friend-saving tip didn't work, and made haste to see how to rectify that. I wrote this tutorial and posted it as a note on Facebook (and most of the links within this entry may only be accessible through the site) but thought it may be good to share it outside the Facebook realm...maybe to further demonstrate how wacky this site is to the Facebook outsiders. Plus, I want to sleep now. <3corazon]

As the new Facebook layout slowly creeped upon its user's profiles, many users were frustrated and angered by the handy new "features" that allowed us to know EVERY LITTLE THING our friends were doing on the site...whether we liked it or not.

My dear friend Ericka was so kind to come up with a tutorial for YOU, dear Facebook user to change those settings before you fall victim of OMG FRIENZ CUT! to even your B-est of FsF.

Now that it seems that everyone one in Facebookland has the new layout, you may or may not have noticed that you can still see stories when a friend of yours sends an "Ultimate Wedgie" or a "Ball of Supreme Opulence" through applications such as SuperPoke, Lego World, ad nauseaum. If you get one super SuperPoke-happy friend sending to everyone on their list, that friend may unknowingly be flooding other friends' news feed.

Last week, when I was on the verge of blocking a friend's updates, I was advised by going to the application page of said application and electing to "Block" that application would resolve that problem, but when confirming the block, you're informed that you'll still be able to see your friends and all the SuperPoking they do.

Does this spell OMG FRIENZ CUT? Not quite yet (At least, for this reason).

Go ahead to the top right section of Facebook and mouse over "Settings." From there, you can click on "Application Settings." From there, the list of applications you currently have installed on Facebook will be listed, and to the right you'll see options to "Edit Settings," "About" and "x," which will delete the listed setting. To prevent application news showing up in your friends' news feeds, go ahead and click on "Edit Settings."

By default all applications are set as "Allow $_application to publish one-line stories automatically, but prompt me for larger stories." which means that every single time you do something with said application, EVERYONE will know about it as it will be posted on your wall, the friend to whom you $_action using $_application, and on the news feed of all your friends who haven't already blocked from seeing your updates.

You can choose to "Never publish any stories from $_application." or opt to be prompted when you should or shouldn't post such news; I'd recommend either but am partial to never publishing.

I hope this note helps in preventing people from hiding others' news or even worse...going so far as to cut a friend from Facebook. Spread the word, so Facebook friendships remain intact!

I've Been Robbed

2009-03-14T16:11:00.000-07:00

I’m sorry I did not write yesterday. It’s an interesting story.

So I’m house sitting for some rich bastard in Hollywood, getting paid to feed his fat cat, water his fat plants, and keep all the fat Mormons away. I can drink all the liquor I want and grill all the prime porterhouses in his walk-in fridge. It’s a pretty sweet deal.

Yesterday I woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. I thought it strange as the house was supposed to be empty. I wrapped a towel around my waist and sauntered into the kitchen where I startled a man wearing a beanie and an eye mask.

“Ay! What the fock is this?” I wasn’t sure of his accent.

“I live here,” I told him.

“Wasn’t nobody s’posed to be here. I’m robbin’ the joint!”

“Bacon?”

“It gives the illusion of inhabitance. Care for some rashers?”

“What the fu—you mean bacon? Get the fuck out of my house you limey piece of shit! I’m just kidding, I’m not racist. But seriously get the fuck out.” I ran back into the master bedroom and pulled a pistol from below my pillow and ran back out to the kitchen and he was gone. He’d left the bacon but took the microwave.

I grabbed my flip flops and ran out to the driveway keeping the towel around my waist. His engine wasn’t starting and I deflated his tires with a few shots. He managed to start the van and scraped out of the driveway. I found a motorcycle with the keys in it and pulled up against him. I shot into the engine, reloaded the revolver and shot six more. The van started smoking and he turned into me, pinning me into a tree.

It was kind of awkward yelling obscenities at him between a smoking van and a tree, half-naked as he ran off.

So I was pried out a couple hours later by some passersby and walked back home. So what if I left a smoldering wreckage all up in a sidewalk? I showered, got dressed and went crook-hunting. I found him at a pawn shop three blocks away trying to trade the microwave for a guitar. He saw me and leaped through the store window. I picked up the shopkeep and flung him at the crook’s legs who toppled forward.

I retrieved the microwave and took a nap when I got home. So I guess if I hadn’t napped I would’ve written yesterday so what shut up.

Short-short Mystery

2009-03-11T17:44:00.000-07:00

[Here’s my attempt at writing a short-short mystery. It’s not difficult at all. Try it or fry it!]

It was warm and slightly breezy, with lazy clouds drifting across the sky and frank’s birthday party on the verge of disaster.

“I’m sorry,” Corazon said to a crowd of her friends, “but the birthday cake has been stolen.” They gasped collectively. “I’m sure if we work together, we’ll be able to find the thief. We don’t want frank’s birthday ruined twice in one week.”

“I don’t understand, who could’ve stolen that shit?” Eliana asked.

“Any one of us,” Fran replied.

“The sooner we find that cake, the sooner frank stops crying,” Aimee said.

“Where is frank anyway?” Aimee asked.

“He’s in the bathroom taking a shit and crying. He forgot his Lactaid pills like a little bitch,” Eliana said.

“Poor guy. Does anybody remember seeing anything suspicious today?” Masa asked.

“All I know is that it must have been stolen while we were fucking up the piñata out back because that’s when it was left alone,” Eliana said.

“So it’s been gone for three hours and nobody noticed until now,” Fernando said.

“Well, it was in the freezer, Fernando,” Cece said.

“In the freezer?” Eliana asked. “I know who stole that shit then."

Smoke and Mirrors

2009-03-09T23:23:00.000-07:00

I honestly have to say I didn't have much motivation to write today's entry. In fact, I had no intention to write something tonight, and instead pass out and wake up in the morning and write something up that probably had to do with some bizarre dream I had.

Instead, I want to show off what I finished making not too long ago:

That's right. I fired up MSPaint and made black bubbles.

But I posed a challenge for myself: I wasn't going to make these black bubbles all willy-nilly-like and randomly place them wherever, instead, I allowed myself to place a black bubble starting in a negative space and keep it so long as it came into contact with at least one other black bubble. After I was satisfied by my black bubble cluster, I took one of the 24 colors available to me and fill in the small pools of negative space.

It may seem like a clever and original thing to you, but I actually got the idea from something some people may recognize. But Benny Franklin said, "Originality is the art of concealing your sources." and if you don't know my source, I'm not the one to tell you.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am happy with how it came out. I do have to admit that what inspired me to even make something like this was just so I can have a fun background for YET ANOTHER social networking site.

And yes, I like being all matchy-matchy.

An Actual, Useful Tip! Really!

2009-03-06T16:02:00.000-08:00

Everyone, listen up. I’m going to share a tip. An excellent tip for which I’m taking complete credit.

Most people have a notepad on which they scrawl random thoughts. I have a txt document on my computer. Recently I’ve been writing the stupid, ridiculous, inane things my girlfriend and I say, and reading them when I’m feeling bad.

Eliana: I love chocolate chip cookie dough.
frank: I love it when it's cooked. In the oven.
Eliana; I've never had that!

Eliana: How come we’re only having full moons lately?

Eliana: I know there's full moons, but in the sky!

My girlfriend actually said that. I still laugh every time I go through this list. I’m not saying my girlfriend’s an imbecile, she’s not. She’s bright, witty, and can hang with the jokes, but sometimes her brain shuts off completely. Completely.

Eliana: I went outside and looked up and a plane made the clouds say, “No on prop 8.”

How adorable is that? Not very because she’s not four years old. How is that not funny?

She’s gotten me pretty good, though. Some of you know that I got broadband recently, and that I was schoolgirl-giddy at the notion of being able to download Japanese schoolgirl pornography faster than ever before.

frank: I can’t wait for DSL.
Eliana: I’d probably be just as excited as you. No, I was back in 2000.

Bitch! I have my fair share of idiotic moments, too. I was describing the horrific deaths of club-goers by starting with, “when the club turned to fire.”

Just now, I was describing why the last second, clutch shot the girlfriend and I saw on television was so awesome, “. . . and he shot left-handed! And he’s left-handed.” I still have her beat, though:

frank: L’aura called. She said she's almost here.
Eliana: Did you answer the phone?

Eliana: What's our fifth sense?

Eliana: Do you think Lincoln kept anything under his top hat?

And my all time favorite.

Eliana: What's all in a watermelon? Water and melon?

She just read this and couldn't stop laughing. She even slapped her palm to her face a couple times! So please, start writing your stupid moments down. It’ll cheer you up when you’re feeling sad. Or bad. Or dad.

Toiletiquette

2009-03-04T21:59:00.000-08:00

When I was in Middle School, my mom made me borrow an etiquette book from the library. I actually wound up learning a thing or two that has stuck as daily habits. What was missing in that etiquette book was chatting while on toilet.

I'm not girly enough that I MUST make a bathroom run with a gaggle of girls, but when I wind up going to the restroom with a friend, it's inevitable we're talking about something, and once we make it into our individual stalls, I'm inclined to continue the conversation lest I risk losing what we're talking about with my terrible short-term memory. But I do understand that when someone needs to "Do her buisness" in the little privacy we're allowed as we're treated to the sounds and tinkles of those around us.

Much like my telephone etiquette, depending on how well I know my bathroom companion, I may or may not pause out of some unspoken respect. Most of the time, particularly if we're having an engaging enough conversation, I'll keep going, regardless.

Yesterday, I was out with a good friend when we both had to make a run for the loo. We were chatting about something, and when it seemed the conversation was going to continue as we relived ourselves, we were interrupted by a woman making her presence known as she was camped out in the handicapped stall. She then proceeded telling us how it was the penthouse of bathroom stalls and likes it, and then started chatting how talking while on the toilet was antisocial. "Antisocial?" I asked, "Don't you mean...it being a faux pas?" And she agreed. And then continued on about this and that, how she's a poet and has a meeting, and hopes to get a ride home with someone since she didn't have a jacket...

I was peeing like a racehorse as this woman who jacked our conversation just kept talking and the conversation got stranger and stranger. At that point, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to meet this entity from the handicapped stall, as I was perfectly comfortable keeping our relationship between partitions and the acoustics of the restroom, so I dashed to wash my hands, said my goodbyes to the lady behind the handicapped stall, and my friend and I got out of there post-haste.

I would otherwise say I really dig messing with people's comfortability in social situations like these, but I think I have finally met my match.

Mid Life Crisis Control

2009-03-02T22:16:00.000-08:00

Whenever I've felt a little down and out, I meditate on this secret mantra I've never shared with anyone: "If Peter is still alive and out there, then all is right with the world."

Peter is more than a dreamer: he is also a dream-chaser. Unlike others who sing of their hopes and dreams as lotus-eaters would, he would dream something up and would go out in the world and go for it; something I've always loved and admired in the short time he's breezed in and out of my life.

It may seem strange to make one's bellwether for the world a total idealist, but he's never led me astray. It came no surprise to me that he, along with most people I know, had one doozy of a last year, and now, much like many people (including myself), he is scrappin' by as best he can while he tries to find that lucky door Opportunity is behind, just about to knock.

We always seem to find each other again at the perfect time: one or both of us will have an idea incubating, but it isn't until we're with the other that this/ese idea/s really take off, since we always seem to catalyze each other into action.

The one big thing working against us now is time. We're not as young and are aware of our limitations at this point. This is not to say that we're past our prime, but it won't be long before time will be working against us, and we'll be too deaf to hear Opportunity knock at our doors.

Hopefully our aged and experienced selves hasn't put us in a stupor enough not to take action, and with each others' encouragement and egging on, we'll continue to ride the wave of inspiration so that we can reach our dreams.

Jesus Would Eat Meat Today

2009-02-27T18:07:00.000-08:00

I plan to make dinner tonight.

On the menu is pasta with shrimp and knackwurst.

I’m no where near Catholic enough to give up meat today. First of all, I don’t know why it’s done, and secondly, I’m too poor to have sushi.

I plan to marinate the shrimp in basil, oregano and olive oil, sauté the wurst, yell at my girlfriend for being in the way, sauté the miscellany (bell pepper, mushrooms, onion, garlic [perhaps eggplant]), yell at the mushrooms, sear the shrimp quickly, and mix it all together along with the pasta so as to let it finish cooking with the shrimp. I’ll add butter and grate parmesan over it to bring it all together.

Why would God want me to give that up? Jesus and I are buds, he’d eat this with me, too, and we’d probably get drunk and fly around to bars or something afterward.

“frank,” he’d say, “that girl is checking you out. Go for it.”

“I can’t, Jesus, I have a girlfriend.”

“True, true. Be my wingman then.”

“Alright, Jesus,” and I would totally be Jesus’ wingman but he wouldn’t need one because he’s Jesus. “My friend can turn that into wine for you,” I’ll tell the two women.

“Uh, we’re drinking vodka,” one would say with an attitude.

“You don’t wanna talk to those bitches,” I’d tell Jesus.

For dessert we’ll probably have ice cream.

Read my Journal

2009-02-25T20:54:00.000-08:00

[I found a journal I wrote fifteen years ago. Some are boring, but several are pretty funny in retrospect. I'm sure most guys will relate. Have a read.]

Dear Journal,

Today I had my first kiss. I hope she’s not pregnant and I’m really worried. I think I kissed her really good and it felt really good, but I’m sad because she told me I couldn’t tell anyone because she would lose her job and she’s a really good teacher.

Dear Journal,

I had my second kiss today. I think it was her first kiss because she said, “I’ve never kissed a boy before,” but I think she was lying because how can a babysitter never kiss a boy when she’s always taking care of boys?

Dear Journal,

I didn’t do anything today.

Dear Journal,

Today I tickled a girl so good that she started screaming really loud. I thought I was killing her but she said not to stop. When I asked my dad why, he started crying and broke up with his girlfriend so I guess I’ll never tickle her again.

Dear Journal,

Last night I felt so grown up when I went to the restaurant with my friend’s family and his mom bought me a wine. I drank it really fast like my dad does and started walking crooked. My friend’s mom said I should sleep over and I slept in her bed. When I woke up she brought me juice and said, “ready for more, tiger?” And she took off her big shirt. I said the juice was good.

THE MONDAYS -or- Things Happen for a Reason

2009-02-23T22:13:00.000-08:00

Whenever someone actually says, "Someone has the case of The Mondays!," I actually start having a case of "The Mondays" regardless of whether I'm already having one or not. For this Monday, however, I had it real bad.

Let's start off with the fact that today was my first day doing a weekly Monday entry. For those who have been wondering (I doubt any have), I do have a short list of general concepts to write about when a blogging day is approaching, and it's not very certain what I'll write about until I sit in front of a computer to compose my next entry. This past week in general was a pretty busy and tiring one for me, leaving me little time to plan for this, and I figured that the headache that induced an early bedtime for me Sunday night would allow me adequate rest for me to prepare for yet another crazy week.

And crazy it was from the get-go. After a restless sleep, I was roused around 5:30AM this morning by a text message from my roommate, asking me to take her to urgent care. She was feeling poorly for about six hours before she asked me to take her, and after putting on some clothes, we made the squeaky trip up to urgent care, where we stayed there for over three hours as we watched Oscar wrap-ups and I played a bit of Sudoku and Animal Crossing on my Nintendo DS. I'm glad that I wound up sleeping earlier so that I'd get that extra bit of sleep so that I'd be able to take her when she wanted to. She is going to be okay, by the way; she's doing a bit better.

After our stint in Urgent Care, we stopped by Trader Joe's to stock up on more fluids for her, which provided me with the opportunity to go across the street to try this infamous breakfast burrito I keep hearing about. After going home and trying to put some damage in what's probably a one pound behemoth, I did a bit of freshening up to clock in some work time.

Not that I am glad she is not feeling well, but if we didn't have to be in Pasadena at such an early time, I probably wouldn't have had the motivation enough to get my butt over in time for this burrito...the burrito that eventually contributed to my demise for the rest of the day.

I do have a witness how that huge thing kicked my butt all day, and as of this posting, I still haven't gathered the courage to polish off the three bites of this dense and greasy thing. I'm starting to develop a phobia of it, even. I thought that having something like that to help me power through the day would help, but instead, I staggered through sleepy AND groggy, thanks to all the grease and starch that was weighing me down.

By the end of the day, I was sleepy with a headache, and couldn't think of anything better than to take some pain killer and nap. The way I was feeling today, one would think that I was the one who was sick.

But I guess I am sick: Sick with The Mondays. And to top the day off, here I am, fresh from said nap, writing a perfectly crappy blog entry in the spirit of this perfectly Monday day.

Of course, there's a reason for all this crap: I've set the bar so low at this point, I'm sure these new Monday entries by Yours Truly can't get any worse...right?

HAPPY DAY!

Adventures in Politics

2009-02-20T21:18:00.000-08:00

It was my first time in a hot air balloon. I’d finally gathered the courage to conquer my fear of heights after a case of vertigo ruined a romantic evening atop a swaying building. I figured hijacking a hot air balloon in the process of take off would be the best way to “force” myself off the ground. Once your grappling hook latches and your feet are dangling, you’re hard-pressed to back down.

“What the hell, get off the damned balloon, you stupid imbecile!”

“You get off the balloon, you . . . ballast!” I responded, jabbing in their direction with my three-pronged hook. I released the sandbags and soared higher, nervous as if I were on a sinking ship. I had the flame run until out of fuel and I was high enough to be able to see the city, the ocean, the desert, the forest, and the mountains in one glance. I felt confident and safe in that basket, drinking the wine and having the cheese left behind. My euphoria kept increasing until the wake of a passing plane toppled the balloon and bucked me out.

Luckily it was a plane filled with sky divers and I was able to land on a rectangular parachute that looked like the American flag. It was comfortable, like landing on a giant, patriotic pillow. I heard someone singing below me.

“No need to ask.
I’m a smooth operator,
smooth operator,
smooth operator.”

“I know that voice,” I said.

“Is that--.”

“Mr. President!”

“Frank, how have you been!” Barack asked ecstatically.

“Oh, just conquering my fear of heights. Has an irrational fear ever thwarted a night of pleasure for you?” I asked and slid to the edge of the parachute and looked down at him as though we were bunk buddies.

“Once, but to be fair, it was a very large spider,” he said. “So did your parachute fail to deploy?”

“Hah, no, I stole a hot air balloon. By the way, do you have my back on that? Might turn into a legal issue.”

“No problem, Frank.”

The president and I floated down together slowly. I landed with a thud and was dog piled immediately by secret service agents, but Barack peeled them off and pulled me out of the rubble and that’s how I conquered my fear of heights.

Making it Personal

2009-02-18T13:43:00.000-08:00

A friend admitted to me this game she played with another friend of hers: they would see how long they can touch someone in a crowd before they noticed.

Being someone who like to do strange, social experiments like that (or just because I'm strange), I was interested in such a game. It also doesn't help that I play little games in my head, like when someone unknowingly encroaches in my personal space (sometimes due to a big purse) and I time to see how long it takes for them to notice that we've made a physical connection and them to freak out and profusely apologize.

In most contexts, I'm okay having very little personal space. It's something I've developed after years of attending concerts and being smooshed up against hordes of sweaty, crazy people who are trying to get as close to their favorite band as possible. It's this lack of boundaries I like to exploit to get past the "cool kids" crowd, AKA those who do have large personal boundaries and are freaked out as I dash between the negative space between several cool kids spaces to get closer to the stage.

So when my friend told me about this game, I found it interesting they'd do something of that nature in the open, when one's not smooshed up and sweaty against someone else. And when she went ahead and demonstrated an attempt to touch someone while not noticing, I freaked out and wanted her to stop...because she was going to employ THE CREEPY TOUCH.

One of the few contexts when I have to have a large personal boundary is when you have THE CREEPY TOUCH. It's that touch that you can feel on your skin and it radiates creepiness even before the creepy toucher makes actual, physical contact to your being. Nothing is creepier and gross feeling than an eerie, "Hiiiiii...how are youuuuu?" followed by the lay of creepy hand on your arm, small of back, whatever. Actually, what IS worse is the Creepy Rub, where once the creepy touch is laid upon you, the Creepy Toucher proceeds to move his/her hand in a light, creepy motion, which multiplies the creep factor ten fold.

Having been the recipient of THE CREEPY TOUCH more than one human should bear made me want to grab my friend and scream, "NO, NOT LIKE THAT!!!!," only if I actually did that, the entire bar would have turned in silence to look at us, the two creepy girls in the dark corner of an already dark space.

So make this a lesson for all you who are working on your social skills: THE CREEPY TOUCH KILLS.

Cooking with a Loved One

2009-02-17T17:21:00.000-08:00

So, as many of you know, I’ve been doing much more cooking ever since I’ve had a girlfriend to clean up after me. We make a good team as I love to cook and hate to clean, and she hates to cook and hates to clean.

It’s not all roses and butterflies, or whatever stupid metaphor people use to describe paradise. For example, she’s always in the way while I’m cooking. When I need to deglaze a pan with water, I’m not one to have a cup of water at my side ready to pour into the searing hot pan. I bring the pan to the water, the way God intended pans to be deglazed. There’s a good six feet between the stove and the water, and if you’re standing within those six feet, well, I hope you’re wearing shoes. And a face mask.

Now, I’m a strong believer of the “you live, you learn,” tenet people so graciously spout. I, though, am not so heartless. I’ll give her fair warning before turning for the water. I figure a quick “careful” through my teeth will suffice, and usually she gets out of the way fast enough. Sometimes, though, she stands there doing I don’t know what, getting water probably, and ends up with a face full of hot pan. Don’t ask me how the pan ends up on her face.

Other times, she’ll pick something off the cutting board . . . while I’m chopping. “Can I have some of that bell pepper,” she’ll ask. “I love raw bell pepper.”

“Yes, of course,” I say happily and she ends up with a cut across the back of her hand and legs.

The worst is when I’m making cheesecake and I’m transporting it to the oven. “Make yourself useful, honey bunches of oats,” I tell her. “Can you open the oven?”

“Sure!” she says and, somehow, ends up entirely within the 400 degree oven.

What a pain in the ass.

I hope that one day we’re as two ballet dancers moving to a beautifully choreographed dance in the kitchen, she the yin to my yang, complimenting each other like a pair of symbiotic beings. Until then, we’ll have to laugh off the third degree burns and lacerations.

Happy S.A.D.

2009-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

I was bitter at an early age.

Once, when presented with a single red rose on valentine's day, I without hesitation assumed that it must have been some kind of cruel joke. High school was an all around traumatic experience for me, and I was sure the gesture was an elaborate trick to humiliate me. My fifteen year old self would have bet her beans there were snickering girls hiding around the corner, waiting for me to smile and fawn over the fake flirting. I think I turned the rose upside down and stuffed it into my backpack. I could barely look the presenter in the eye but I mustered enough gumption to respond "I don't know..." to his date request, and tore off in the opposite direction. Since I grew up to be a florist, I know just how much effort & money he had to go through to obtain that rose. The only one who was cruel that day was me. I didn't even notice the handwritten card attached until I got home.

I know it's easy to jump on the "I hate Valentine's Day" bandwagon, but I truly do. Despite my reputation of being a serial monogamist, I've never been a fan of the holiday. I do partake in an occasional conversation heart or two, and I can never turn down a chocolate covered marshmallow heart. As a florist and candy lover I am all for promoting of the new holiday "S.A.D., or Singles Appreciation Day. You can buy any kind of flower, get fantastic candy in a box of any shape, and celebrate being able to eat the entire thing without sharing. Sadly, couples still have to celebrate Valentine's day, but they will have to come up with something truly romantic and personal in order to outshine S.A.D. gifts.

For instance, you can make reservations for a hotel room for your sweetheart to stay in all by themselves after a long hard day of work at the flower shop so they won't have to deal with the daily routines of home. Or how about a handmade gift or dinner? That's what valentine's day should be about. Not what it is today: a generic, trying to make your co-workers at the office jealous, trying to get laid, red roses & heart shaped Russell Stover chocolate box kind of day. Writing a poem or drawing a picture is so much cheaper and way more romantic than all that will ever be. Even one rose is still a thoughtful gesture, especially when accompanied with a hand written note that says something more that just "Happy Valentine's Day".

Embarrassingly, I had to face that nice guy who gave me the rose quite often since I worked at the video store where his family rented videos. In my socially awkward lame way I tried to make up for my stupid bitchy behavior by secretly giving him discounts, the occasionally free rental, and I would hold new releases behind the counter and offer them like little apologies. I am sure he never even noticed. So if you have a significant other, I am sorry for the daunting task at hand.

To all those singles out there, relax and have a happy Singles Appreciation Day!

Optimism on a Cloudy Day

2009-02-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

Despite being semi-superstitious, I haven't really been freaked out about Friday the 13th (save, perhaps, for the movie franchise). Such a disbelief remains unflappable even after officially starting a relationship on a Ft13th that ended up failing, and a small slew of other unfortunate happenings that just so happened to fall on that day.

Perhaps to further prove my point, I attended Farmlab's third ever Optimist Breakfast, which are held on the notoriously unlucky day. The event piqued my interest, but when I saw the 8am start time, I almost decided against going. Then I thought such thinking isn't much in the spirit of the event so I promised myself, by hook or by crook, I would go. At the very least, I had the advantage of living very close to the venue and it fell on my day off, so at the worst, I would go sleepy and grumpy and return home to rest some more.

I managed to muster the energy and motivation to get dressed and over there in time, even with a later-than-hoped bedtime last night only to wake up to a cold and rainy morning. I had no expectation of being fed despite the event coined as a breakfast, but we were bacon'd and OJ'd as we listened to great speakers talk on this inception's theme, "What Patriotism Means to Me" as we sat beneath Spring Street with the LA River at our side and Metrolink trains passed, causing unexpected dramatic pauses in the speeches of the guest speakers.

The morning defied the maligned prejudices of this day: listening to inspiring different takes patriotism in a cold I haven't felt since being in Europe at the end of November, watching the breaks in the clouds while kind of hoping more rain would come, and sharing this experience with other people who think the same (or at the very least, enjoy free bacon and eggs).

Although I have my moments when I feel a little down, I like to consider myself an optimist for the most part, and though I don't have to prove it by getting up despite all odds. Let's just see if I continue to think that way next month when the next breakfast has a 6am start.

A Nerd is We

2009-02-11T18:33:00.000-08:00

In their grand effort to make sure they have every online technology utilized, Google has now integrated voice/video to their Gchat client. This feature is useful for people like my friend who suffers from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome on both wrists, so voice/video chatting is much more efficient and painless way of communicating so long as she's willing to look decent while on camera. Even when I don't have video or voice for me to communicate, we sometimes chat with her talking while I type my replies.

Other times run the risk to steal more time while under The Man's clock.

It just so happens I now work at a place that uses a computer with a built in microphone and camera that allows me to video chat at work. Around the same time, a friend who we will call "Fran," got a brand new, sexy computer (Windows-based, fancy that!) that had the same. With our powers combined, a lot of nerdiness ensues.

Is it because of the novelty? Perhaps. We actually don't chat over voice as not to be TOO disruptive to those around us, but we are easily amused by the fact that we can see each other read what the other has written and witness that LOLing is truly an LOL (or at the very least, an LMO - Laugh Mimed Out). We also try to make each other laugh while on the phone by saying random things and give each other hi fives. Because when we break from chatting, a high five is the perfect bit of motivation to do a job well done. We can also see when the other is a bit annoyed by a certain comment when eyes roll or if the other finds the linked YouTube video amusing. One can also do fun things like notice your friend's freakishly huge zit on her face or see when your friend is taking a camera phone picture of video chat, only to send as a picture message that is emailed and put on a blog.

Little work breaks are a bit funner this way, chatting online is a nice, casual thing to help the time pass and perhaps prevent stress from building when working on something that could be stressful, and otherwise nerdy conversations about comic book heroes and cell phone reception is further heightened by visual aids. It also provides an opportunity to help point out bad grammar while being creative when writing songs to certain situations, like when your friend all of a sudden is stuck to the ceiling.

I'm not writing this to say that your entire day should be spent teasing your friends via Internet. What's helpful for me is that I keep my social skills relatively sharp this way, as I don't usually work with co-workers in-office; even though there are other offices on this floor and I can happily saunter over for a quick chat, I can't really get much work done when I'm away from my desk. At least this way I'm kept company in this corner office, and the PIP image of how I look on video makes me a bit self-conscious and I try to have better posture since I know someone may notice.

...and no, before anyone asks or mentions it, this video chat capability will not be used for monetary gain for strange people with unique fetishes for things I cannot even begin to imagine to have.

Spicy Bitches

2009-02-09T22:01:00.000-08:00

I used to think I had a high tolerance for spicy foods. I’d slop spoonfuls of my parents’ chile sauce onto my carne asada and relish the burn. I’d even relish the less enjoyable second burn, what my Korean friends call BTS (Burning Tonkomong [asshole] Sensation), because once it was over it was like conquering a great evil, one whose pleasure was to shoot flaming arrows into your ass in the most heterosexual way possible.

This thought was dashed when I came across an extra spicy batch of chile. It was carne asada Sunday and my father’d made the chile, so I knew it’d be spicier than average. It was so spicy, I was crying while eating. Crying. While eating! Have you ever cried while you ate? I’m sure you have, it happens often in America, but not as a result of eating chile.

Anyway, I turned to my girlfriend and noticed through my fiery tears that she wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I asked her.

“What the?”

“You don’t find this shit spicy?”

“It’s good!”

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” By this time I was bawling. “How come you’re not crying? This shit is fucking spicy, what the fuck!”

“It’s not that spicy, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but it’s fucking habaneros. I can’t even smell this shit without my nose burning. How c-could you f-fucking eat this,” I sobbed into my elbow. “You fucking bitch I hate you goddammit!”

“Oh, God, this chile’s so delicious!” I took her immediately. When I kissed her, I started crying because her mouth was so fucking hot, it felt like a can of pepper spray exploded in my face.

Naked Pets Disgust Me

2009-02-06T18:47:00.000-08:00

[Here’s a post by an LA Times staff writer who asked to remain anonymous. Corazon wasn’t able to post today, so my friend volunteered this “piece.”]

I have pets. My pets shed. I shave pets. Pets get cold. Cold pets get clothes?

I went clothes shopping for my pets today. I folded under pressure from the vet who recommended they stay warm during winter as their abnormal shedding may indicate other complications. He didn’t care about the dozens of pets I’d had with the same abnormality.

I left my two cats at home. I figured cats will loathe any clothes I force on them, but that was just how I rationalized not wanting to carry two cases full of cat while walking two dogs. I walked aimlessly for fifteen minutes, dogs in tow, too embarrassed to ask for the clothing section. Sadly, the notion of shopping for clothes for my pets wasn’t embarrassing until shoppers asked about my dogs’ lack of hair. Turns out hairless dogs are just as grotesque and offensive as a person with a coarse coat of hair, walking around naked.

Those brave enough to approach the hairless eyesores next to me asked, “what happened to your dogs?”

“Fire accident.” Listen, I’m not a complete monster. I didn’t shave the beasts myself. I took them to groomers and told them to lop off as much as they could.

“Oh, that’s so sad.”

The clothing section was not what I expected. I was surprised by the selection seeing everything from dress shirts, to khakis fitted for dogs, to those intentionally hideous holiday sweaters. I perused and pulled out garments to eye before my dogs like a mother pressing a shirt onto her son’s chest. I had several sweaters in hand when I saw something my sister would love for her daughter. It was a Miley Cyrus sweater. I don’t know why a dog would want a Miley Cyrus sweater. I considered buying the sweater for my niece who was, apparently, roughly the same size as a large dog when I realized something.

I put the clothes down and drove until I found a yard sale. “Oh no! What happened to your dogs?”

“Nothing. Are you selling children’s clothing?”

“Yes, right over there.” I walked over and started dressing my dogs in merino and fleece sweaters. “Those aren’t for your dogs, are they?”

“No. It’s a well-known fact that dogs and children have similar builds and may thus share clothing.” I perused the rest of the yard sale and left with eight sweaters, a tennis racket, and a Nintendo.

The sweaters aren’t bad. I might gift the fleece sweaters this Christmas to my nephews. The dogs’ hair will have grown back by then.

The Nose Douche*

2009-02-04T14:01:00.000-08:00

I've been told I do "edgy" things, but when it comes to abbreviating sickness and getting rid of boogers without having to "dig for gold," I am all ears. That's why I use a neti pot.

I was introduced to this process when I was having a bout of really gnarly boogers that eventually led to my becoming a bit under the weather. I happened to run into a thread that recommended to use this ancient Ayurvedic technique to clear your sinuses from bad stuff and watched this lovely video:

The concept is simple enough: use water to flush your sinues from gunk! I'm lucky that I don't suffer from allergies to pollen, dust, dander and the like, but I have a pretty weak respiratory system, and knowing that using a cute, ceramic pot to help shorten sickness is all good in my book!

I do admit it does seem like a strange thing to do, but hey, if Dr. Oz on Oprah says it's okay, it shouldn't be bad, right?

I have heard people who tried using it to help get better faster, and neti pot use only made the sickness even worse. Not knowing the details of that try, I 'm surprised that it did more harm than good, but it's not deterring me from using it.

I've been using the neti pot for a bit over a year now. I used it particularly after running on a dirt track on the outer edge of Downtown Los Angeles, just to get particulate matter and other bad stuff out of my system, and also for the aforementioned booger bust (Works like a charm). Any time I'm feeling a little congested or snotty, I get some warm water, a bit of epsom salt and flush my nasal passage! I remember getting sick on vacation, and while I was miserable and congested, I wished I had packed my neti pot to clear myself from all the sinus pressure of snot.

I'm not going to lie and say using it is like taking a deep breath of clear, mountain air, but yeah, it's sometimes uncomfortable to use, particularly if you haven't used it in a while, or if you use too much salt, or the water is too hot or cold. In the end, I find the momentary discomfort worth the investment of not being so sick for so long.

Yes, it is possible to flush one's nasal passage when congested, but it takes A LOT of time and patience. Yes, I have tempered discomfort with patience while holding a slowly cooling pot of hot water tilted into one nostril while nothing comes out of the other. Given a lot of time, physics and the properties of water finally managed to create a snot poop out of the other nostril and flush most, if not all of that gunk out of my system.

I know such a practice isn't ideal for everyone, but I like it myself. Just some warm water and epsom salt through my nasal cavity will do me fine. I will not, however, fathom to try more "advanced" techniques that I've read about, like allowing the water to go down your throat to spit out, or using milk or ghee, or even crazier...your own urine (I AM NOT MAKING IT UP...CLICK ON THE ABOVE LINK). Supposedly, with the right balance of diet and I don't care what else will help balance you so that when you flush your body from outside toxins from your own waste, it won't be that bad. I'm not that "edgy" enough to try that.

And for heaven's sake, please don't try flushing out your sinuses with alcohol.

*No, this wasn't my wording. It was a Google ad that I came across.

Did Someone Fart?

2009-02-03T14:27:00.000-08:00

The devil’s toilet is never clogged up. Don’t accuse me of being cryptic! My logic is simple: the devil lives in hell, hell is filled with magma, volcanoes are filled with magma ergo volcanoes are hell; volcanoes emit sulfur gas (devil burps), thus the devil pisses concentrated sulfuric acid cleaning and unclogging his satanic plumbing.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of pouring concentrated sulfuric acid into a drain, you know my misery. My father and I underestimated the awful power of sulfur and thought a simple door would contain the incredible stench. It’s an hour later and the entire house smells like a fifty ton chicken who’s been dead for five weeks popped out an egg stewing in its sweltering body, cracked it open, mixed it with—wait, better: it smells like the Jolly Green Giant took a shit on our house. Ho, ho, ho, fuck you, Green Giant!

Concentrated sulfuric acid is toxic. I’m not kidding, it’ll burn through your skin, eat away your eyes, and fuse the alveoli of your lungs shut. An accidental sniff will trigger your gag reflex, even if you’re a seasoned prostitute.

The bottle instructs users to wear protective face masks and to invert a pan over the sink to prevent splattering in case of an explosion. But my dad and I are men, men no need protection. A face mask would’ve helped.

It was classically revolting, appealing to nearly every one of the five senses. The sink gurgled like an animal with a fresh slit across the neck, it smelled like the inside of a whale sitting in the sun for a month, and it spewed a black, viscous, bubbling liquid reminiscent tar or what you’d imagine the grim reaper would bleed.

Anyhow, this stuff didn’t work. It served only to bring us a step closer to death. The sink is still clogged and the house smells more like shit than ever before. God damn you, Green Giant! God damn you!

Do You Sleep?

2009-01-30T12:05:00.001-08:00

I don't think I can recall having one good night's sleep this year so far. I guess it's something of my fault by ushering in 2009 by staying up till 5 and waking up naturally just in time to catch the live telecast of the Rose Parade and the Twilight Zone marathon and kept going with my day without much of a nap.

Of course, it doesn't help that I've been staying up late only to have to wake up early for important things, like go to work and the like, and I've been kept so busy, I don't really get much for naps that I really like doing. I have played it safe when I've been at others' place very late and opt to crash there instead of trying to sleepily drive home, but sleeping in a foreign environment doesn't yield quality sleep. Even when I do get in a good amount of hours in my own bed, something usually prevents me from a quality rest, like a bad dream, a strange noise, a headache, or the fact that I simply passed out while trying to work on something on the computer only to doze off and wake up hours later with the lights still on, the laptop to the side and discovering the hard object jabbing at my back are my glasses on which I'm lying down.

I really do like sleep, and I know it's good for me. I just wish that I could get more of it, and perhaps more quality sleep. More than anything, I do hope that I don't manifest some alter ego in my sleep that goes out and does things like form secret societies in the efforts to create social change through terrorism. I'd rather I'd spend my unconscious hours doing things that will help me out with my day-to-day, like make me breakfast or get my knitting done...maybe read that book or two I've been wanting to get through or tag and caption all my photos on Flickr.

Or maybe my alter ego should more of a social life than I'm not keen on having right now, just to make sure my friends know I'm not ignoring them and thus hating their guts because I don't even poke them on Facebook.

More Ways of the Professional Mooch: Library Edition

2009-01-29T10:20:00.000-08:00

I've watched movies like Almost Famous and Hearts of Atlantis and thought of these single mothers giving their sons library cards as presents. In a way, it kind of sucks to get something like that for your birthday or something, but getting that key to other worlds through books is a pretty cool tool to have, and being as lazy as I am, I'd appreciate someone signing me up for a library card, eliminating my need to do that paperwork.

The library is one of those often-forgotten resources not only for books, but also for magazines, DVDs CDs and articles. During these tough economic times, many are making greater efforts to scrimp and save money whenever they can, and libraries is a great money-saver.

I and many others have or had the habit of simply purchasing a book that may have piqued our interests, and even with all the research made, user reviews and big-chain coupons to save a buck or two, and then buy it to find out the book is a dud. Sure you can Freecycle or leave it somewhere or pass it along to someone else, and the library has the same concept...except you have to return it to them. And if you like something, hey! You can buy it!

As a UCLA Alumni member, I get to have access to the entire University of California collection across the state. It's a pretty cool tool, as I primarily use it to get art books as a reference and inspiration from the UCLA Arts library, and if there's a particular book by an artist that great library doesn't have, I can request for the book be sent down to me. It's too bad that I mostly forget that I can do the same thing with novels and other books...that would have saved me a lot of money and stuff space in my living areas.

Nowadays, I have the help of my sister, who works at a pretty good library, to look for books for me. I'll be surfing the web and find a book I like, and internet-access willing, she will instantly go to her library's website if they have it and if it's checked in. If it is, she borrows it, and she doesn't have to pay late fees! It is something I have used several times.

I'm currently on the biggest knitting kick I've ever been on since learning how to knit and crochet (partly because I'm actually pretty decent at it now), and have wanted to make several items from designers who have published books. I was THISCLOSE to buying a book that had ONE pattern I wanted to use, but realized that I could just borrow it. My sister's library doesn't have it, but I discovered the best library tool IN THE WORLD (literally):

WorldCat: An online catalog to search the catalogs of libraries around the world.

In no time did I find that the LA Central Library had the book I wanted (but was checked out), and the next closest place was the Pasadena Central library. Now I have a Pasadena Library card and the book I want and only paid for the gas it took to find parking on a busy Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes, when I go into a library, "A Whole New World" that was in Disney's Aladdin comes in my head. Even though it's theoretical, the library is indeed a portal that can take you practically anywhere you wish, whether it be knitting patterns, the world of vampires, or the randy stories of Russian folktales (Hey, I was almost practically majoring in the stuff...folktales, that is).

Reading is for the Birds

2009-01-27T00:24:00.000-08:00

Are you familiar with that saying? Blank is for the birds? It’s a century-old saying derived from ‘that is shit for the birds,’ as birds have a tendency to eat road apples. I read that online, but it was only a handful of sentences. I can’t read textbooks. I’ve never read a math book in my life. Textbooks are glorified technical manuals, tomes of a banal compilation of words, stale and with no intention to teach, only to implant.

Classical literature and all good books are ideas conveyed clearly and naturally. I enjoy those, but I haven’t read a book in well over a half year. When I read, I absorb words for a minute or two and forget that which I read a half hour ago. I guess I retain ideas, but only those.

My girlfriend explained to me what happens when she reads. She read aloud a passage from the Twilight series and told me what she pictured after a sentence or two. She told me she pictured a couple holding hands in an open field and specific features and emotional overtones cast upon their faces. I pictured only two hands grasping each other. I concluded it was why my reading comprehension level is so pathetic.

I have an insatiable craving for knowledge and it’s depressing and frustrating. Reading bores me. I’d like to do more of it, but I can’t will myself to pick up a book. It’s such an inefficient method of retaining knowledge. I wish ideas could be beamed straight into my head. It’s rare that words stimulate me. When they do stimulate me, I get so excited that I find myself trying to read faster than I can grasp ideas, and when that happens I end up just looking at letters.

A road apple is horse shit so named because it resembles in appearance an apple. Birds have a habit of pecking at horse shit to extract undigested seeds. When something is for the birds, it is trivial and generally useless.

The Machine Creates the Obsession

2009-01-23T17:03:00.000-08:00

Last week, I wrote about the woes of this blog's writers' inability to access the Internet from home. Things have changed since then, and we are much, much different people because of it.

When I first moved into the house where I currently live, there was no Internet. I was told that we technically couldn't get cable because the Powers-That-Be had to cross properties in order to get it setup, and they're not technically allowed to do that. Even though it's something that has to be provided, there is also no working phone jack in the house. I managed to steal a weak signal from a neighbor for a while until our next door neighbor allowed me to set up a wireless signal from his access so my roommate and I can share with him. Then he took it away for a while, so it was back to stealing access. Only thing was, the signal was very weak and inconsistent, and there were very few spots where it would actually work. Even when our next door neighbor decided to allow us to share Internet with him again, it took me a long time to de-program myself from going online from the foot of the right side of my bed.

When we were without our neighbor's access, and as our neighbors got smart and protected their networks, I had some creative surfing I had to do (aka mooching off Internet under the guise of hanging out and visiting others - I'm kidding, I love you all) until I decided to make the call and have the cable guys do what they're not supposed to and install internet into our actual house. That way, I had complete control of my network and had access to it whenever it went down.

Around the same time, I decided to sign up for Netflix. I got myself on their cheapest plan (One DVD at a time), so I made sure to make a quick turnaround with my single DVD, and in the 11 days I've been a member, I've received (and returned) 3 DVDs and watched 16 movies and TV show episodes online. Since I watch a lot of these while making yarn, knitting or crocheting, I've also used my high-speed connection to search for inspiration for new knitting and crocheting projects. It also has seemed to spark the use of my Last.fm account a whole lot more now.

My blog partner, on the other hand, has me experiencing flashbacks now that he has DSL and has abandoned our semi-daily correspondence of ways to make the other feel like the inferior, unimaginative loser in ways so subtle that the other doesn't really detect what's really being said (and it works) and has replaced it with playing Counter-Strike and watching trashy anime on YouTube.

I even wonder why this blog continues to exist at all. Let's give it 'till the end of the month.

Subservient Women and My Fist

2009-01-21T16:57:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I was all for women’s rights. My mother was subservient to my dad, as was my sister to her husband, but I still formed my own opinion and thought, “my wife will do whatever she wants!” I was perplexed by housewifery and women’s decisions to consciously, and happily, slave for their husbands and families.

It wasn’t until my twenties that I realized that some women enjoy the role. My girlfriend is one of those women: subservient and pleasured by my joy. Disgusting.

Every morning I ask her what she’d like for breakfast. “I don’t know. Whatever you want!”

“You said that yesterday.” I walk into the kitchen and scramble a handful of eggs, fry up some bacon, and squeeze a couple glasses of orange juice because it’s her favorite breakfast. We eat, happily, and when I’m done, I begin cleaning up. The struggle begins with my trying to take her plate.

“I want to do the dishes,” she says cutely. I pull even harder and succeed at removing the plate from her hands, but at the cost of two of her fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Now, I’m not one to take lip, so I give her a quick five across the face and say, “I’m not one to take lip!” She sits down and apologizes—subserviently and with a smile. Pleased anew, I ask my girlfriend to get on the computer and find out when the game is on while I go relieve myself. When I return to clean up, I notice my girlfriend elbow deep in a sink of suds and dishes.

“Look, I don’t want to hit you again,” I say sternly.

“What should I do then?”

“Not the dishes.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Not the dishes!”

“What?”

“You asked for it,” and I popped her in the nose. Boy, can she take a punch. I helped her to the dining room and started on the dishes. I turn and notice she’s wiping the blood off the dining table. “What did I say!”

“Not the dishes.”

“That’s it.” I marched over and cracked a plate over her head. “You better not try and clean this mess up, either.” At this point I carried her to the room and set her on the bed where she hugged me before I left to finish off the dishes. I was happy, enjoying the fact that I cooked and cleaned all by myself when I heard the vacuum start up.

I ran in there about to clock her in the chin when she yelled in fear, “not the dishes! Not the dishes!”

I stood in disbelief, unable to understand why she couldn’t allow herself to be happy and let me treat her like the princess she is.

Broadband: Pandora's Sexy Box

2009-01-20T02:10:00.000-08:00

Few knew that until last week I was still using dial up. I remained in an era when N’sync was adored by all (all), the economy was peaking, and I was even more ignorant of female anatomy than I am now. Don’t get me wrong, dial up is the tortoise to broadband’s hare, but it wasn’t all that bad. Let me explain, bitches.

Consider reading. Those who love to read will understand. Let’s say—

here’s where I stopped writing before I left for tonight. Before I started writing I was sober, but now I am drunk. I am drunk enough to not care what I write, so whatever I write will be exceptionally horrible. Both horrible in content and grammar. Not so much in spelling because MS Word will take care of that for me, and it has thus far taken care of at least a billion infractions in this paragraph.

--Let’s say that dial up is like a volume of books everyone cares to read, because that’s how the internet is, you see. You want to read these books and on dial up you read one book every ten years. With DSL you read these books at a rate of 2.6 KBPS, which translates roughly to a thousand books an hour about.

That’s many books.

My point is, my friends, that once you read those books, you have nothing else to do. Did I mention you’re on a deserted island and those are the only books you’ll forever have to read? Well that’s the internet, my friends. That’s the internet: the pandora’s box of shit.

Sure there’s a plethora and other garbage words you could use to describe the superfluity of the internet, but it means nothing when none of it internets you I mean interests you. There’s pornography, games, pictures, videos, and information. They all only go so far and information is only fun if you’re interested, and of all the information on the internet, I’m sure only 0.001 percent of it entertains any one person on any basis whatever that means.

So anyway back to my original point because I’m tired and whatever, Pandora’s Sexy Box. I meant to create a witty innuendo regarding Pandora and her box, and the internet. I even considered titling this Pandora’s Cyber Box, but my confidence was low and didn’t think I’d be able to—holy shit I just heard gun shots. I’m not kidding. There were five or six cracking through the air. I’m calling 911.

I just called and it was the fastest I was transferred to an operator. I was transferred four times, but it was very prompt. They’re sending someone over.

How depressingly sobering.

The Way of a Professional Mooch

2009-01-16T09:37:00.000-08:00

I've been asked what it means to be a professional mooch, as I've indicated that as my profession on my Blogger profile. Mooching is the ability to get by through the deft use of the kindness of others. The professional element, I believe, is the ability to do this without being a complete freeloader and maintain some kind of dignity, tact, and restraint on how much mooching should be done and when.

One of main advantages of mooching is to save money, but I believe the best mooch is to combine saving money while passing off one person's trash that can become another person's treasure. That is where the art of the Freecycle comes in.

The concept is simple: People have things they no longer need/want for various reasons, but are still perfectly usable. They can either kick it to the curb and see if anyone picks it up, donate it to a place like Goodwill for resell, put it up to Craigslist or Freecycle to give away to someone who could possibly use it.

People can ask for things they need, as well, for there's a chance someone out in the network has what one needs lying around, gathering dust. I once posted an ad for my work to get legal-size hanging file folders, and one of the responders happened to be one of the company's board members, and brought them later that week to the monthly board meeting. When I had a torrid saga with an unwanted roommate I had (a mouse), I asked for a no-kill mouse trap after exhausting all my home brewed contraptions failed me.

Along with a mouse trap, I've also nabbed a vintage Schwinn bicycle (that still needs to be tuned up), picture frames, blank audio cassettes, and three boxes of Cat Fancy magazine (for collage purposes, I swear). I've given away things like old vacuums, folding bed frames, a futon, and some other miscellaneous junk.

It's also a way to get to meet good people who are saving things from landfills, but it's always good to err on the side of caution if your spider-sense is tingling: if you get strange vibes from someone for a pickup, make sure you tell someone where you're going.

If you don't mind the emails, it's good to see what people need that you may have and vice versa, but it's also fun to see what people are giving away, like disposable contact lenses and animals, or asking for things like animals, cars or a Segway someone may have collecting dust.

My, the world is full of things, and it's fun to extend the life of some of them.

Machine Creates the Need?

2009-01-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

I went to the movie theater to watch a movie with my dad today. He originally wanted to watch part I of Che (and he's seen the full version twice already), but I convinced him to watch Slumdog Millionaire for his second time, my first. We got to the movie theater a little late, but as I entered the theater where it was screening, I came to a very dark room with the screen was completely blank, not even on active black (when there's a projected black image). After alerting the theater people about it, the trailers ran again, only to have another blank screen. As it turns out, the theater switched to digital hard drives that held the movies, and the hard drive was down at the time. They eventually decided that they couldn't fix it in time, so they gave us free passes and our choice to hop to another movie playing at that moment.

But the hard drive crashing made me think of the great Italian film, Cinema Paradiso and the days of movies on multiple reels. One of my favorite scenes of the movie was when two towns shared a movie and switched reels mid-movie, so one town saw part two before seeing part one. I thought I was lucky to have the luxury of seeing my movies in sequential order whenever I went to the cinema.

In this instance, being able to see a movie wouldn't be so simple. I don't think that this theater could or would be willing to go to the nearest (and competing) theater for to lend them a hard drive of a movie that just won some very prestigious award. It made me think that maybe the old-school use of movies on reels would have been an easy fix, that is, if they even had the equipment for that kind of technology around.

For the majority of this new year, I have been without Internet access at my house. "That's okay," I thought, "I'm busy doing other things like working on 'Amish Work!'" that is, things that don't require electricity for me to do (save for the lighting at my house, I guess). I was perfectly content to have an Internet-free household, or at least I was going to prove that it wasn't THAT big a deal I went without.

Boy, was I wrong.

I never realized how quickly my Inbox filled up when not checked during the week for an extended amount of time, or how I NEED the Internet to do things such as pay my credit card bills, transfer money in my bank account (to this day, I have yet to set foot in the Credit Union in which most of my money is kept), or even find out which cable company would be the cable carrier for my house just so I could have internet access installed in my house.

Sure, there are places where Internet can be accessed, such as a local library or school, but it's a little scary how dependent we've become to the creature comforts modern technology has afforded us. Take this blog, for example. These words were written a day before and set to post on Wednesday, as I am scheduled to write this Wacky Wednesday entry. If I don't do it today, I'd have to stay at work later or write this entry during my lunch break just to post. My blog colleague wasn't able to get his Monday entry up for the same reason I write this on Tuesday.

It's scary to imagine such things like this blog or one's social networking lives would come to a complete halt if we aren't given access to something that most people still don't consider a necessity. I'm a bit afraid to think that a lot of my daily happenings is reliant on something that can be so fleeting.

I would otherwise consider throwing it all away to live a more lo-fi life, but I couldn't imagine all the emails that would pile up during that time.

The Chrono Flakes Chronicles

2009-01-12T17:51:00.000-08:00

Hi! This is Corazon. Due to unforseen circumstances, Frank is unable to write something new for today's entry. Because I do not want to steal his thunder (or the fact I'm too scared to even try...) I'm posting this previously written entry by him for your enjoyment. He may not know it now, but I see this entry as the start of a new series, so I'm making it so. Without further adue...

Chairman: The secret ingredient is . . .

Producer: What’s he doing?

Alton: In what seems to be an unprecedented move, the Chairman is reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out sample-sized boxes of cereal.

Chairman: CHRONO FLAKES!

Alton: Well there you have it folks. The secret ingredient is Chrono Flakes. Iron Chef Cat Cora seems to be confused by this secret ingredient. I’m not sure if she intends on continuing with the competition. Alright, a minor spat’s been avoided thanks to some quick thinking by the producer and an even quicker exchange of money.

Chairman: Let the battle begin!

Alton: And here we go. The Iron Chef seems to be utterly confounded by the secret ingredient while the challenger is tearing into the box and spreading them onto a sheet pan. Our producer is telling us to inform our audience that Food Network is not liable for any damages incurred by the Iron Chef or Challenger during this competition, so, audience, watch for anything out of the ordinary!

Broche: Hello, Alton. We indeed have a strange battle today. Nobody but the Chairman and the Challenger have any idea what these Chrono Flakes are. I’ve asked The Iron Chef what she thinks, but I received no response as she was busy in a battle of her own as she fended off a flurry of ninja stars.

Alton: Strange indeed, Kevin. Perhaps some insight as we peer into the Challenger’s side. She’s—yes, she’s crushing the Chrono Flakes and spreading them in a plate beside a bowl of green-glowing eggs and what appears to be flour that is somehow being suspended in midair. I’m not entirely sure, but I think she’s going to bread something in the Chrono Flakes and deep fry it.

Kevin: Alton, I’ve just received word that the Iron Chef defeated a group of marauding ninjas and has begun preparing her dishes. She said she’s distraught but, thanks to a threat on her family at the producer's command, she will continue the battle against the challenger.

Alton: Very good, Kevin. For the first time ever, I’m at a loss for words. How about introducing us to our judges?

Kevin: Alton, I would if it weren’t for the fact that the judges have been replaced by the challenger. What I suspect are the Challenger’s clones have mysteriously been seated at the judges’ table. Should I introduce them?

Alton: No, Kevin, I don’t think that’s necessary. Sweet Lord, Kitchen Stadium’s been besieged by an army of the Challenger’s doppelgangers. The army is flooding the kitchen and helping the Challenger make pasta dough. This is amazing, folks, I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m Alton Brown. Although it’s against the laws of physics, I think it’s clear what’s happening here.

Kevin: What’s that, Alton?

Alton: The darkest of the food arts: Time Travioli. The challenger is going to make Time Travioli to defeat the Iron Chef and begin and end the paradox to end all paradoxes.

Kevin: Are you saying that this army and clones are none other than the Challenger herself?

Alton: That’s right, Kevin.

Kevin: I’m not sure, Alton. But I’m scared. The Chairman is laughing maniacally while doing back flips around the arena.

Chairman: The time has come for, me, the Chairman, to control Kitchen Stadium! I’ll no longer play second fiddle to you, food nerd.

Alton: No. This can’t be. How could you, Chairman! You’ve delving into the darkest of food magics. Iron Chef, run!

Habits of Cohabitation

2009-01-10T22:33:00.000-08:00

The secret to a successful relationship is simple: teamwork. Once you properly delegate chores and other such nonsense, cohabitation becomes a breeze. For example, I cook, she cleans. Why? I love cooking, she doesn’t. She likes cleaning, I don’t. Why else? Because she’s a woman. There are, of course, limits and other duties each partner must assume in order to maintain a healthy relationship.

When in public, it is imperative that she act as my social buttress. In case of any impending social faux pas, she is to retrieve an alcoholic beverage so as to fortify my ego. Additionally, she is to fortify my ego every twenty minutes or when my drink becomes 85% empty, whichever occurs first. In the event that an alcoholic beverage is unavailable, she is to demand that she please me sexually.

She is to cater to my every whim, no matter how inane, at a moment’s notice. Being the moral, logical, and intellectual foundation of a relationship comes at a price, and this price is to be paid--by her. Appropriate whims include, but are not limited to: massages, breakfasts in bed, fetchings a pets for pettings, and performing the duties of an executive secretary (including sexual favors).

Flatulence and other bodily functions are to provide no relief but comic and are otherwise prohibited.

She is to abstain from talking (and thinking) when unnecessary. As a team, it is crucial to develop a proper, team-like relationship. I am the coach, she is the player. Another more precise analogy might be master-slave. Unnecessary thinking leads undoubtedly to questions, questions to which I do not have answers, and revolution. In the case of revolution, it is necessary to fabricate an external crisis. “The liquor store was robbed. Liquor prices have increased. Liquor is unavailable tonight,” I’ll say.

Ever since I forced my girlfriend to follow these rules, fist fights and other scenes from Enough have been at an all time low, three per day.

Visiting an Old Friend

2009-01-09T14:20:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know, the Disneyland Resorts and Walt Disney World are offering FREE admission to a park on your birthday. You do have to go on your actual birthday, no going on other days (You can register here).

I told this news to my friend, Joy, on the first of this year and she immediately signed up to get her free ticket and obsessed over going to Disneyland for the rest of the week before her birthday. When her birthday arrived, I was lucky enough to go with her, using the points from my rewards card, so I didn't have to pay for anything out-of-wallet.

What they don't tell you on the site is that if you're a Southern California Resident going to either of the Disneyland parks (Disneyland of Disney California Adventure), you can "upgrade" your one day ticket to a 2fer Ticket, which allows you to go to one park on your birthday, and the other park within 30 days of your birthday. They were also having a SoCal 2fer ticket special, so I was able to get the same ticket for the price of a 1-day 1-park ticket.

I was an Annual Passport holder for 8 years, and for the first few years, I would go at least once a month, and if I was lucky, went once a week for at least one school year. Still, I'm always excited to go to Disneyland, but going to Disneyland for me may be a little different for most people.

Things like parking on the top level of the Disney Resort parking lot. In the years that this thing was built, I've parked on every level, save for this one. Having gone too many times to keep track, little goals like throwing a penny in every body of water in the park, updating on the official park merchandise, scoping the best benches for people watching or parking on all the levels of the super duper parking structure are ways of keeping each visit interesting and fun. It's also fun to go to the park with people who haven't gone as often as I have, or don't know as much Disney trivia, and I lay it on them endless as we progress through the park. If you show me a picture taken at Disneyland, I can probably tell you which part of the park you are (though that really shouldn't be too difficult, right?)

Going to Disneyland (and DCA) is a vice for me that will never grow old. I miss the days when I could point out every change and remodel done to Pirates of the Caribbean ride when they closed it down for refurbishing every six months (and noticing when pirates disappear).

I'm happy that I got to go and share my friend's special day with her in the Magic Kingdom, and I'm sure that it will be some adventure when I get to return to California Adventure sometime in the next 30 days (anyone care to come along?)!

If you want to see more pictures from Joy's Disneyland Birthday trip, they're up on my Flickr

69 and Other Sexual Maneuvers

2009-01-05T21:58:00.000-08:00

As sexually adventurous and explicit as I may be, I still have trouble uttering certain words while humping. How do you bring up 69 during sex, especially when the sweaty pounding is passionate and romantic? It seems awkward to simply ask, and I’m not strong enough to lift anything heavier than fifty pounds to massage my face.

Do you discuss these things prior to the act? Does it happen over dinner? While he’s digging through the layers in his roast beef sandwich and she’s shoving a sausage into her throat, do their heads rise and do their eyes meet in epiphany?

I realize that in most relationships one doesn’t need permission to pleasure the other manually. But what of those who do? Will “I wish to fingerbang you” suffice? It’s such a vulgar word, violent even, which is strange considering there’s no banging of any sort involved. Who figured fingerbanging was an appropriate term for a genital massage? I guess genital massage is no better than fingerbang. I wonder if the first fingerbanger was so enchanted by the idea that his thrusting digits made banging noises. We’ll never know.

Don’t even get me started on sodomy. You can only “miss” so many times before suspicion overtakes passion. The same applies to pearl necklaces and, in rare occasions, golden showers.

Maybe there is no smooth way to initiate the 69 maneuver. I guess I’ll continue to order my girlfriend to sit on my face while shoving her head into my crotch.

FIRAT PSOT!

2009-01-02T14:36:00.000-08:00

I just got off the phone from an unidentified 805 phone number who happened to be a MoveOn.org volunteer thanking me for my support this past year and leting me know about their new campaign to get people to support their work. I told her that I really need to be a lot stricter with my finances right now, and she understood that, but before we agreed that times are tough, but with our upcoming president, things are looking pretty hopeful for the future.

I know very few people who can say that 2008 was a good year for them. When Senator Barack Obama was elected to be the next United States President, one could almost feel the shift in the air, the collected sigh of relief and the lifted spirits of people around the world that things may not too great, but not all is lost, and we all had something for which to hope.

It is good to have hope, but we cannot hot rely on hope alone. Hope can only go so far; it is the expectation and belief things will turn out for the best. Expectation and belief are intangible concepts that can be achieved with luck, but usually a little bit of effort is needed to maximize its effectiveness.

The change that so many people hoped for and got could not have happen if not for the hard work of so many people devoting their time and passion for what they believed in, much like the woman I spoke to on the phone. She, like so many others, has hope for a better future, and she's working to improve the odds of that better future on happening. Of course, all the hope and effort is never a guarantee of reaching our goals, but even in the unfortunate case of defeat, one can walk away knowing that (s)he made her/his best effort.

As we come into this new year with our hopes and dreams, we must be aware that they'll remain just that - hopes and dreams if we don't put in effort in making them a reality. Even with the change in the air and the guaranteed shift we will all feel, we cannot expect to see any change as we stand there holding out our hand as we impatiently tap our feet. The pieces of change will definitely fall into place, but we're going to have to guide them to make sure they really fit.

We won't lose that weight if we don't better watch our diets and don't exercise. We're not going to get out of debt if we keep spending beyond our means. We're not going to get that chair refinished unless we go out and start sanding. I'm not going to take better pictures or write better blog entries if I'm not out there taking pictures, writing more, and surrounding myself with inspiration. We all will need to roll up our sleeves, get our hands dirty and we're going to have to work to see the change we wish to see.

...and even if things don't come out exactly the way we hoped, our expectation that things will work out for the best, we have to remember...everything happens for a reason, and we'll come out a little wiser from every experience, good or bad. With 2008 behind us, we'll take what happened to us last year and put in that effort to make sure that 2009 isn't the even worse sequel of its predecessor.

I'm ready get to work...are you?

Of course, 2008 wasn't 366 days full of nightmare. There were some good things, including the capture of some pretty remarkable images, a very few of which were compiled in The Boston Globe blog.

Click on for larger image as well as additional images

Heppy Renewed Year

2008-12-31T12:53:00.000-08:00

As we prepare to welcome a brand new year, we tend to reflect on the year we had and look forward to the year to come. There are those who celebrate this time to start anew: "Out with the old, in with the new."

I'm devoting the last day of this year to do just that...of sorts. I am in the process of converting old t-shirts into yarn.

I had the idea to make some t-shirt yarn for some time, but I haven't really made the effort to try until now.

After a helpful tip of a Goodwill that sells clothing by the pound in Long Beach, I figured getting a big bunch of test shirts and make a lot of yarn, so I grabbed my roommate and called up a local friend and went on a little field trip and found the "Last Chance" warehouse behind a proper Goodwill store.

After a lot of digging through piles and piles of sometimes very smelly clothes, I managed to get a sizable pile with which to work, and for $1.99 a pound, I (think I) got a pretty good deal.

After a good washing, I tried a few methods to cut the yarn, and found the spiral cut method works the best for me, particularly in getting most out of the shirt.

So now I have this little pile that I can power through and make some yarn.

We'll see if I can salvage these last chance finds and make good with their new purpose...once I figure out what to make with all that I've got. One of my resolutions is to try to make more handmade things, and another to be a little greener; take up more sustainable practices. Doing this kills two birds with one stone, so we'll see how this goes!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Resolutions Better than Yours

2008-12-29T14:32:00.000-08:00

How many of you commit to resolutions every year? I never have and never will—except this once. My life’s been uneventful these last twenty years, so to spice things up I decided to include only heroic feats in my one and only new year’s resolutions list.

Tame horse to rescue damsel in distress and flee by jumping over canyon.

Enter burning building, exit with soot-faced baby.

Utilize martial arts to apprehend head of criminal organization.

Protect honor of shy woman by smashing a bottle of vodka and holding shard to offender’s neck.

Infiltrate compound to thwart weapons smuggling by using weapons in question to dispatch enemies.

Remove shoes, jump into pool, emerge with coughing baby.

Ram tank into helicopter.

Sacrifice self to help friends escape dungeon by using body to hold open stone slab only to reappear later to surprise sullen friends.

Stalk, capture renegade circus elephant. Gut, extract living human baby.

Taco Holder

2008-12-27T20:35:00.000-08:00

I am a lightweight when it comes to drinking. One watered down mai tai and I'll be dialing the big white telephone all night. A second drink renders me so drunk that I no longer care if I am sickeningly dizzy. Well, what the heck? It's the holidays! Sure, I'll have another... After perusing a long list of fancy cocktails I ordered the prettiest one, because well, I am a sucker for cute. "I'll have the Rainbow!," I happily proclaimed. "Hmmm, really?" The waiter warned. "Yes!," I uncharacteristically raised my voice, "I want to taste the Rainbow! Ha Ha!". The waiter warned me again, my friends cautioned me, I contemplated offers of other fruity drinks (the appletini, the lycheetini...), but I still had my heart set on those colorful, layered swirls.

I tasted that rainbow. And then I tasted it again on the way out. Since I am a skilled vomiter, I was fully equipped with a barf bag. I gracefully (yeah, right) fell outside for some cool air and privacy while a friend held my hair back. Yes, I carry barf bags on my person at all times. It's what an expert does. It's not like I have many accomplishments to be proud of, so I like to point out all my various profeciencies and tout them as remarkable achievements. I have a wall map littered with tacks, pin pointing all the various places I've vomited. Sometimes supplementary maps are needed to add specific detail for bigger cities. A shiny red tack marks the corner of Westwood Blvd. & Broxton in honor of this event.

On the ride back home in my friend's car, I demanded a pit stop for snacks. Armed with enough burritos and tacos to start my own Taco Bell franchise, I finally arrived home. After covering my bed with various wrappers and hot sauces, I immediately felt the need to bathe. I grabbed a taco and headed for the shower. That's when I discovered it. The soap dish/taco holder. I've always wondered what that little dowel was for! The way that taco fit so perfectly in its holder was shockingly beautiful to me. Being able to eat a taco while washing my vaguely pukey-smelling hair was exquisite! I had to call everyone that night to apprise them of my exciting discovery.

I've never been so drunk and I hope I never am again, but there was something special about that night. That magical night in which I discovered just because you want something doesn't mean that you should have it, and that my shower sports an excellent taco holder. Should you find yourself in a similar predicament this holiday season (or place of bliss depending on how you see things), I hope you too are fortunate enough to have a friend who will hold your hair back and a revelation so profound that you need to call me at 3am to let me know all about it. Have a festive and safe new year!

I've Got Spirit, How About You?

2008-12-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

Last night, on Christmas evening, I caught an episode of 3rd Rock from the Sun, the sitcom from the late 90’s starring John Lithgow as the high commander of four aliens who settle in a small city in Ohio to observe the human race. They were happy to celebrate their one year anniversary being on earth which also happened to be around the time of Christmas. They were very excited about the holiday until one thing or another extinguished their Christmas spirit, only for it to be rekindled before the end of the episode. That episode basically summarized in 28 minutes what I’ve gone through with my sentiment over the holiday season in the 28 years of my life.

This time of year used to be my favorite ‘twas the season to sing Christmas carols, watch A Christmas Story, eat candy canes and get presents. As a kid, I would do as any other kid would, get excited about getting presents, and tried to sneak peeks into what I would get. As I got older, the obligations and responsibilities of getting older, like taking tests and writing papers, along with the pressure of getting presents for the people “who counted” and making sure that I gave the right present – something that’s nice, but not TOO nice as to imply you were trying too hard for the particular person. Then came combing the malls and battling for parking spaces during the holiday shopping crunch, trying to find that “perfect” present for anyone and everyone. I sang few carols during that time, I didn’t get as many candy canes, and I cared less and less about getting presents, and even if I had any, I was more conscious of the beautiful wrapping that someone paid for just for it to be torn apart and discarded without much thought.

That’s not to say that I’ve become a regular Scrooge when it comes to this time of year; it just didn’t have that same kind of magic that it once held in my heart. Thankfully, my most recent trip to Europe reminded me what the Christmas spirit was all about. In fact, being there seemed more like Christmas than I’ve felt in a long time.

It helps that Munich and Salzburg are both very Catholic, and with Christmas just around the corner, holiday decorations, ice skating rinks, and if they weren’t up yet, Advents/Christkindl/etc. market stands were going up and running, selling Nativity scene figures and sets, Christmas tree ornaments, handmade toys, etc.

The highlight of these markets were the food stands that would sell things like Heisse Marroni (Roasted chestnuts), Gebrannte Mandeln (candied almonds), candied fruits, various types of Wurst, and the highlight of the trip, having Glüwein (mulled wine served hot) to warm up during the cold, winter-like days.

Aside from the fact that this was my first time being in a snowy place for the longest period of time, particularly during the Christmas season, being surrounded by Christmas without the pressure of having to buy something or get something for someone else.

I came back from the trip charged with Christmas spirit, ready to face the mall and whatever holiday season frustration I may have to face. That included being flipped off by a well-manicured hand that came out from under a window of a minivan while my roommate and I were driving on the 5 Freeway the day of Christmas Eve.

Short Story (part 5 of 5)

2008-12-25T12:59:00.000-08:00

[Here's the conclusion to the critically acclaimed comedy I wrote last year. Peter Travers of Rolling Stones wrote, "it is an explosive tour de force magnum opus the likes of which we have not seen since Shakespeare himself trolled the internet." Here are parts one through four.]

“To great fucking friends!” Pablo said. I sat and the world spun like a carousel. My icy gin was like icy water. I lit a cigarette and gave one to Kent who slid it above his ear like a pencil.

“Lemme have one, Frank.” Had I not been so drunk I would’ve declined Vin’s drunken request. His girlfriend looked at me the way a gangster looks at a rival gang member. It wasn’t annoyance anymore. She looked as though she was going to maul me. I laughed.

“Hey, guys, hey, who in the hell goes to the beach, applies sunscreen on their body and neglects her face? Seriously, why would anybody do that?” Vin’s girlfriend had been guilty of this on an excursion we took to Mexico several years back. Her face became bloated, red, and her skin molted off. I laughed harder.

Kent lit his cigarette and I threw mine into the fire. I kept going about her folly at the beach and the smoke from Vin’s cigarette was blowing into her face in bursts through his chuckles. She was furious and trembling. I’d never seen her so angry.

“You stupid shit! You stupid, lazy shit! Why won’t you get a job! What the hell must your parents think!” She yelled and I laughed harder. She stood over the fire to look me in the eye. “You’re old, when are you going to start working!” Kent tossed the log into the fire. “Why haven’t you started wor--“ an ember flew into her face and she squealed as she slapped it off. Another flew onto her peasant dress as she sat down rubbing her face. The ember stuck and Vin attempted to bat it away, but in his drunken stupor, he only batted it deeper into her dress. A small flame caught and she panicked and attempted to get up but was unable due to Vin’s swatting at her legs. I stood and poured my watered down cup of gin onto her dress and the fire extinguished.

“Kent, shut it! Shut it, okay? You guys are making way too much noise!” Kent’s mother yelled half asleep and annoyed from the door of their house. Vin’s girlfriend was sobbing into his shoulder as they leaned into each other from their seats. Both of their faces were hidden behind the fire.

“Are you okay,” I asked her.

“Let’s go, Vin.” She stood and half supported him on her shoulder as she led him down the steps. We waited until we heard Vin’s car’s engine start before we began speaking.

“That was weird.” I said.

“You don’t remember last night, huh,” Kent asked me.

“What happened?”

“Vin called Pablo back. You asked to speak with him and asked that they join us. He said no and you pleaded that they join us next week. You said you wouldn’t tempt him with anything, and they agreed to visit on that condition.”

“Oh.” I felt a flicker of guilt. “Let’s take another shot.”

“To Vin?”

“To Vin,” I said and we drank.

Gender Issues in Illness

2008-12-22T15:42:00.000-08:00

Apparently it’s common for women to complain about men being sick. Apparently, all that women do in their spare time is talk about how men are such babies. Babies!

My girlfriend and I were getting a ride home from my friend, let’s call her Raimee, when all of a sudden, as though unleashing a decade’s worth of repressed fury, Raimee explains to my girlfriend how men are such babies when they’re sick. My girlfriend reciprocated with the fervor of a priest belying the evils of satan to his parishioners. I was dumbstruck.

Waking with a fever of 105 and a migraine, I told my girlfriend that morning I had only a minor case of the sniffles, nothing to worry about, shall be fine with half an aspirin. She scoffed, turned and rolled herself in the blanket. I tugged at the blanket, but the fever’d sapped my strength. I tried to fall asleep but my shivering woke her.

“Oh, does the baby need his bwanket?”

“Please? It’s cold.”

“Here, you go. Da baby needs his bwanket!”

I was still deathly ill when I went out that night, but I doubt the women saw through my poker face. They carried on with their girl talk:

“When I get sick, nobody helps me out with anything! I do the laundry, the dishes without asking for a thing!”

“Haha, yeah! And when men get sick, all they do is complain! ‘Wah, my head hurts. Wah, my throat is sore!’ Nothing but complaining.”

“This morning my boyfriend—oh, is it too cold fo’ da baby? Does da baby need his window up cuz da baby is sick?”

“It’s a bit chilly, yes.” It was just above freezing, I’d given my jacket and sweater to my girlfriend and Raimee, and for some reason only my window was down. “I’m just glad we’re almost home! I’m really thirsty and could go for some chamomile and something sweet.”

“Wook, Waimee, da baby needs noo-twee-ents fo’ his body!”

“Aw, po’ baby needs his glucose monito’! Is his bwood-sugaw levoh too low?”

“Aw, da baby has hypoglycemia!”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m feeling faint and very nauseous. Any sweet will help me feel better actually.” At that point they started playing cat and mouse, tossing a Snickers bar over my head. After a minute or so they unwrapped it and ate it.

I’m not sure where all this hatred came from. Maybe all women are innately misandrists, and men being ill somehow disables what I like to call the Misandry Filter. Maybe I just don’t understand women. Maybe that’s why I’m still a virgin.

Chillin' in Los Angeles

2008-12-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

When I was walking in a winter wonderland a little under a month ago in München and Salzburg, I figured that time spent in the freezing cold would be an excellent primer for the cold Los Angeles is experiencing now. Boy, was I wrong.

I suppose 10 days walking around dressed up like Randy in A Christmas Story wasn't quite long enough to thicken my Angelino-raised blood to this kind of chill. I feel somewhat defeated, for I think it was a big deal that I survived being in that kind of cold for the first time in my life, and can't seem to handle the weather when it's double the temperature when I'm at home.

In my own defense, there was a time in my life when I was slowly growing a thicker skin when I spent a few weeks in the New York City area, where I experienced freezing temperatures completely unprepared, and then spent the rest of the trip running around in a windbreaker and short sleeves in 50 degree weather. But that time is not now, and even though Jack Frost nipped at my nose in Europe, I am for sure not having it here in Los Angeles, of all places.

I am not one of those people who don the Uggs and the scarves when the temperature drops below 70, but when the temperature drops to the 40's at night and I'm hanging out at a place where heating isn't equally distributed around the place(For example, my house, my parents' house, some friends' homes, work), I get a little disgruntled that I almost have to wear the same clothes I wore outside in Europe when I'm indoors.

It's a little scary to think that it's not officially winter, but I do have to take into account that we're in between arctic storms, so that may have an effect on the current temperature. I'm sure with time, I, along with the rest of the frozen Angelinos, will eventually build a tolerance to this cold (even after heat spells in November), and in the meantime, American Apparel is once again very punctual with new products and can be stylin' wearing their new Unisex Ear Muffs

I may hold off on getting those, but I have to say earmuffs are definitely lifesavers out in the cold (I personally like this type myself), but in the meantime, I should maybe put on some socks and my brand new fleece fingerless gloves, because, Jiminy Christmas, it's COLD!

Me modeling my new gloves made for me by the lovely Sofia!
Do note the above photo is taken indoors, and yes, that's a little neckwarmer I'm wearing along with my coat and new gloves, which I didn't take off until I used the toilet this morning. It's THAT kind of cold.

Yelpy Holidays

2008-12-17T21:31:00.000-08:00

If you're like me, unless you can't because of religious, health or personal reasons, you like drinking. And quite possibly, you'd be willing to do interesting things for booze. I have stories of helping a good friend clean up after the peak of her housewarming party and refusing to dump all the abandoned alcohol and kicked off the second part of the party disposing of the under-appreciated drinks. I've drank reclaimed Maß (German for their famous one-liter glass mug) after another when a best friend took a Stein or two from the vacated table of the group we joined in München's famed Hofbraühaus. I wasn't raised in the church, but if I was, I would have gladly ensured the tasteless and watered-down sacramental wine from mass would not go to waste.

Sadly (Perhaps fortunately...for everyone else), I didn't have that an exciting (Rather, drunken and cheap) night at this year's L.A. Yelp's Holiday Party. Sure, I had a blast, listening to the perfectly spun setlist by the night's DJ, trying to pretend my feet weren't killing me in my sassy gold Nicole Miller shoes (I am still waiting for all of the feeling in my third and fourth left toes to come back from that night) while I mixed and mingled and kind of tried moving as if to imply I was dancing without aggravating my aforementioned foot pain situation.

This is not to say that I'm not able to have a good time without being inebriated, for I really wasn't about to wait in the unbearable line to even pay for a drink. It was a nice opportunity to say hi to friends whom I haven't seen in ages, but made it really difficult to avoid those who I'd rather not see (like...that person I slyly cut in front of the line thanks to saying hi to a friend whom I haven't seen in ages).

It wasn't until my blog buddy, Frank, had the smart idea to accompany myself and some others and step out for a drink to take a swig o' the ol' Santa Anita Race Track water bottle (AKA Flask Pro Tempore). We were doing fine until we realized that there wasn't much in FPT to really get a good buzz going.

"No!" Frank yelled at us. "NO!!!"

"Frank, we can do a run to Trader Joe's around the corner." I told him. Without a word, Frank left the car and made his way back to the party.

Fortunately (for him), Frank managed to quaff a good volume of alcohol that night, while I stayed relatively dry until I was taught where to get the "Secret Wine."

All in all, the party was a great night, seeing old friends, rubbing elbows with the dressed up and cleaned up Yelpers and friends who aren't always looking as shiny and glammed up as most were that night...

...and of course, I along with those closest to him, needed to make sure Frank was eventually cut off as he started talking like a mad man, and wanted to prevent him from harming himself and others.

Holiday Party '08

2008-12-15T16:26:00.000-08:00

If you’re like me, and I know you are, all of you, you like drinking. In fact, you like drinking so much that you’d be willing to kill for booze. Don’t deny it, there’s murderosity in each and every one of you. People are happy at parties until the booze runs out when free-for-all melees consume everyone in individual fight clouds.

This is how it was at Yelp’s annual holiday party. I was having a blast, enjoying an awesome mix of music, and dancing my ass off. I waltzed, did the twist, and tangoed all at once making women within eyeshot swoon. I was the life of the party, cracking jokes and making crowds explode with hearty laughs!

Everyone was having fun, even those waiting in the unending line for booze. I shook hands with my friends and glad handed my enemies. There were many.

Yes, everything was dandy until I stepped out for a drink. I invited a handful of my friends and we drank from a water bottle filled with vodka. We were doing fine until we left the car and were confronted by a couple bitter and very sober partygoers desperately in need of a drink.

“No!” I yelled at them. “No!”

“frank, there’s plenty left, just let them have some,” my colleague, Corazon, told me. They took a step closer and eyed me with despair and aggravation (desperation I think is the word). I pushed the guy and shoved his girlfriend. It was unfortunate that I did this as two police officers were driving up the street behind me.

“Shit, the fuzz!” yelled my colleague. She stashed the bottle in her purse and ran. I tried to keep up but my legs aren’t what they used to be in fifth grade and I was eventually tackled and beaten by the officers.

I spent the night in jail. All in all, the party was pretty fun. I'm happy to have seen my friends, I'm just glad the bitter couple's murderosity was far from surpassing Corazon and my murderosities.

It's a Little Easier Being Green

2008-12-12T15:07:00.000-08:00

In the excitement of the giving season...rather, in the excitement of getting them in the mail, my sister gave me my Christmas present early, which was this awesome bamboo utensil kit from To-Go Ware I was jazzed (pictured is the design I got). Even though she kind of hinted that I'll be getting it, I was stoked to actually have it in my possession for me to use!

It's a one-stop container for one's utensil needs: a knife, fork, spoon and even swirly-ended chopsticks made of bamboo all in a container made of repurposed plastic shopping bags. The case is made by employing ragpickers in India to find discarded bags and create these cases, which gives them a job to do, and the utensils are made of bamboo, which is a very durable, sturdy and sustainable product; bamboo is a grass that grows quickly and is sustainably grown for this purpose.

After having it for two weeks now, I've had several opportunities to use my utensils that come with me wherever I go, and it's great. The spoon is a good size and its bowl is deep enough to get a nice bit of soup to sip. The fork's three wide set prongs work pretty well, but since the prongs widen quickly, it's sometimes hard to get a good grasp on some things like a piece of sliced carrot. The chopsticks have a cool spiral design on its top, and I really wouldn't know how a pair of chopsticks could be dysfunctional, and I have yet to try the knife. It isn't serrated, but it's not sharp per se, but it should be good enough a blade to cut through most things - I don't think it could get through a steak, but if you're eating a steak, I wouldn't think you'd be eating it at a to-go setting.

Even though I usually keep my plastic utensils once I've used them, using these utensils in lieu of their plastic cohorts will reduce the demand for them, and even though they'll still keep some in stock, using these reuseable option will reduce their need to restock the supplies, and one has more incentive to take home one's used utensil if there's a washable carrying case for one to take home and wash to use again another day.

I was at a meeting this week that provided lunch, and I got a big thumbs up when I busted out my bamboo fork for my pasta salad, and as all the other plastic forks were being tossed away after their one use, I wiped mine down, wrapped it in a bit of my old napkin to take home and wash for another day. Of course, the fork that came with my lunch came home with me to go with the other accumulated plastic forks, along with the Styrofoam containers my pasta salad and hot coffee came in so I can wash them and put them in my (now full) container full of old toilet paper/paper towel rolls, sauce cups, microwave dinner trays, foil, magazines, tissue paper, etc. so I can take them all to the Armory Center for the Arts so kids in their art classes can use them for their art projects.

It may take a little more work and effort to actually take these steps to make sure that waste isn't quite real waste until all its uses have been exhausted, and sure, sometimes I get funny looks or comments when people see me carrying around something I could just toss but keep knowing I can find another purpose for it. In the end, all these little steps may make a big difference, and thanks to this little kit, I'm better able to do my part in reducing my footprint on the earth.

Short Story (part 4 of 5)

2008-12-10T13:11:00.000-08:00

[Don't worry, folks, this story's almost done. Here are the first three parts in case you need a nap.]

“So why haven’t you called?” I asked with a smile while throwing my pack of cigarettes to Kent.

“Oh, I’ve been busy with school,” he fumbled, obviously lying.

After lighting his cigarette, Kent tossed the burning log back into the fire. The embers were like fireflies popping out of the fire pit and disappearing as they slowed through the air. Sometimes they wouldn’t go out and we’d have to move our legs to dodge them. We took another shot while Vin’s girlfriend sat next to him playing on her cell phone. At first it was annoying as we felt we had to accommodate her, but it didn’t matter after our third drink. The nostalgia was powerful and all that mattered was contained within the light of the fire. Then, jealous and unable to handle her boyfriend having fun:

“So, have you gotten a job yet,” she asked me.

“No.” The smile on my face disappeared and everything was quiet except the popping fire.

“When do you plan to look for one?” She gave me an insidious smirk and looked back to her phone, thumbing it quickly.

“I will soon.” My face was hot with embarrassment.

“Really? That’s what you said last time. Why haven’t you gotten a job yet?”

“Well, I’m an anxiety prone alcoholic. Remind you of anyone?” I thought I’d gone too far with that last comment but it didn’t even phase her. I filled my cup of gin with tonic, began sipping it and said to her with the most spiteful sarcasm I could muster, “How’s your acting going? I heard you had an audition, for a commercial was it?” Her face lifted and her gaze turned from her phone to me. “I mean, that is going strong, right? You’ve been actively looking for and attending auditions, haven’t you? That was, after all, your intention. That’s why you abandoned everything up north and moved to LA, right? For your acting?”

“She’s actually been going to a few auditions lately. Will you pour me another?” Vin said trying to defuse the situation.

“I’m sure you’ve landed several lead roles in a couple future blockbusters! How’s your job going, then,” I continued while pouring Vin another drink, “still hate it?”

“Frank,” Han told me in the way an older brother advises his younger sibling to shut his mouth.

Kent dropped another log into the fire and embers began popping violently into the air. The fire grew and I wasn’t able to see her face through it.

“Frank, pour me another shot, yeah?” Han decided to break the silent tension. I decided to pour everyone a shot. My face was red with heat and embarrassment and my pouring hand was trembling a bit and I stumbled as I handed the cup to Vin, spilling a bit of gin onto his pants. I apologized and Vin said it was no problem. His girlfriend said something in an antagonizing tone under her breath but I couldn’t make it out.

“Let’s drink to good friends this time. We rarely do that,” I offered.

Adventures in Therapy!

2008-12-08T16:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve been introverted, anxious, and timid all my life. I’m afraid of stepping out of the house unless accompanied by another. My therapist said I should take baby steps and make a conscious effort to notice how irrational my anxiety is. He said a good starting point would be my complimenting a stranger.

“Try complimenting the first person you see as soon as you step onto the street. If you misspeak, or you think you did something wrong, remember your safe word. I know you can do this.”

“Thank you, doctor.” I stepped out of his office feeling invigorated and excited like when you first drink coffee and it doesn’t make you jittery. I visualized the encounter and I pictured myself making eye contact with a woman, smiling, waiting for her to walk by before walking back to her and telling her she’d lovely perfume. I stepped outside and caught the eye of a beautiful blond professional in high heels. I smiled and walked by her and attempted to take in her scent. Instead my nose was assaulted by the most potent musk I’d ever smelled. I decided to keep walking as I felt her eyes burrowing into the back of my head.

I walked by a coffee shop and noticed a stroller with a baby inside. I’ll do this one, I thought to myself. I’ll tell this lady she has an adorable baby. I neared the stroller and smiled to the lady who was drinking espresso. I figured I’d say she had an adorable baby, see that it made her happy and walk away. I bent over the stroller and noticed the stroller was empty.

I decided I needed a drink to soothe my frayed nerves. I walked into an Olive Garden and asked the hostess if I could have a seat at the bar.

“This way, sir.” I followed her and she led me to a table. “Your server will be with you in a second, sir. Enjoy your meal,” she said and handed me a menu. I decided to make the best of it and tried to compliment the server when she arrived. I’ll tell her I like her makeup, I thought to myself. I flipped through the menu and decided only to get a drink. I began getting anxious and sweaty when I realized I’d been waiting for twenty minutes.

I was relieved when my server finally made eye contact with me. She walked towards me and told me that they were closing. I was very embarrassed and my eyes watered up because of it. “I like your makeup,” I told her meekly. She said she wasn’t wearing any.

Misadventures in Driving in LA: Parking Edition

2008-12-05T14:42:00.005-08:00

I'm happy that my commute to my new job is only 4 miles long. What I'm not happy about is that in the grand spirit of working in an office in Los Angeles proper, FREE parking is not that easy to find.

Fortunately for me, I'm cheap enough and have the wherewithal to make sure I don't have to resort to such things.

Sure, I could pay for parking at the 2 hour max. meters around, or pay $5 flat rate at the indoor and pretty secure apartment parking structure a block away, but why do something like that when a little bit of effort nabs you a spot for $0? Also by looking for free places to park, you get a better sense of your surroundings and possible shortcuts you may one day have to take.

I now have a "system" to find myself some parking. I take my usual route, and when I'm getting kind of close, I start scoping out my last resort spots. They're relatively close, but kind of not in a safe area, and even though it's supposed to be in a 1 hour only zone, it doesn't seem that most of the cars on the street actually move from their spots. When I'm closer to my work, I look for some Golden Spots, and if there aren't spaces, I'll go down more and around the corner to a street that has poles for meters, but no meters on them, so you don't have to pay, but they sometimes enforce the 1 or 2 hour parking limit, but I've been lucky so far.

Of course, the ideal place to park are these aforementioned Golden Spots. For some strange reason, there is a strip of curb long enough for 6-8 cars and has no meter, no parking or street sweeping restrictions, and is directly across the street from my office. By the time I come in, most of the spots are taken, but there is a bit of curb that's after a driveway and right before a fire hydrant at the corner that can hold two cars; sometimes someone parks like a jerk and it becomes one space, but sometimes, that place is completely empty.

Today, was one of those days.

I was happy when I saw the entire spot completely free, which allowed me to park the way I want, so that someone else could park behind me (good parking karma). The only thing is that I work in a rather busy area, and that intersection gets pretty congested, so when I was going for the space, I was able to squeeze past the last parked car and the car in queue at the light so I can pull over and park. The only problem with that was several cars followed suit, but they were planning on squeezing through so they could get into the non-official lane to turn right, so when I parked, I essentially blocked their way.

When the light turned green, people were baffled and honking as to why I was just sitting there, gathering my stuff, and I tried to mime in the best and most polite way possible, "I'm staying here. I am parked."

Yes, some people were pissed. When I got out of the car, the woman who was behind me the entire time looked angry and started talking to me.

"Why did you park there? You're blocking the way."
"This is a parking space."
"You can't park there."
"Yes, I can. This is a parking space...there's no red here."
"Well, this isn't a good parking space."

I do have to agree with her in a way, but still, it's right across the street, free and unrestricted, so I'm staying.

After seeing several cars were behind her and honking, I didn't want to risk crossing right there and took the 10 steps to the crosswalk, where a man who got backed up because of me rolled down the window at the light as I was waiting to cross.

"You have to make a right turn! You were blocking the way!"
"I'm sorry, but I signaled, and that is a parking space."
"You can't park there! There's a hydrant!"
"No, I can park there, sir. There's no red on the curb."

As he continued to try yelling at me, I got the go to cross, and I swiftly went behind his car and crossed the street.

Free parking isn't always the nicest and easiest thing to do. But if you've got the fortitude and the belief that parking should be free, it can be found.

Here's a quick and dirty tip on free parking:

FIND THE BROKEN METERS. Sure, it does say sometimes that you're not supposed to park there, but the trick for these is that you should take a minute to call the number listed on the parking meter and report that failed meter, and make sure to get that person's name. Sometimes failed meters reset on their own, or get fixed while you're gone, and if that happens and you get a ticket, you can say you're the one who reported the broken meter and can contest the ticket. If you do this, make sure to get the location and time you're there. Also make sure to obey any other parking rules of that space, including if there are time limits at certain times of day or street sweeping the day and time you're there.

Thankful to be Home, but...

2008-12-03T17:46:00.000-08:00

My last post from last week was actually written one week prior to its publishing, to give myself yet another reason to come home to LA (next to the fact I'd want to come back to mild weather and my life), and treated myself to a bacon-wrapped hot dog. Sure, I was going to Germany, the land of Wurst, and a silly Street Dog may not be up to scratch to what they have there, but I thought, "Hey...this is what they've got here, and that should be good enough for me..."

I kinda want to take that back.

In the eight full days that I was traveling through Bavaria and Salzburg, I cannot begin to count how many Würste I actually had, but I sure had A LOT. Being based out of Munich, the traditional Weißwurst made of veal and pork was a common breakfast staple and those come in pairs, much like many other traditional Würste. Whether they were served on a plate or in/with a Semmel (bun), a Brezn (pretzel), currysauce or Senf (mustard), etc., I don't think there was a sausage I had that I didn't like (Though it seemed I offended a few Salzburger Wurststand workers when I tried ordering the city's popular "Bosna" and didn't have any ready and actually served me a pair of regular Frankfurters instead, and I just walked away from it).

I'm not that big on meat, which is funny to write after all this talk about meat and meat-wrapped meat...but it seems that I'm not fond of the texture of solid a lot of the times, so having the muscle fibers finely ground, made with quality ingredients like I've had on this trip kind of makes things easier for me to take down. And really, who can blame me? I'm not really sure if there are other places that could make better sausages than I had on this trip, and quite honestly, when it comes down to it, the cheap and greasiness of the bacon-wrapped hot dog just doesn't compare...not even the All-American hot dog with some onions and ketchup that I had today doesn't stack up to the taste and snap of the casing of a perfectly made sausage.

This isn't the first time I've come back from Germania and the amazing selections of Würste only to come home to be sad that it's pretty hard to come by some sausages of that caliber. That said, that doesn't mean that I can't and won't ever have a hot dog, bacon-wrapped or not ever again. I enjoyed the one I had earlier today, and I look forward to the talks of having yet another bacon-wrapped hot dog night at some friends' very soon. I'll be happy with what I have here, and the thought of making a Germanic version of the Dirty Dog makes me shudder. Will I crave for another "Bosna" from the Salzburger Adventsmarkt? Oh yeah. Am I kind of wishing I didn't declare my package of Weißwürste to only see it confiscated? You betcha. Did I miss the bacon-wrapped hot dog I so lovingly missed before I even went on this trip? OH HELL NO.

But that's the beauty of travel...it gives you something to which to return...right?

FYI - for those international travelers who would like to take meats home with them back to the States, do know that beef and pork are prohibited unless the product has been prepared for shelf life (IE, canned or jarred) in order to kill the certain pathogens that the meat may or may not contain. I have brought Weißwürste home in the past, but I had to subject myself to a lot of scorn from the locals when they were hand-inspecting my backpack and found a giant can of the stuff, laughing at it and me and showing it to their co-workers saying what an abomination I had. At least I was able to take it home to my sister...vacuum-sealed packs and smoked/cured meats are not acceptable. Of course, you could take the gamble and try to sneak the stuff in without declaring it, hoping they wouldn't find it and fine you $300+ and get your meats taken away...which is something that we could have done...IF we weren't law-abiding citizens! Yes...*tear*

Short Story (part 3 of 5)

2008-12-01T12:06:00.000-08:00

[Here's part three. Here are parts one and two.]

I woke the next morning in my bed shaking with anxiety. No headache, no nausea, just shaking, anxiety, and a fear of I don’t know what. I stood dizzily and staggered to the aspirin and chased it with a shot of rum and in a minute I was able to enjoy my own company again. The highlight of my day was the cigarette I had with my coffee on the balcony after the rum while reading in the shade of a flapping blue tarp attached to a tree that swayed with the wind.

The sun was setting when the wind picked up. The sun lit the roofs of the houses that led up the hills like golden steps into the horizon when my phone rang.

“Let’s go get fucked up!”

“All right,” I said.

“Han will pick you up in--”

“An hour. Needa get ready.” I flicked my cigarette onto the barren property next door and went inside and showered.

At Kent’s house Vin was sitting opposite Han with a beer in his hand. Through the fire, I caught the face of his girlfriend who looked despondent and shy at the same time. I smiled at both of them and they smiled back, but Vin’s was genuine. It was nice to see him again and it was as though no time had passed at all. All the resentment I harbored over the last year or so had dissipated. I took the bottle of gin and filled halfway six plastic cups.

“To Vin,” I said and we took it in two mouthfuls. It was a great feeling sitting there in the dark around a warm fire with my friends. “Cigarette?” I mumbled to Vin, cupping my hand over my cigarette to light it.

“I haven’t yet picked up the habit,” he said jokingly and his girlfriend glared at me. She was still angry at me for dropping him off that one night leaving him smelling of vomit, cigarette smoke, and liquor. She decided that night that she would leave Vin if he didn’t stop drinking or going out with his friends--not all of his friends, just us.

Reason to be Thankful (and to Come Home)

2008-11-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

It's the day after Thanksgiving, and yesterday most people in the US have celebrated thanks for the early US settlers' exploitation of the indigenous people of this great land, and perhaps done so by eating lots of this country's native bird. I, on the other hand, am a few thousand miles away not having had a turkey meal while traveling around or out of Austria, hopefully thankful I'm warm enough.

Some may know I'm a bit of a Germanohpile, and since this is my first trip to this area in a few years, the notion to not come back has crossed my mind. Along with the fact that Germany is now in a recession with its already difficult foreign work visa process, there are several other reasons, like a milder climate and the frequent use of the English language that will have me coming back.

There is one thing in particular that sticks out in my mind that will have me coming home to the U.S. of A., but more specifically, back to the love-to-hate city of Los Angeles:

THE BACON-WRAPPED HOT DOG

For those who can/choose to eat meat and haven't had one, you're really missing out. They go by many other names, such as the "Dirty Dog," the "Hollywood Dog," these illegal hot dog carts can be found in high-foot traffic areas, most notably around the Fashion District and in Hollywood late at night where many inebriated and hungry clubbers roam the streets. Its execution is simple: bacon is wrapped around a hot dog and is cooked over a metal surface heated by propane below. Onions and jalapenos are typical toppers, along with the usual ketchup, mustard and mayo on the side.

I have been vexed by this one particular bacon-wrapped hot dog cart that's just around the corner from my work, and there is usually one time each day I have to walk past it, and each time, I have to stop myself from getting one each time. It's the smell of the meats being cooked with the smell of caramelizing onions that one just can't deny.

On my last day of work before this trip, the allure seemed even stronger. It also didn't help that the fruit stand guy that's usually stationed 10 feet away wasn't there, for there wasn't as much as some sort of angel-devil contrast between healthful fruit and artery-clogging goodness.

But why, of all things I could eat, would I want a bacon-wrapped hot dog before I'm going to Germany, the land of Wurst? This dog is a sad bastardization of the glory of its source, so why taint that? After much thought, the answer was simple: This is cuisine that's so L.A., and if anything, I would need something to remind me what I need to come home. With that, I went out and got myself one hot dog with onions, jalapenos, a bit of mayo and ketchup for the road.

I had the dog packed to go and took it back to my office, and in that short trip, the grease had already seeped through the paper in which it was wrapped and already hit the paper bag it was in. It was beautiful when I unwrapped it, and that first bite was divine. The jalapenos weren't that hot, unfortunately, but the onions and the bun were slightly sweet and mixed perfectly well with the saltiness of the entwined meats.

Though I'll be sad to be leaving my current location (at the time of this blog entry's posting) so soon, I at least have a few things to look forward to when I'm home. I'll probably be wearing skirts and tank tops when everyone else is in scarves and coats if it does get cooler in LA, and when I go back to work, I'll know I've got these bacon-wrapped goodness waiting for me.

Short Story (part 2 of 5)

2008-11-26T13:32:00.000-08:00

[Here's part two of my story. Part one is here if anyone is interested. Part three of five will be posted next Monday.]

Between the four of us we’d had a bottle of Gordon’s and a twelve pack of Pabst. Both were vile, something moonshiners wouldn’t touch. I’d had the majority of the gin and thought everything was hilarious, especially the fireworks and the lighters in the fire pit that would explode with a comfortable, luminous pop. We were stupidly drunk every time we were at Kent’s house, doing the stupid things stupid young kids do while drunk. I’m sure it was annoying but time is the least thing we have of.

“Let’s--take a shot,” I spat.

“To what!”

“To Vin!”

“We did that before.”

“Then to his last drinking adventure!” Up until recently, we’d been binge drinkers. Liquor would settle in our bellies in the form of shots or entire cans of beer at a time. As a result, we learned how to gauge our drinking through our mistakes. I, for example, learned not to swill a half bottle of gin in twenty minutes. Kent and Pablo learned not to take more than two shots in a row. Han never learned. Vin, well, he learned to never drink again, an exaggerated response. Han, Vin and I were at a friend’s house when we were twenty and we, for whatever reason, probably good weather, decided to get drunk. Han passed out an hour after arriving and Vin accepted challenges to chug beer and martinis. Eight or ten challenges later, Vin was rendered a crawling mess, unable to raise his head above ankle level unless it was over a toilet. I remained sober, drove him home and he vowed never to drink again. Pansy.

Han finished his cup of gin after our last shot and he was sick thirty minutes later. He threw up on the grass next to the wall of foliage far behind Pablo. I walked over and he looked up at me and insisted that I go have fun with the rest of the guys while slobber and tears crawled down his face and onto his crossed legs. He was belligerent and in my drunken state I had to try hard not to laugh.

I went back to my seat and Kent, putting a burning log to his face, lit a cigarette. I followed suit but with my lighter and exhaled breath thick with smoke and coughed.

“How long have you had that cough?” Kent asked.

“Around a month.”

“Are you gonna get it checked out?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Yer gon’ die of lung cancer, Frank!” Han yelled through sobs from the grass outside the warmth of the fire. He may as well have not been present at all. He would always tell us stories about cancer of the throat, and how you’d lose your ability to talk unless you had a voice box or spoke with burps or some stupid garbage like that. He knew it got on my nerves. When he pissed me off enough, I would blow smoke in his face and we wouldn’t talk for the rest of the night. It would be awkward sober, but drunk I was impervious to emotion.

Kent’s phone rang, “just us four. Absolutely, whatever beer you want. Yes, twelve is fine. See ya.” His phone clapped shut, “David’s on his way. He’s bringing more beer.” It was midnight and Han was sobering up beside us around the fire. His eyes were red and glossy. I had another beer and didn’t remember anything after it, not even David’s arrival.

Short Story (part 1 of 5)

2008-11-24T11:00:00.000-08:00

[Here's a short story I wrote last year. I've developed my writing a bit since, so I ask for patience. I plan to one day pull a (polished) novel from this short.]

“Somebody call Vin.”

“Vin is dead,” I answered.

“Yeah, fuck Vin.” Pablo added.

We all missed Vin dearly and hadn’t heard from him since his girlfriend moved in with him. He’d been an avid fan of liquor, but one night he’d indulged a bit too hard and decided to not drink ever again. That and his girlfriend was a tee totaling wet blanket who had him by his balls.

“Let’s take a shot,” I said.

“To what?”

“To Vin.”

It’s not that we really considered him dead. We were happy for him, where ever he was. We were all single most of the time so I guess we were jealous, or we resented the fact that he stopped calling, but that’s the nature of the beast, right? Friends lose touch in time and sometimes it coincides with one of them being taken by a lover. I resented him deeply for that.

After several shots we sometimes called Vin. Well, I never called him, I’d no intention of speaking to him again, but Pablo didn’t have a problem dialing the number. Vin would never answer, of course, and so ensued Pablo’s default message: “Hey, Vin, it’s Pablo, we’re hanging out at Kent’s house drinking beers around a fire. You should come over.”

“Hey, remember that time after the movie when we wanted to go to a bar?”

“When Vin looked to his girlfriend for permission?”

“Ha, yeah.”

“Did you know he transferred to CSUN?”

“What the fuck! When?”

“Last year.”

“Wow. How’d you find out? Oh, when you still talked to his girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you stop--oh yeah, you told me. So why does she hate us?”

“Her dad’s an alcoholic, her grandparents died of lung cancer.”

“Makes sense.”

Sometimes, I'm a Girl

2008-11-21T16:08:00.000-08:00

In about 30 hours, I'm going to be on a plane to Europe. Most people would be very excited and looking forward to such an occasion if they were in my place, but I'm very anxious about this trip. It's not that I have a fear of flying or that I get airsick…It's that I'm really afraid of freezing my butt off (and the fact that at the time of this posting, I'm not finished doing my shopping and have not begun to pack).

I knew that it was going to be cold during this trip, but I never thought it was going to be rainy and SNOWING. For a gal who grew up in "The Armpit of the San Gabriel Valley," the thought of spending extended periods of time in the cold, cold cold really scares me.

To help prevent my coldest nightmares from happening, I’ve gone around and made sure that I have warm things at my ready…part of which includes taking this opportunity to use this trip as an excuse to get new shoes.

Most people will find me wearing flats, slippers, and Chucks which are all not so good for the feet with the exception of my super supportive running shoes. That said, I also don’t have the type of shoe that will keep dry pretty well while keeping them warm at the same time. I figured that maybe this is the perfect opportunity for me to get myself a pair of boots.

Part of the reason why I don’t have a lot of shoes is because I’m super duper picky on what goes on my feet. I don’t know where I got it, but the most minute detail or texture, even a fraction of an inch on a heel will either make or break my decision. It’s a painful process even I hate, but it’s a process I don’t know how to make simpler.

I’d like to hope that this neuroses of the shoe pays off in the end, for I like to think that I do have a decent eye on things that look good (on my feet). What’s funny is that despite my aspirations to obtain my entire wardrobe second hand through thrifting and clothing swaps, I do have an eye for expensive, well made shoes. Whether it’s the shoe I’m looking for or not, I always find myself drawn to some of the more expensive shoes on the rack, and being in shoe stores or departments sometimes make me wish I was more fashion-forward with a disposable income in order to finance this untapped passion for shoes. It’s almost like I have this dormant Imelda Marcos disease, where I just want every nice shoe that exists in this world.

After spending hours in the mall, trying boot after boot, I did settle for a pair of Bandolinos that look fairly weatherproof but still nice enough to be dressy and not to heavy so that a So Cal girl like me can wear it out. I’m happy with my choice as a shoe, but it remains to be seen if I made the right choice on the right footwear for this trip.

Coincidence. Appreciate it. (part II)

2008-11-20T14:56:00.000-08:00

[This is part two and the conclusion of Tuesday's post, which was this blog's very first Adventourist entry. Thank you, Rochelle! For the rest of you, I hope you like it as much as Frank and I do, and we hope that some of you may want to hazard a guest entry! <3corazon]

In the afterglow of all this election excitement, I was trying find a personal connection to Obama's win. You know, something a little more connected than that $25 I spent on a T-shirt, or all those cupcakes I bought at my neighborhood "Hungry For Change" bake-sale. Not knowing where to look for a starting point, I took a break in front of the t.v. Then I found it! Jeri Ryan.

Look at the palm of your right hand. Your "love line"-it's right below your pinky finger. I don't know about yours, but mine has a great big gap in it. When I was just sixteen I dated the man of my dreams. It was the happiest time of my life. Cut to six-ish years later - I idiotically broke-up with him. Thankfully we are back on track together. But maybe that time away served for something more important than my feeble happiness. So how does the Star Trek Voyager star connect with Obama and my love line?

Jeri Lynn Ryan starred in an Indie movie called the Last Man. The guy I dated during my aforementioned gap acted alongside Jeri in this movie. Years after the film completed, it made it to the Hamptons Film Festival. I went along helping to promote the movie, supporting the crew. Afterwards, Jeri had written a letter to the director thanking him for believing in her. She thanked him for fostering her self esteem and for giving her the opportunity that boosted her career. She then ended her part as trophy wife to Jack Ryan. No, not the Jack Ryan from Tom Clancy movies. Jack Ryan, the Illinois senator. The senator who ran against Barack Obama in 2004. In an act of courage and new found confidence, Jeri Lynn Ryan decided to open the divorce files on her ex-husband to expose a scandal that would forever change the course of history. Way ahead in the polls versus Obama, Ryan left the race after his sex scandal was exposed. Was this retaliation for forcing Jeri to attend sex clubs? I don't know. Perhaps it was just the right thing to do.

While Jeri replaced her former husband with chef Christophe Émé, the republican party tried to replace him with Mike Ditka. Mike said no, so Alan Keyes stepped in to lose to Obama. Keyes is now attempting to sue Obama for proof of Obama's U.S. citizenship. What a crazy world...

So where is my link in all this? Perhaps it was an off-handed comment I made to Jeri about my opinions on marriage. Or perhaps that extra boost of confidence came from all those men who were looking at her instead of me. We can never know the real impact of our every word or decision. That is one of the things that is so beautiful about the effect of coincidence on life.

How to Survive a Clothes Swap

2008-11-19T07:31:00.000-08:00

[Author's note: I was rushing to get all this entry's eggs in its metaphorical basket, but had to take care of a few matters. Because of that, the photographic material that I would like to have accompany this post is waiting to be linked...on my own computer. Please check back later to see some visual guides to the words! <3corazon]

Clothing swaps have gained in popularity in more recent years in the spirit to reduce consumption of new materials while still refreshing one’s wardrobe. This is "One person's trash is another person's treasure" personified: What may be a tired garment to one is a brand new piece to another.

Events like the Swap-O-Rama-Rama takes this concept a step further: along with the swap are DIY stations for swappers to modify their clothing on the spot, as well as DIY workshops including silkscreeners, pants/tshirts-to-tote makers, shirt pimpers show swappers how they can creatively reuse old clothes.

I've volunteered for Los Angeles' take of this event since its start, organized through the efforts of Lori Petitti and Hip Line Media. As the swapping process is much like thrifting on steroids, developing good strategy ensures a successful and productive time at a clothes swap.

DRESS STRATEGICALLY
Proper attire is pretty handy when rummaging through clothes. A skirt for ladies and secure men alike is ideal, allowing quick work at trying on other bottoms. Slippers (flip flops) as footwear are very handy. Tops should be worn as close to the skin as possible to try clothes on top of them and get the most accurate sense of fit without much bagginess.

Messenger-style bags that rests at your hip is very handy for quick rummaging, grabbing, and stashing. It's the closest thing humans have to having little pouches in the insides of their mouths, though not as handy but lots more stylish.

DIVIDE AND CONQUER
The human race wouldn't be where it is right now if not for its advanced social structure. It's rather prudent to use this skill when swapping. Being in cahoots with at least one other person is helpful in keeping an eye for things s/he may happen upon that's your style It's also handy to have another eye to let you know how a particular piece fits, looks, flatters, etc. you, which brings me to my next point:

EDIT YOUR STASH
Save the time and regret you may have from taking home impulse grabs by going through the small pile you amass through time. Try on the pieces you didn’t get a chance to before, show off your finds to your aforementioned accomplice. You can swap with others who may be editing at the same time. Return unwanteds to the pile for someone else to find. If you’re on the fence with something, you can keep it, after all…

THERE’S ALWAYS THE NEXT SWAP
Holding on to potential pieces isn’t bad - you may love something one day, then want to leave it the next. Come next swap, you can re-swap it to see if it can find a home with someone else. In my two years and three swaps, I’ve seen several pieces come and go and return again. There have been shirts I’ve taken from someone who wasn’t into that style, realize it’s not my style, and went to re-swap it. As it turns out, their original owner started wearing those shirts again and took them back…thus the beauty of the swap!

Coincidence. Appreciate it. (part I)

2008-11-18T14:41:00.000-08:00

[Our first guest post! Welcome Rochelle! Her first post is about the intricacies of coincidence. The second part will be posted Thursday. Enjoy!

Love,
frank]

Coincidences happen everyday. It irks me when those crazy happenstances go by without much appreciation. I am kind of obsessed with these little surprises and I relish looking back trying to connect the dots to find hidden adventures. I am talking about the kind of unbelievable coincidences in life that, when seen in a movie or happen in a book, you say to yourself, "yeah, right! how convenient. . . there's an ornithologist in the restaurant where our heroes have just gone to escape from killer birds!?" It's sometimes overwhelming to think about the chain of events- each chance, every little decision that had to take place in order to get here. Where? Here in the Future! How do I know now is the future? Because in every futuristic alien movie a black man is president of the United States of America.

Adventures in Bad Writing

2008-11-17T15:02:00.000-08:00

The night was drunk with the scent of fresh-baked bread and a monstrously odorous carne asada burrito. I lit a cigarette under the screaming light of a full moon, marrying the scents in a haze of twilight smoke outside a bar filled with vampires. I washed down the mouthful of burrito with a drink from my vodka which burned in conjunction with hot sauce. It was a strange burn, a burn like none other.

A man approached me from within the bar. “Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he asked with an indelible persistence, like the migration of a species, or Jupiter’s Red Spot. I had to think faster than a cheetah runs as it would have been impossible for me to hand him a smoke with one hand full of burrito and the other full of vodka. I decided the burrito had been eaten enough to where I could hold it in my mouth and leave it hanging out like an enormous tongue, freeing one hand to pull out the pack of cigarettes in my back pocket and offer this man a smoke. “Thanks,” he said standing there watching me wrestle the burrito from my mouth.

The burrito was mashed and gnarled as though it had been mauled by a rabid dog who thought it was a cat covered in peanut butter. I was filled with a deep sorrow; the burrito reminded me of my mother. She had been sick with the flu for days now. “Got a light,” the man with the iron resolution asked me.

“Sorry, I don’t,” I said panicked, not wanting to suffer through anymore burrito-mouth madness. I walked away into the screaming moonlight through a drunken night dancing in the scent of fresh baked-bread and yellow puffs of cigarette smoke pushed from behind my lips with my under-worked diaphragm. I never found out if that smoking man found a light. I surmise he did. I hope he did.

Berry Bad Attempts on My Life

2008-11-13T22:35:00.000-08:00

I'm allergic to berries. I have one particular friend who usually remembers of my allergy, but sometimes it seems she wants to find some kind of way to innocently kill me by getting me to eat them.

One night, she and I were eating at this great greasy spoon famous for their homemade pies. It was around closing time, so their selection was limited, but had their famous ollallaberry available. I told this dessert-loving friend she could have dessert on her own, and I didn't care either way, but she insisted that we share a slice o' pie, then we shared the most boring slice of pumpkin pie ever.

I think this is when her plan for vengeance started.

Not long after, I went to her place to hang out and eat random snacks. One of the snacks included a jar of ollallaberry (and some other berry) jam. That jam looked pretty amazing. It came in a dark glass jar, and inside the jam was a deep, royal purple color that would make it even more exciting to eat. Its decadence was proven with each mouthful of jam my friend had, she'd sing a mouthful chorus of pure bliss, followed by her exclaiming how good it was as she nudged the jar closer towards me. Each time this happened (and it happened a lot), I'd assured her that I'm sure it is tasty. It wasn't until the next day that she realized the error of her ways, probably because she was so obsessed with the stuff at the time.

It wasn't until this week that she made her decisive move. We were over at some friends' for dinner, and she brought dessert: petit fours. When it came time for dessert, I took my bite, I thought its almondy goodness was great, though it had a hint of something funny tasting. Then I looked at the innards of the petit four I just bit and saw this little maroon line along the bottom of the treat.

When I asked what it could be, my friend immediately replied, "Oh, that's probably raspberry, since they put that in a lot of petit fours."

"Then I shouldn't be eating this," I replied.

"Oh, that's right. You're going to die if you eat this." My friend casually retorted.

Later that night, my entire right upper arm was itchy, and large portions of my scalp was all a-tingle.

I escaped this incident okay, but I don't know if I'd be so lucky next time. It's kind of like eating secret poison blowfish. There are few people in this world who are trained to cut the edible parts from the poisoned part of the fish. How would one react to someone else who just ate something that was poisonous?

"This fish tastes funny."

"Oh. That was probably the poisoned part. Oops."

Maybe that would be my friend (who is not licensed to cut blowfish, BTW) if I ate poisoned blowfish.

Adventures in the Art of Cookery

2008-11-12T16:13:00.000-08:00

I asked my girlfriend what, if anything, I hated. After hardly thinking for five minutes, she said, “dancing! You hate dancing and singing!” Excellent, I told her, and that I’d use that in my blog. Then I remembered how much I hate cooking and tomatoes.

Do you know why audiences sometimes bombard performers with tomatoes? Because fuck tomatoes, that’s why. Nobody likes tomatoes, at least not those generic red monstrosities. You have to be pretty handy in the kitchen in order to transform these red, mangineered atrocities into something edible. Sure, you could buy proper and ripe tomatoes, but who has the time to cherry pick anything these days? I sure do, but fuck tomatoes!

I’ll tell you what else I hate: dull knives. I must be the most incompetent fool in America because I have a sharpening stone and am unable to sharpen my knives. My knives seem to get duller after every “sharpening.” You know those dolts on the Ronco infomercials who smash tomatoes with a dull knife like a mental invalid attacking a pile of clay with his hands? I’m one of them. It’s not because I’m incredibly inept, it’s because my hands go rogue due to my uncontrollable rage.

Cooking is a downward spiral of pain and suffering for me, especially when I have to dice tomatoes for an omelet. Not only do I have to deal with dull knives, bitter tomatoes, and rogue hands, I have to deal with eggs sticking to fifteen dollar “nonstick” pans.

Oh, and sometimes I add onions to the omelet. Do you know how ridiculous onions are? Only two things make me cry: broken bones and onions. That makes no sense. On the contrary, it makes nonsense, my friends.

Adventures in Politics, Voting

2008-11-10T14:21:00.000-08:00

Voting apathy, I’ve noticed, is among the more unpopular apathies. I think I’d be better off not caring about recycling.

While walking to my polling place, I asked passersby for whom they voted. After they responded I said I was voting for the opposing candidate and gauged their reaction. Some smiled politely and walked away, others stormed off with their hands flailing in the air. I approached groups of people, families, couples and such, and asked them all the same question.

“Hi, who’d you vote for?”

“McCain,” the father said.

“Oh, I voted for Obama. How about the props?”

“Yes on all but two and eight,” the father said.

“I voted no on all but two and eight. And the missus? How’d she vote?”

“I voted for Obama and yes on one, two, and seven,” she said with a proud smile.

“I voted for McCain and no on one, two, and seven. You, sir, are you an uncle? I negated your votes, too,” I said.

“Surely that’s not possible.”

“I work here, sir! It is very possible and I did it! Let this be a lesson to you, children: do not vote!” I said with the fervor of a peeled-eyed crack addict. I jumped over the table and held their arms. “It’s a waste of time! A waste of time!” I continued through their sobs. By this time the voters had stopped voting and were staring at me. They seemed scared and a few were inching for the door. “You! Voter! Your ballot, sir!”

“I, uh—“

“Worthless!” I said taking a bite from his ballot and punching him. “You with the tan jacket!”

“Me?”

“Yes! Your ballot!”

“I didn’t vote! I swear!”

“Good man, because I surely would have negated your votes, too!” I said and punched him while running out of the room. Outside I gave a group of twenty non-English-speaking immigrants contradicting sample ballots I’d filled out.

I ran down the street and jumped into a family’s living room through their window and punched out their TV. They were watching the voting results, wide eyed with glee that Obama was in the lead. I jumped out another window and punched a man on a soap box who as preaching about the evils of drugs.

“Don’t listen to this man!” I yelled through his megaphone. “Voting is a waste of time!” I plowed my way through the crowd and punched an anarchist and took his wallet. By now I had a group of voters unable to appreciate my views chasing me. “Close-minded fools!” I yelled while running. I ran into a police officer and explained my situation.

“Follow me,” he said and I punched him in the face. I was tasered by his partner, handcuffed and arrested.

Indeed, voting apathy is an unpopular apathy.

Misadventures of Driving in LA

2008-11-07T09:36:00.000-08:00

I'm just as proud to be an Angelino as any, but even the most devout LA resident is often driven mad trying to get from one place to another without dying on the road. It's almost like each car trip we take is made to make us thank our lucky stars that we managed to survive the dangerous dance humans play as we speedily control these multi-ton vehicles around.

I had once dreamt to grow up to be a civil engineer, and I think that was once realized after all the times I've had to travel on a few of the most dangerous and annoying driving areas in LA.

Although this can be an ongoing series in itself, I'd like to share my top 5 least enjoyable driving areas in Los Angeles (in no particular order).

The 101 South/110 South Freeway Interchange along the Downtown Exits
Whoever figured that a major freeway's transition into another freeway right where there are a slew of very confusing offramps in the city's center must have been on drugs. I do not understand why the 101 drivers freak out and drive like they never were behind a wheel as they frantically try to merge onto the 110 when they never realize they don't even need to change lanes as they have a dedicated lane that will happily lead them into the freeway! I always loathe having to exit Downtown because of this, because those 1,200 feet of interchange is just a constant death trap - if it doesn't kill you, it just makes you more bitter with life.

10 Freeway Offramps
As semi-irritating it is to have particular offramps for streets on one direction of the freeway to another, I sometimes think I'd rather have exits at every other major street when it comes to a lot of the offramps for the 10 freeway through the San Gabriel Valley. Both the east and westbound exits have separate exits for the north and south bound sides of the street. Yay Convenience! The only thing is, usually the first offramp comes way too soon when you're not properly slowed down, causing you to practically screech to a halt in order to make your turn and prevent you from running into dangerously opposing traffic who are trying to get ON the freeway. If you're trying to get to the second offramp, you have to make sure you avoid these cars trying to jump on, who usually aren't ramped up to speed just yet. I'm usually holding my breath and pray I survive each time I take one of these exits.

The 605 South/10 East - 10 West/605 South Interchange
I just don't understand this. Both freeways are pretty big, yet someone thought that instead of putting a perfectly efficient cloverleaf for this half of this interchange (as they have half of one on the other side), they decided to create a 436ft. two-lane driving space where 605 southbound drivers have to try to get on the 10 east at the exact time 10 westbound drivers want to get on the 605 south. Let's not mention how fast drivers from both freeways go in/out of this area...it's just not cool.

The 5/101/10 East & West/60 Freeways Interchange
Just look at it. In order to get from one part of the 10 to another, you have to be on the 5 for a while. Then, the 101 starts off here, but it's a really small offramp. Oh, there's also a way to get to the 60 from all of this, but it's almost put there as an afterthought. Don't ask me how many times I was tired/in a rush/stupid/etc. while trying to get somewhere and I invariably wind up taking the wrong offramp and wind up on the other side of the city before realizing that's not the direction I wanted to go. Sure, I'm responsible for my stupidity, but really, this area doesn't make it that hard to make anyone drive like an idiot.

The I-10 Freeway
I just hate this freeway. It's unattractive, more often than not always full of traffic, and is a necessary evil to go around LA. I can't even begin to explain my hatred for this freeway. Have you ever had to pee so bad, perhaps you had to pee while suffering from a uniary tract infection, but you were comfortable sitting/lying down while being extremely mentally/physically/emotionally exausted at the moment, that the however long trip it would take to get you to the toilet makes you wish you just had a bedpan? That's how I feel about the 10 freeway.

PMS and Politics

2008-11-05T08:43:00.000-08:00

I'm not too proud of it, but I am an extremely competitive person. Anyone who has ever played games with me can attest to that, and I'm very glad those who I've played Mario Kart Wii online have not heard the sort of expletives that's escaped my lips in the heat of racing. It's very smart on Nintendo's part that players cannot input their own online messages to others - the game's most aggressive messages being "Grr...Darn it!" and "Funky Stadium!" which is passable. No message can't convey my sentiment when I really want to say, "Your perfectly-placed banana peel on that turn put me into such a rage that I want to see your smug Mii's face as a pixelated pulp!!!"

Though I don’t consider myself a political junkie, I think electing the next US President is a big deal, and I, like many people in the US and the world, had a great deal of particular interest in this year's presidential election. People are entitled to their views and opinions, but I was rooting for one candidate over the other, and though I tried to remain practical and aware that the election could have easily gone to either candidate, as soon as the guy I was rooting for was gaining a formidable lead, I started to become pretty darn excited that in my mind, thinking "My Team" was winning.

It should also be mentioned this competitive nature of mine becomes even more pronounced when a healthy dose of Premenstrual Syndrome and hormones is thrown in the mix. That mentioned, I'm in the full throes of "That Time of the Month."

Let's add to the fact that I was stuck in LA traffic as most of the polls started closing and reporting yesterday, and as each projection was announced, it took a lot of constraint to not honk my horn and start screaming, perhaps finding another nearby sharing similar sentiment. It was better I was alone in the car during this time, for I probably would have exerted some sort of physical reaction onto them, like several punches to the arm or a sloppy kiss to the face, whichever struck me at the moment (yes, while driving).

Once our next president was announced, I was in the company of others who shared similar excitement and sentiment as I, but perhaps not as much as I managed to restrain. I think I was so happy, I could have collapsed someone’s ribcage in a bonecrushing hug, patted someone’s back so hard to induce coughing up a lung, and as I sat there listening to our President-elect, I had to curb my desire to take the wine glass in my hand outside, smash it against the concrete and dance upon its shards in some twisted form of cathartic joy.

It goes without saying I’m VERY happy of this election’s outcome, and am particularly happy that things didn’t turn out in the other guy’s favor; for I am honestly afraid to think how I would have reacted to that.

Adventure Theory

2008-11-04T12:31:00.000-08:00

I would like to introduce a new segment to this blog (I suppose since there isn't much here, everything is new, so please humor me) called Adventure Theory.

As much as Frank and I eat, drink, walk, sweat adventure with every breath we take, there are just some situations and opportunities that prevent us from actually tackling certain adventures, such as the lack of funding, time, courage, attention, physical capibility, what-have-you. Instead of letting these ideas of adventure fall by the wayside, we now have the opportunity to outline these adventures outside our jumbled heads and onto the space of this blog.

This may be an opportunity for us to visually assess these ideas and realize how crazy they really are, or it may help us see how much more possible it is to go through with them. It also may be an opportunity for us to document our ideas and look back at it when such theories are exercised and things go horribly awry.

Either way, this should make for good times.

Adventures in Politics

2008-11-03T13:34:00.000-08:00

I’ve had many epiphanies over the years, the most memorable being when I realized the proof really was in the pudding, or that it’s actually possible to eat scrambled eggs without tortillas, or the following which I epiphanized over the course of a year.

My good friends know that I have a voting problem. I tell them my problem and they scoff. I explain my situation, but they tell me to stop lying, to stop making up diseases. One day, you untrusting hobgoblins, one day Ted Striker’s disease will be acknowledged by the AMA.

“Seriously, frank, it’s getting old. Haha, yeah, Ted Striker syndrome—“

“Ted Striker’s disease,” I tell them.

“Yeah, whatever. It was funny on Airplane! and that’s it. Stop creating excuses and get your ass to the polls.”

“The moles?” I say.

“You know what? Fuck you, frank. I’m tired of your incorrigible apathy.”

My friends, it is because of the frequency of these verbal assaults that I must admit something: I do not have Ted Striker’s disease. I made it up one day and the AMA isn’t really considering its validity. I don’t vote because, my good friends, I have Parkinson’s disease. Would you like to know why Bush won in ’04? My hand shook the puncher into Bush’s circle instead of Kerry’s.

“It’s just one vote, that’s preposterous,” you say? How dare you! Voting is not preposterous! No wait, it is.

I’ve shared my thoughts on voting to those I believe are highly intelligent and insightful. Unfortunately, their reasons to vote weren’t able to stifle the nihilist in me. “An exercise in futility,” I’ve been known to yell, spastically attacking strangers with spittle. Yes, I know my not voting is irresponsible because it discourages others to do the same.

This is where the epiphany kicks in: the reason I’m so turned off by the voting process is because nobody should be discouraged by one idiot’s indifference with voting, and yet it’s the primary reason I vote.

It’s not something I’ve fully thought out. I need help figuring this one out. What does it mean that people are discouraged by others not voting? Am I not a team player? Someone help me. Also make me a sandwich, please.

The End to My Adventures in Convention

2008-10-31T07:40:00.000-07:00

Unlike most college graduates, I was somewhat happy to move home with the parents.

I, like several of my classmates from World Arts and Cultures (affectionately and aptly acronymed as WAC), had this goal to recoup from surviving our senior projects then see and experience what the world has to offer - see new things, meet different people, do what we were trained to do best: starve as we lived our lives, making art (or at least talk about it)!

Seven months later, I was working at an overpriced trade school that catered mostly to talentless rich kids. I did it partly because I didn’t have money, a job, or medical insurance. Part of it was to make the parents happy. I also appreciated the fact that I'd be able to pay off the remaining of my absurd college debt, but I did tell my boss pretty early on that I would stay there so long as I wasn't creatively inhibited...and once that happened, I'd be gone.

The job actually afforded me to take classes, buy cameras, finance a trip to Europe and New York. Twenty months later, I left there with a nest egg that allowed me to stay in NYC for almost two months, take a few community college classes and live unemployed for 5 months.

I eased back into working by taking a part-time job, and when I was offered to work full time, I refused, as the pay wasn't the best for the crazy commute I'd have to do (while still at the parents'). Then I got the opportunity I was waiting for: a job at a non-profit arts institution. I figured, hey, it may be admin, which I can do, and I’d be in a creative environment that would inspire me to do my own work, right?

Wrong.

It was then I learned non-profit arts institutions prey on the bleeding hearts that fight the good fight, and the multiple jobs I worked there sucked me dry. I had a car to finance and rent to pay, so I was doubly cursed with no money to finance any creative endeavor which didn’t matter, because I had no energy to actually work on any.

When I finally left just over a year later, I should have known better, but instead gouged my bleeding heart: I signed on to a smaller arts non-profit. Though it paid a decent wage, I had no benefits, and I was working in one of the most difficult situations one could possibly imagine.

I figured I could tough out a year; give me experience, and in many ways, I did enjoy working there. It took other people to help me realize that I should leave, but the stars weren't aligned in my favor, and the longer I stayed there, the worse it became.

As I felt myself slip into a depression trying to find another means to get by while surviving my situation, it dawned on me: I’m nowhere close to what I told myself I’d be five years ago! What happened to that person? Why am I putting myself deeper into misery? I need to do something about this!

And I did.

Five years, four months and 17 days after leaving school, I’ve finally decided to actively pursue what I promised myself that I would do: follow my bliss.

So here I am. With no source of income guaranteed, I’m going to see if I can make it doing what I love. It’s scary as hell, but equally exhilarating to see what will happen next.

Adventures in Writing

2008-10-29T12:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve always loved writing. I love the way my mind races when I’m on a good roll. Alas, creativity wanes as you age and lately it’s been difficult putting words together. This was not so years ago.

I was nine when I wrote the following:

“I saw lots of fireworks

on July fourth. I had a

lot of fireworks. I

stayed up all night

lighting fireworks. It

was fun.”

How brave was my prose! Random line breaks and explosive repetition outlining a succinctness matched only by the simplest haiku. The date was July 6, 1993 and I received a happy face for that journal entry. A happy face! “Callooh callay, a happy face!” I chortled with glee throughout the house.

How naïve I was. Reaching that level of English mastery would be a feat I’d never again accomplish. The following was dated August 8, 1993:

“Yesterday I went to school

and I forgot my homework

at home.”

My reward? A check mark—of unrelenting pain! I sobbed silently for a week before returning to my journal. I felt inspired that evening, like everything I wrote would be witty and somehow solid as they say. It was dated August 16, 1993:

“First, I went to

school

Next, I went to

play.

Then, I went to

lunch.

last, I went home.”

“Is this all?” my teacher’s claws stamped insidiously on my journal. My writing has since suffered, and has since been formulaic.

It’s been years since I’ve written anything witty or worth reading, thus this new venture. My brain needs flexing! And flex it I will. Maybe. Nah, I’ll have fun instead.