VERBALEAKAGE

Moving

2010-03-09T13:30:00.003-05:00

For the few of you who randomly check in here, I've started a new blog: http://baggageclaimed.tumblr.com/

It's not much different from this one, just less about my day-to-day goings on.

See for yourself.

(You may even recognize these fools in my first post.)

(And please, please keep reading. It's very much appreciated.)

Revamp

2010-03-05T10:33:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I updated, but it's not entirely due to the winter slog or general slack. I'm actually working on a new blog, not much different from this one, just slightly more focused. Or as focused as I can be. As you can see, I'm having a hard enough time trying to be concise with this explanation, which can probably best be summarized by saying: Stay tuned.

Whitened

2010-02-10T14:25:00.004-05:00

I've been staring at snow all day.

Why? Because I have a lot of work that needs to get done. And I don't get to stare at snow very often.

What a hammock looks like covered in snow (far right).

Learned

2010-02-10T08:22:00.001-05:00

Things that may just prove I'm on my way to being a certified New Yorker:

- I keep a fair pace when walking to the subway, but lately, my pace has been increasing dramatically as soon as I reach the stairs descending into the station. It's like a trigger in my brain goes off once I see the turnstile. All inner monologues cease and I am overwhelmed by the fear of possibly missing the train by a mere second. My body goes into flight mode. I take off in a mad dash for the platform (only to be underwhelmed to find the train is nowhere in sight).

- I've become masterful at running in heels. (See above.)

- I stop at the corner bodega at least once a day for something. But I couldn't tell you the last thing I bought.

- Several nights ago, I wore ear plugs to bed.

Things that prove I'm still an Oregonian:

- When I was walking down the street the other day, a guy in front of me threw a soda bottle in the vicinity of a trash can and missed. I zigzagged into the street to pick it up and throw it away.

Other things I didn't know before moving to NY:

- It's hard to pull up skinny jeans over footless tights. Much bunching ensues.

- Like the rest of the country, people stay inside when it snows. Schools and government buildings shut down. Streets, stores and restaurants are fairly empty. It's becomes a good excuse to slow down.

- Do not go into Williamsburg when you are PMSing. You will be very annoyed by the obnoxiously fuzzy earmuffs, oversized plastic-rimmed reading glasses and see-thru tights worn by hipstaburglers on a 32-degree day.

Gumption

2010-01-28T14:00:00.005-05:00

New York is the land of overachievers.

Case in point: If a New Yorker wants to indulge in mindless entertainment, she'll watch The Daily Show, listen to NPR's "This American Life" and read, well, The New Yorker.

Last night, I caught the finale of Jersey Shore. Then after contemplating picking up a book, I decided instead to watch old episodes of The Real World: Hollywood online. Which prompted me think of my time in LaLaLand (and therefore, make judgmental comparisons between my new home and my former home).

When I lived in LA and used to eavesdrop on coffee shop conversations, I'd usually hear people talk about wanting to produce something, or the possibility of writing a script, or the search for searching for an agent. Sometimes, I'd hear friends compliment each other's headshots.

In New York, I've sat next to a woman who produced Def Poetry Jam, a playwright who's working on her third off-Broadway show, and an editor for a fashion magazine who just got back from France.

In other words, in New York, if you make time (note: not "have" time) to go to a coffee shop in the middle of the day, you're conducting business, not writing blog entries with the hope that a publisher will stumble across said blog entries and give said blogger a book deal.

Whine

2010-01-26T11:54:00.005-05:00

Spend any amount of time in a gym locker room and you'll realize this: Women like to complain.

It's as though bitching is a form of bonding.

- Why is the temperature of the pool never consistent?

- Yeah, it's so cold today. I mean it's freezing! Freeeezing!

- I'm so tired. I just can't get enough sleep lately. I think I'm going to go home and take a nap.

- I wish I could take a nap. I have to go the restaurant at three today. Ugh.

Complaining is the go-to common ground women use to fill the silence in an awkward situation. I prefer food (discussing it, eating it, judging people based on it, whatever). Nutella, candied pecans, thinly sliced prosciutto, chocolate chip cookies with a hint of sea salt--it's the stuff of happiness.

Love

2010-01-20T13:09:00.007-05:00

To me, love never feels familiar. It feels brand new every time. I'm not sure if it's because as we get older, our meaning of love changes. Or if our our awareness of ourselves and our chemistries are heightened, or if we are able to appreciate another generous, beautiful human being more wholly and truly. Like not taking for granted the kindness you see in his eyes, or shying away from the vulnerability projected in your own--the wide, open promise that you would, if you could, give this person the world. Or how whether lying on the couch or standing over the stove, the curve of your body falls magnetically into his. And how, at least for now, he finds most of your quirks not only laughable, but charming. And in the times when you find yourselves apart, you think of ways to express this gratefulness and the joy that you'll see him very soon, but not soon enough.

Roomies

2010-01-20T12:15:00.002-05:00

When you're 32 and have lived alone for two years, you tend to be a little picky when comes to choosing a roommate. Deal breakers include:

1. Owning a rat and two parakeets. The possibility of the vermin escaping from said roommate's room is less of a concern than the thought of what kind of care, grooming and quality time happens between the adult female and her rat behind the closed door.

2. Being quarantined to my bedroom during meal times and Jeopardy! Having space is one thing. I also get being old and finding solitude in your favorite programs. (I too enjoy a quiet, uninterrupted evening with a jar of Nutella and The Jersey Shore.) But only being allowed access to my bedroom and the bathroom is a little extreme, especially since my favorite home activity is eating, and eating only happens after a mess is made in the kitchen.

3. Having friends over to play online video games. A group of twentysomething dudes sitting on a faded sectional sofa, huddled over their laptops, screaming, "Slay the droid!" is not only irksome, but downright emasculating and a discouraging glimpse into the future of the male species.

4. Being against your roommate getting laid. When "no overnight visitors" is the first demand out of a potential roommate's mouth, you can't be surprised when she adds, "and no cooking meat." No sex and no bacon equals misery and no one wants to live with misery.

Fade

2010-01-13T09:25:00.003-05:00

My iPhone forecast for the last week I was in Hawaii: 82, 81, 80, 80, 81, 80.

My iPhone forecast for my first week in New York: 21, 26, 29, 20, 27, 19.

By the time my monthlong stay ended in Hawaii, my friends and family were applauding my tan, saying that my current state was the tannest they'd ever seen me. (Note: I went through a goth phase in college.)

Let's see how long it takes for my tan lines to fade:

Week One in NY

(Thought I'd spare you the more obvious tan line options.)

Merrymaking

2009-12-26T20:12:00.008-05:00

Christmas at the Machados' has always been anything but traditional. (For years, our most honored ritual was drinking pina coladas on the beach on Xmas morning. The simple reason being: "cuz we can.")

This year our family decided to forego buying presents for each other (with the exception of my 18-month-old nephew), as well as sitting down for some cliched turkey meal. (This was after conceding that no other food could possibly interest us as much as the shortbread cookies sitting on our kitchen counter, and therefore, we'd be wasting our time pretending to care about protein.)

All in all, it was a wonderfully self-indulgent Christmas. See highlights below.

- My Christmas Eve dinner: A few slices of processed ham and a handful of Doritos. And of course, shortbread cookies.

- My favorite present that wasn't mine: My nephew's rocking horse. It has the mechanics of a mechanical bull (i.e. it's bouncy and creates a rubberband-like, circular, back-and-forth motion), and is therefore, ahem, very pleasurable.

- My Christmas day entertainment: Two hours of "Teen Mom" on MTV. My stepmom, brother and I gathered around the television to critique the disfunction of the reality show's characters, relishing in the fact that they put our own disfunction to shame.

- My Christmas evening: In lieu of a crackling fireplace, my family and I sat in front of a 70-foot screen at the Ward Center Megaplex for the new George Clooney movie, followed by wine, maitais and a discussion about cougars (the women, not the cats).

In conclusion, it was a very blessed holiday indeed.

Farmhand

2009-12-18T19:36:00.005-05:00

Because I too have to prove my worth on the family farm, these are the tasks I completed yesterday:

1. For my dad: Downloading an agriculture land use form off the Internet. (He just got his first email account this year and finds the whole Interwebs thing a hassle. This was a fitting assignment for me, having been dubbed "the brain" of the family, i.e. the only one to finish college.)

2. For my stepmom: Baking a rum cake. She was throwing a holiday party and needed a dessert. Naturally, she thought something that involved booze would be my forte. She was right. I added some extra Bacardi and licked the bowl.

3. For my dad: Keeping him company at the mall. His goal was to avoid the dozen or so of my stepmom's friends while they talked about babies, grandbabies, men and PMS and blew through 13 bottles of wine at the house. We came back at 10 p.m. to find most of them still chatting away in the living room. But at least I was able to steal the last piece of rum cake.

Farm

2009-12-17T13:01:00.009-05:00

A few months ago my parents moved out of the family home where I was raised on Oahu. They now live on the country side of the island, on a farm in Waimanalo.

This is quite a change from the police sirens and mopeds that buzzed up and down the main drag of our old neighborhood of Kalihi Valley--chaos relegated to the background, and the price of living close to "town."

If my parents' removal from city life is an indicator of age (or maturing priorities), then their everyday life on the farm is concrete evidence of the give-a-shit, laid-back attitude that comes with age. This is not to imply my parents are cripples or inactive; my dad spends most of his day putzing around on a fork lift, while my stepmom cooks rum cakes and does paperwork as she overlooks the Koolau Mountains. But here on the farm, life, and therefore conversation about life, is indeed simpler, and often straight to the point.

Day 2 of my month long visit home:

[I walk into the kitchen to get a bowl a cereal. My Dad is staring out the window by the stove.]

Me: Good morning, Dad.

Dad: [Turns around.] I've got the runs.

Yesterday, 6:30 p.m., when the day is done but it's not quite dinnertime:

[My Dad, Brother and I are sitting on the front deck watching our two dogs hump each other.]

Brother: You should get Waldo fixed, Dad.

Dad: He is fixed.

[Waldo, a plump Dachshund, mounds Bandit, a slender, graceful Boxer, again and again. After several successful attempts, he eventually jumps off.]

Me: Dad, I don't think he's fixed. He's rockin' a boner.

[My Dad picks up oblong-shaped Waldo and turns him upside down. A pink, rock hard protrusion is indeed jutting out perpendicular to his body.]

Dad: [With deep, hoarse laughter.] Holy shit. Waldo's got a hammer! Look at that! That turkey! I thought he was fixed.

[More laughter. My brother, 23, buries his head in shame. Waldo prances around in front of us.]

Dad: [Still laughing.] Waldo, you've got quite a hammer for a little shit!

[My brother grabs the dog--from the front half of his body--and carries him around the corner of the house.]

Brother: I couldn't take it.

Purge

2009-12-03T13:47:00.004-05:00

Since I'm leaving Portland for good in three days to head to Hawaii for a month, and then from there, moving straight to New York in the new year, I not only had to strategize wardrobes, but I had to scrutinize how much of my crap I really needed.

At first I planned to get everything I owned into 6 boxes, plus suitcases. I ended up with 15 boxes. Still, I didn't do too badly in the purging department.

Final count dumped:

- 12 large garbage bags shoved in my apartment's trash bins

- 5 bags of clothes, shoes and bags sold to Buffalo Exchange

- 3 boxes of books sold to Powell's

- 2 chairs, 1 sofa, 1 coffee table, 1 end table and 1 TV stand sold off of Craigslist

- Every pot, pan and appliance owned (except espresso machine and blender - Americanos and smoothies are necessities; baking, frying and boiling are not) donated to thrift store

- 1 Jeep Cherokee sold to a man who figured out within 48 hours that it was a piece of shit. (Too late sucka!)

One last view of my studio. Emptied and clean.

Of all purged items, these were the most internal dialogue-provoking:

1. Shot glasses. When it came time to individually wrap these suckers, I realized that I should be past the age where people (as in 20 people) come over and we all do shots together--no matter the circumstance, whether it's before heading out the door to go to a bar or after four beers. At least, I want to be this person, so I threw them away.

2. This brings me to the 9 wine openers I found. If I was to be judged here, let me say that I had only 4 shot glasses and 9 wine openers, therefore my mature drinking habits beat my immature ones. But honestly, these only served as reminders of how many waitressing jobs I've had. Most of them had a winery's name etched in them, a gift to restaurants from wine reps that are usually passed on to servers. I kept 4 of them. They didn't need to be individually wrapped.

3. Discman. I was about to throw this into a box with all the other junk stuffed in my desk drawer when the thought occurred to me, "Under what circumstance will I ever need to use this?" Even if my iPod died tomorrow, I would not find a way to strap this to my body and start running. I would not pack this my carry-on, mostly because then I'd have to carry around a bunch of CDs. Even if I did have a bunch of CDs I'd want to listen to, I'd have to go through them all and plan accordingly what I think I'd want to listen to several hours and days from now. And I'd have to buy some back up AA batteries. If I can get rid of an old cell phone, I can most definitely get rid of skipping, portable CD player with a "fuct" sticker on it.

4. Fondue set. In theory, melted cheese or chocolate would make the ideal dipping sauce for just about anything I like, such as bacon, pears and more cheese. But I never opened it. Sure, using it would take work, like buying the right chocolate and plugging it in, but I think my aversion to the contraption had more to do with the name: Nesting Fondue. I cannot stand the word "nesting"; it's almost as vomit-inducing as "settling," like "settling down." When I think of chocolate and cheese, and pouring such decadence over salty goods, while drinking a glass of a wine, toddlers, mortgages and 401Ks don't come to mind. Maybe "Fornicating Fondue" would've been more enticing.

Dopey

2009-11-27T13:31:00.010-05:00

I, Jessica Machado, fan of pre-marital sex, alcohol and caffeine, spent Thanksgiving with 30 Mormons.

As far as setup goes, I need not say much more, except that my Mormon aunt and uncle were sweet enough to offer me a full turkey spread at their friends' house, and I spent the night prior to T-day drinking wine until 2:30 in the morning, putting me in a next-day social haze and further adding to an already awkward situation. In other words, I was a little slow when I shook hands with 27 strangers and tried to explain what I do for a living (freelance writer for a dying paper; long-term grad student; income scrounger) and why I'm moving to NY in a month (No, I don't have a job lined up or a place to live). Although I can usually find common ground with most people, my state at the time, coupled with excessive stuffing and spoonfuls of green bean casserole, made it a little challenging to animatedly explain my existence to a room full of parents, grandparents and charitable folk who give 10 percent of their income to God.

However, in the end, I think I pulled off a fair amount of sociability, and they were none the wiser about my subtle hangover. (The fact that they may have no understanding of such a concept also helps. However, I did give one woman my business card, so she could be reading this right now and busting me.) And yet I didn't necessarily pull off not being a general douchebag.

On the drive home, my uncle made the comment that it was interesting to see me talking to so-and-so, a very nice woman dressed in J Crew, who's about the same age as I am. "It's weird because she has three kids, a house and a family," he said. I joked how she's "so adult" compared to me, to which my aunt innocently replied, "Well, Jessica, some of us are just late bloomers."

I was too dazed to come up with snarky retort.

Bureaucracy

2009-11-21T15:06:00.007-05:00

Turns out that writing, recovering, editing and defending a thesis is not enough to earn you the right to say "I turned in my thesis." There is a process, a very specific process, one that involves formatting guidelines and $80 worth of paper, just so three copies of this document will sit in a basement unread for eternity.

While I sloughed through the graduate office's bureaucratic rigmarole, I did manage to find a few "little joys." For example:

1.) I had to come up with a title and abstract for my thesis. I took this to mean I should come up with a catchy title for my memoir and a snappy synopsis for my imaginary book jacket, clever little hooks that will get my non-existent hardcovers to fly off the shelves and on to the NYT Best Seller List. But there was just one problem: Somehow in the four years I thought about writing a memoir, I never gave much thought to what I would call it.

So strapped for time, I went the cheesy route.

In the vain of all the current memoirs on the shelves--Leaving Dirty Jersey: A Crystal Meth Memoir; Same Kind of Different As Me: A Modern-Day Slave, an International Art Dealer, and the Unlikely Woman Who Bound Them Together; and Going Rogue: An American Life--I was very inclined to use a colon.

Failed ideas:

- Project Runaway: One Woman's Determined Journey to Escape Paradise for the Recklessness of Hollywood

- How to Regret Your Twenties: A Guide to Excessive Drinking and Avoiding Your Mother

- Wah!: A Twentysomething's Refusal to Grow Up

The Winner:

- Under the Covers: A Memoir of Reluctance

(Sadly, this really was the best I could come up within a week.)

2.) In a thesis, anything copyrighted that's quoted or described in detail needs to be cited. I had two things listed on the "Works Cited" page of the most important paper of my academic career:

- Motely Crue. “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Girls, Girls, Girls. Elektra, 1987. MTV. 11 May 1987. Music Video.

- Crane, David, and Marta Kauffman. "The One with the Jam." Friends. NBC. 3 Oct. 1996. Television.

3.) When you turn in your thesis, you get a mug that reads "I just turned in my thesis." No joke. I filled it with beer and took four aspirin.

Props

2009-11-16T21:17:00.005-05:00

Portland: The City that Accommodates

Baggery

2009-11-10T01:05:00.012-05:00

I'm not quite sure when you're too old to be carrying a flask to a party, taking shots of Goldschlager, or begging the convenience store cashier to let you buy a case of beer at 2:03 a.m., but I'm pretty sure it's sometime before the age of 32.

Now, the above scenario would be somewhat excusable on Halloween (which was when this occurred), but when you find yourself playing a drinking game called "Moose" at 3:30 in the morning one week later, you start to wonder if growing up is even plausible.

Because I don't mind further exposing my blatant immaturity and sharing what I learned this weekend (when other "kids" my age were changing diapers, or doing more sophisticated things like the New York Times crossword puzzle or lines of blow), I've created a handbook to playing Washington state party favorite, "Moose." (Being from Hawaii, in college, I only played games like "quarters," which involved, simply enough, flipping a quarter into a shot glass. I didn't even see a beer bong or a keg stand until my midwestern ex-boyfriend demonstrated such classics at a holiday party one year.)

Moose rules:

1) All players pour some of whatever they're drinking (at this point in the morning it was whatever crap beer was left in the fridge - Hamm's, Olympia, PBR) into a mug.

2) Prop up an empty ice tray onto the mug.

(And take inaccurate documentation of such a display. I apologize for the missing mug. It was 2:30 in the morning after all.)

3) Players then take turns bouncing a quarter off of the table and into the ice tray.

4) If the quarter lands in the left column, the "bouncer" (aka the one who threw the quarter) drinks the number of cube spaces reached from the bottom of the tray.

(In this case it was four spaces. And four very long gulps.)

5) If the quarter lands in the right column, the bouncer gets to delegate drinks to whichever player he/she wants based on the number cube spaces reached from the bottom.

(In this case it was five and the player delegated them all to himself.)

6) Whenever a player gets the quarter into one of the very top two spaces, all players race to bring their hands to their heads like antlers and call out "Moose." The last player to call "Moose" has to drink the contents of the mug.

7) If the quarter lands in the mug, the bouncer also has to drink whatever's in the mug. (Depending on how you look at it, I was either the night's biggest winner or the biggest loser. I Moosed every single time. Hence, the lack of photos after this first Moose.)

On an unrelated but oh-so-related note, today, I overheard a woman old enough to be my mother explain the meaning of the word "douchebaguette" to her colleague. Hint: It was the inspiration for this post.

Bittersweet

2009-10-27T18:51:00.007-04:00

Today I made a date with Portland. I thought it was time the two of us got reacquainted outside of the bar scene.

We met up at the Wildwood Trail at Forest Park. No headphones, no cigarettes. Just a trickling creek, fallen leaves and the mushy ground below us. It was a surprisingly sunny day and I questioned why I was so eager to break things off for good. Haven't we had a good time? Haven't you given me the peace and quiet to write? The refreshing air and clean streets to play on? Could this other city that I'd been courting for some time romance me with midday strolls through damp greens and mountaintop vistas?

I continued on the trail for several miles until I got to Pittock Mansion, a centuries-old home a thousand feet high in the air. No one was around and I went around the back, remembering there was a beautiful view of the city from the yard. I hadn't seen my date in its full glory in some time, probably since we first met, when our romance was new and I was excited to traipse around its every crevice, when every quirk was endearing and I was protective over its every flaw.

As I turned the corner of the house, I could hear the drizzle of rain. By the time I walked across the yard over to the edge of the cliff, it was pouring. I stood there for a minute, the release upon me. The city looked hazy, gray covering gray, gray muting green. Speckles of concrete peeked out through the clouds. The rain stopped as soon as I got back on the trail, but I was already running down.

Synchronicity

2009-10-21T18:49:00.007-04:00

Why life is cool: Put out there what you want, put a little effort into making it happen, and you you'll end up where you're supposed to be.

Case in point: A month ago I was broke, missing Hawaii, looking for temporary mindless work and vulnerable with PMS. What I got was a job at the Denny's of Hawaiian food (i.e. the Portland version of Zippy's).

Second case in point: Two days ago, after being laid off from scooping rice, I got on Craigslist, vowing never to wear another orange tee shirt for 10 percent tips, vowing to have some pride in my work (even if it is only temporary). I came across a posting that my former tutoring job was hiring. I put in an email and voila! A day later I was teaching sophomores how to write personal narratives and discussing with fifth graders why birds make stupid pets ("You can't even tell if it's a boy or girl," 10-year-old Akshat told me.) And most importantly, I make a lot more than minimum wage and I get to wear a blouse.

Ettiquette

2009-10-21T17:03:00.005-04:00

There are certain things I believe that we, as a society, should come to an understanding about when using.

For instance, when running on a track, let's all run in the same direction, counter clockwise. Who are the people (usually the one guy in elite running gear) who think they're above this?

Also, if you can see a staircase nearby, and you get into an elevator, you should only be: a) ascending four floors or more; b) ascending two or more floors and in a rush; or c) providing entertainment to whoever's stuck with you for the ride. People who meet these criteria do not have the time or patience to stop on every goddamn floor.

Today, I was late for class, so I jumped in the elevator in the basement of a very busy building. A guy singing along to his ipod got in with me. I pushed "3." He reached in front of me and I prepared for the worst. He hit "G" for ground. One measly floor.

"Yeah, that's right," he told me as he backed up into the far corner. "I'm lazy."

I couldn't help but chuckle.

"I know, I know," he continued. "I saw the way you looked at me."

According to my rules, he got a pass. Self deprecation and calling out fellow passengers' uptight bullshit also fall under option c).

As soon as he got out, I violently pushed the close door button, making sure none of the people waiting on the ground floor had a chance to get in.

Served

2009-10-18T19:09:00.007-04:00

I probably have no reason to admit this now that it's behind me but here it goes:

For the last month I've waited tables at a Hawaiian fast food restaurant.

Unfortunately, when I say "behind me," I don't mean that it was of my choosing to leave, but instead, I was taken off the schedule. My boss said she gave away my two shifts a week to servers who want to make scooping rice and mac salad "their careers." I hope they all live happily ever after in delusion.

Anywhoo, now that it's over we can all laugh about it, right? Many lifetimes ago I vowed never to wait another table, let alone do so for $25 a night, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and serving soda out of a can. It seems absurd that at 32, I was being bossed around by my 23-year-old coworkers, these same coworkers who'd ask me where I'd previously worked, ones I tried to tell without sounding arrogant or like a pathological liar that I write for the state paper and that I'll be soon graduating with my MFA. I could justify why I took the job (it's the recession, we're all taking crappy jobs to pay the bills; it was temporary until I move; I'd just come back from Hawaii and was nostalgic; I knew I wouldn't run into a single soul I knew there), but ultimately, the whole thing was a lesson in humility.

Here's what else I learned while serving salty meat products for $8 a plate:

1. I still hate haoles. Sure, I'm haole (or white) but when white people are juxtaposed against local Hawaiian people, it becomes very obvious why locals hate whities. Haoles think they know everything, especially haoles in their twenties, whereas locals never assume to know a damn thing. They're from an island for chrissakes. They know they don't know shit. Half of my former coworkers grew up in the islands and had humble positions at the restaurant like cooking and dishwashing. They smiled and showed me where things were; they treated me how they'd want to be treated. My haole coworkers were the servers who told me it was my turn to mop the floors and how I'd sprinkled coconut on the haupia pie the wrong way. This could obviously be a metaphor for how whites end up dominating indigenous people and getting ahead. But when it comes to making the perfect riceball, their ambition is being wasted. Haoles simply need to relax.

2. The perfect scoop of rice is all in the firm touchdown--when the scooper meets the plate or to-go container--before the release of the handle.

3. Free food shuts people up.

4. As much as I'd hate to admit it, mindless work from the hours of 5-9 is kinda the perfect break for someone who sits in front of her laptop, mulling over her life every other hour of the day.

5. Eating Kahula pig never gets old. Neither does mac salad. (Reason #3 also applies to grumpy servers who get shift meals.)

6. Every once in a while, you need to feel rejected by something you never really wanted. Puts into perspective who you think you are.

7. This will surely make great fodder for an essay one day.

Catharsis

2009-10-14T17:13:00.008-04:00

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. She would have been 65. Yesterday was also the day that I turned in my thesis, much of which is about my mother's death. The day I will defend this thesis is Nov. 3, the day before my mother died seven years ago.

I don't write much about my mom except for the pages upon pages that I write about her nearly every day. That sounds like I'm being smug, but the truth is the more I write about her, the more I feel disconnected to her. My mother has been a character, or more so, an anomaly, for so long, and I, the narrator trying to figure herself out in relation to her mother, that I forget that the real Jessica and the real Sarah weren't some dramedy being played out on the page. I have to write from such a distance that days like yesterday come and go, and for a split second I stop to think "Do I miss her?" and then I shut off. My memory is full of scenes I've written, descriptions that make up my mother's profile--words which serve the greater good of the story I'm trying to tell--that I'm no longer sure what other memories I have of her.

So on this day after her birth, this afterthought of an afterthought, here's something my mother told me over and over again at age 9, age 15 and age 22, something that I didn't include in my thesis. She told me, "All I want for you is to be happy."

I've written lofty statements like "my mother made loneliness seem inevitable" or "to live with her reclusive side, I quickly realized I had to do my own thing," all attempts to explain away my own feelings at a given time. But it's my mother's valued "happiness," the way she cured things with laughter, that has been the real motivator is my life--whether it has taken the form of instant gratification or years of struggle to reach a single moment of pride. I've made mistakes, been slow to learn, acted selfishly, but I've never dwelled in misery. My mother's simple cliche is the greatest influence she's had on me.

Thank you, Mom.

I am.

Zen

2009-10-14T15:26:00.007-04:00

For a brief, delusional period yesterday, I fancied myself one of those rare people who could sit alone on a park bench and actually take in the scenery. I didn't glance at my phone (I didn't even have it on me), nor did I peruse any reading material. Instead, I watched a couple split a burrito and a large woman wearing a sandwich board warn passersby about the dangers of the flu shot. I was ready to congratulate myself on my five minutes of purposeless observation, when I put a cigarette to my lips and exhaled a puff of smoke. That's when I realized I was no different than the other eaters, talkers and smartphoners who couldn't find a reason to sit alone and do nothing.

Worse than this is the 2.01 tendency to be doing two or three somethings at once. When I'm walking down the street, I cannot simply be walking. I have to have my earbuds in. I'm 32. If someone asked me when I was eight if I'd still be listening to my walkman on thrice daily basis when I was 32, I'd think he was crazy. I'd also think 32 was only a short ride away from my grave.

Also extinct: The art of cooly waiting at the bar alone. The company of a stiff drink is no longer enough. Guys, girls, parents even, have to be texting someone, or pretending to text someone, or playing a game on their iPhone. When I'm alone at a bar, I purposely stare off into middle space, concentrating really hard on looking cool with nothing in my hands. It's rather exhausting, really.

My newish, sometimes smoking habit is the closest tool I have to putting me in the moment. Sad, I know. But I think smoking is completely underrated. Which brings me to another benefit of lighting up: since people tend to look down on smokers these days, no one will come near you. You really are all alone in the middle of a wide, open world.

Retrograde

2009-09-28T19:06:00.003-04:00

After spending the summer documenting my observations of the East Coast, I now see my own Portland, Oregon, neighborhood with fresh eyes.

I live in an area of the city dubbed Nob Hill. It is in the Northwest quadrant, known to most as the uppety and probably the most expensive of the five quadrants (in Pdx, a quad = 5). My apartment is a skip away from the posh condo pocket called the Pearl, and minutes away from the fancy, centuries-old mansions in Hillside above the glorious rose gardens at Forest Park. Where I live on 21st Avenue, there are probably more bars and restaurants within an 8-block stretch than any other area in Portland. Two streets up from me is 23rd, or "Trendy Third," which was once Portland's premiere shopping district.

Once is the operative word.

It's time to rethink these nicknames. There's a Gap, a Levi's and a Paper Source on Trendy Third. Granted 21st's restaurant row has a handful of really good, really expensive restaurants but the ones that are within the Regular Portlander's budget (i.e. tacos and Thai takeout) aren't memorable and are pathetically un-ethnic. But these days, what seems most preposterous in relation to the neighborhood's supposed shi-shiness are the residents. There's nothing snooty about them. (Btw, let me mention how ironic it is that I'm just now noticing who lives here. While I don't get paid to blog, I do get paid to write about the goings on in my neighborhood. It is actually in my job description.)

Lately, when I wander around my hood during the day, what I see are early twenty-somethings that looked like they just got off Godsmack's tour bus--the bus for roadies and crew, mind you. The one that picked up these good ol' American slackers in northern Michigan or a suburb outside of Chicago and brought them straight to the dark, sketchy Marathon Taverna here on Burnside to drink High Life and play video poker. Everyone in my neighborhood has this early-2000 rock look about them, complete with that still-slightly-awkward-in-your-own-skin trace of adolescence. They wear a selection of less offensive T-shirts from Hot Topic and jeans that are ill-fitting, held up by studded belts. They sport wavy hair (longer for guys, shorter for girls; the more coiffed chicks have chunky black-versus-blonde highlights), and they always have a cigarette in hand. Or a dog.

Your typical couple: Guy in varying fades of black, some band logo on his T-shirt, backwards cap, sneakers; girl with chunk of blue in her hair, some naughty or supposedly clever saying on her baby tee; both of them very, very white.

The alterna-sporty look circa '94: A jersey, pleated white mini skirt and knee-high socks.

But then of course, these are the people who don't have real day jobs like me. For all I know, this could just be what college kids look like these days: outdated versions of what I looked like when I was a displaced freshman. (Note: PSU is nearby and if I were moving here from a small town, I too would think the words "Nob Hill" sound exciting.)

At night, however, it's harder to judge who actually lives on 21st or 23rd. Most who frequent the bars in my hood, especially during the weekend, have come from the bridges (ghetto Gresham) and tunnels (yuppie Beaverton). They all look like they're trying too hard, which is the exact opposite of the day crowd.

Which brings me back to the reputation of the Northwest. If the westside is supposed to be more "city" (in other words, it includes downtown), then the cool kids will tell you that the east is more laid back, honest, or "real" (in other words, cheaper, somewhat bohemian and spread out). However, I realize now that what makes the east more real isn't that my westside hood is pretentious. The guys in my neighborhood haven't changed their lip piercings and Camel cigarette tastes since 1992. What makes the eastside--the region dotted with hipster plaid and retro reading glasses--more real is that having a too-cool-for-school attitude really is what Portland's all about.

Blob

2009-09-19T20:20:00.002-04:00

Once a month I feel like I'm sinking. Heavy. Weighted by what I expect from myself. I'm unable to get out of bed or make it to the store, let alone create anything of worth. My paralysis causes me to feel guilty, which then causes me to moan and grumble further. Gravity pulls the corners of my mouth toward the floor and smiling seems like punishment. My only consolation is that I know I'm useless, so trying to accomplish anything is a bad idea and will only lead to more disappointment. This is what I tell myself. I instead choose to lay on the couch and watch hours of bad television. But since I don't have cable, I have to get off the couch and go to the video store to get neatly packed discs of zone-worthy material. Digging for my car keys and driving for six blocks takes thirty minutes, not five.

When I finally get to collapse in front of the screen, draped in my flannel PJs, under the throw blanket, the churning in my gut is still there. I crave milk, like a little girl desperate to believe the old wives' tale that something borne from a mother figure will sooth what's upsetting me. Sometimes I stick my hand down the front of my drawstring pants and rub my rumbling tummy, hoping to melt into the cushions until that nonsense inside of me goes away.

Lord, I fucking hate PMS.

Smoked

2009-09-17T01:55:00.006-04:00

July 4, 2009: The Day The Thesis Died

What followed this somber Fourth of July were a few weeks of hope (some may call it denial) that my 100 pages of well-revised work could be recovered. No such luck. Instead of falling into a self pity stooper, a month later, I had a 134 pages of a very, very rough thesis recreated mostly from memory. Remarkable, you might say, but that initial recreation was nothing compared to the next 16 days of polishing.

At one point last week, I realized the only words I uttered within a 48-hour period were "coffee refill, please." I became a hermit. I couldn't see straight. My only breaks were to go on runs or to play on the swings at the top of Washington Park. (For anyone who wants their brain to shut off momentarily, I recommend swinging high above a forest of pine trees to Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Maps" blasting in your ears.)

For intermittent mini-releases, I'd go to the bathroom, wash my water glass or walk to the fridge for a slice of cheese. I started to go through a pack and half of gum a day.

Then I realized the best relief was a no-brainer: cigarettes. Now, I'm not a smoker (although I did dabble in college - I was goth; I smoked cloves at 80s nights). And I didn't walk into the gas station and buy a pack of Marlboro Lights (I told you I wasn't a smoker; I wasn't even cool enough to get American Spirits or Parliaments) thinking it'd be a stress reliever. Honestly. I'm the gal who waits in the bar by herself while everyone goes outside to light up. My theory was that a cigarette provided the perfect 5 to 7 minute break, or "little joy" that I needed to step outside and grab some air, or some polluted air I suppose. Hell, it worked. And it did kinda "feel" good too. Okay, it felt pretty damn good.

So good I didn't even step outside for this one.

But in the end, I had 150 pages of thesis to turn into my advisor. Tada!

One draft down, another revision due (and another thesis binge to occur) in the next month. Hooray.

Update

2009-08-31T13:25:00.002-04:00

As much as I love the distraction of blogging, I will be on posting hiatus until mid September. Until then my ass will in be stuck to my chair, or some chair at some coffee shop around Portland, recreating my thesis. Trust me, you wouldn't want to read about anything I'm doing right now. I was excited about a fire alarm the other day.

Brunch

2009-08-10T09:43:00.007-04:00

A friend once explained to me that brunch was her favorite meal because it was a legitimate (and somewhat dignified) excuse to drink before noon. To take her theory one step further, I believe brunch is also perfect time-wise because it provides a smooth segue into happy hour, which is my favorite meal of the day. (Yes, several cocktails plus some sort of greasy, cheesy starch for under $20 is a very good meal indeed.)

This weekend, this particular friend came to town, and the two of us brunched all day long. For two days straight. I wouldn't even bother trying to name any of these other meals we had "dinner," "lunch" or "cocktails." When you're two girls in New York City, wandering around in a semi-drunk, semi-hungover state, stopping to intermittently chat, imbibe and nibble on whatever tickles your fancy, I call that brunching. Or European mimicry.

Saturday's Menu:

2 ice coffees

2 bloody marys

1 mimosa

granola, berries, yogurt

drunken baked beans, poached egg, bacon

side of bacon

side of hash browns

2 iced green teas

20-ounce passion fruit margarita

20-ounce pomegranate margarita

2 baskets of tortilla chips

bowl of homemade guacamole

1 fresh watermelon martini

1 glass of rose

platter of fruit, cheese and honey

skillet of mussels in white wine and garlic

4 glasses of sauvignon blanc

2 glasses of pinot grigio

Sunday's Menu (Note: We did scale back. At least on alcohol.)

1 ice coffee

2 cups of coffee

1 bloody mary

smoked salmon, creme fresh, capers, pumpernickel bread

rainbow trout, fried egg, dried mushrooms

1 cappuccino

1 americano

3 mini ice cream cones

desert platter (mini lemon cake, mini raspberry mousse and lemon ice cream)

1 scoop of vanilla ice cream

side of hot fudge

side of fries

(We went our separate ways at 5 p.m. I later had a chicken salad, two chocolate chip cookies and another scoop of vanilla ice cream.)

Although the sugar intake increased on Sunday (absence of booze = sugar cravings), look what we did pass up (but were still hypnotized by to take pictures of) between pit stops and hangover hazes:

Yes, this a Barbie cake. Fabulous.

Look at all that self discipline.

Kokomo

2009-08-04T10:20:00.008-04:00

I realize that it seems rather odd that I'm living in the second largest metropolis in the world, and yet I keep finding myself near the ocean or in the wilderness or at a tourist trap for old people. Call it the "grass is always greener" syndrome or balance perhaps.

However, there was nothing balanced, okay, "greener," or even authentically green about the Water Taxi Beach I visited last weekend in Long Island City.

It was just plain odd.

To get here from Manhattan, a free yellow pontoon takes patrons across the East River over to LIC, which is the middle ground (and the more affordable, less overly hip home for artists than W'burg) between Queens and Brooklyn. It sounds inviting, if not, at the very least, surreal: a shoreside margarita hangout with view of the NYC skyline.

But it was rather disappointing. (Note the rainbow plastic palm tree.)

Don't get me wrong, I expected nothing less than the Velveeta-est of cheesiness. And that I got. Guys with popped collars and meatheads with Old English tats across their stomachs. Chicks with chunky highlights and knockoff designer shades. Bad house music. Even a mom in a thong bikini dancing with her kids in the DJ tent.

I'll even excuse the girls sunbathing between the picnic benches.

But what I won't excuse is the shoddiness of it all. It looked like a bunch of sand was dumped in an unused parking lot between old industrial buildings (some of which, of course, are being converted to high rise condos named "The Foundry"). The benches were dilapidated and the bar tents were grungy. The only thing that saved my weak $10 well vodka soda (I even had to ask for a lime) was that before pouring in the half shot of booze, the bartender flipped my plastic cup into the air, caught it behind his back and twirled it. Classy moves studied straight from Cocktail. Except I think Tom Cruise worked with glass, not plastic, and didn't wear a basketball jersey.

Guided

2009-07-30T11:28:00.009-04:00

When planning my first trip to New York, I was a 20-year-old novice traveller. I bought a guide book. I looked up all the restaurants and clubs I wanted to try and mapped out which day we'd go to the Statue of Liberty and which afternoons had the cheapest Broadway matinees. I even toted the bulky travel bible around in my purse.

Since then, I've gotten lazy. Now I book a ticket and show up.

I knew nothing about Baltimore before I stepped off the bus last weekend. I haven't even been able to sit through a full episode of The Wire. Luckily, I didn't need to. I had the best tour guide a culturally inquisitive drunk could ask for: a historical performance artist.

My friend Megan let me in on a few fun facts about Baltimore while I was there. Such as:

1. Marble isn't just for mausoleums. In Baltimore, it's for the working class.

Back at the turn of the 19th Century, women who lived in row houses such as these would come out on Saturday mornings and wash their marble steps. Surely, it was an excuse to gossip. Megan tries to recreate this type of community building below.

2. Natty Boh (proper name: National Bohemian) is the city's official beer.

In the 60s, Natty and PBR breweries employed much of this blue collar city, which sparked quite a feud between beer drinkers. Eventually, Natty won. Today, signs, billboards and paraphernalia stores remain at every turn. No one seems to mind that the beer is now brewed in Milwaukee.

3. These things are cool.

Megan couldn't tell me how these Hispanic rickshaws came about, just that she read in the paper recently that they weren't doing very well because people prefer their produce stationary and from a grocery store. However, she thinks the publicity may've helped because she's seen more of these on the streets as of late. This is assuming anyone else still reads the paper.

4. Finally, ethnicities do their best to blend in Baltimore. For example:

Welcome to the "Salsapolkalooza" festival (That's right salsa and polka dancing all under one tent!)

A quinceanera store...

...that doubles as 70s bridal boutique

(P.S. We got caught in a thunderstorm.)

And a bagel shop that sells sushi and bulgogi. It also plays "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and uses a string of stale bagels as window decoration.

Seated

2009-07-24T10:36:00.006-04:00

I read a few weeks ago that romance novelist Nora Roberts had just one rule when it came to writing:

Ass in the chair.

I completely agree. That is why not much writing gets done in my apartment.

I cannot sit still. My right hand and the fridge door are like magnets, my bladder seems to pester me constantly, I step out for impromptu jogs and I take hour-long phone calls. The other day, I even hand-washed some winter clothes.

However, now that I have to rewrite the 100 pages of thesis I lost in the epic hard drive catastrophe (R.I.P. thousands of Word docs, music files and photos), plus the 60 or so more pages I was planning to add, all by mid-September, I have no choice. Ass. Needs. To. Be. In. Chair.

So today I was up bright and early (5:30 to be exact) and I ran, showered and arrived at the neighborhood coffee shop by 9. (Public spaces guarantee a better Ass In Chair success rate. I'm too self conscious to peruse the cafe's fridge and frequent their bathroom.)

By 11 a.m., so far I have:

Eaten: 1 bran muffin (could give me an excuse to get up and use the bathroom later)

Drank: 1 pot of green tea

Chewed: 4 pieces of gum

Emailed: 2 people

Texted: 2 people

Commented on: 3 photos and 2 walls on Facebook

Searched for: 2 story ideas and the PSU fall class schedule to see if I really can graduate next term, because if not, why am putting myself through this torture

Written: 2 pages of thesis and one blog post

Updates to come.

UPDATE: 1:47 p.m.

Eaten: 1 weird, package of tofu crab cake thingies

Drank: 1/2 a large iced coffee

Commented on: 1 FB post

Emailed: 1 story idea to editor

Texted: 3 people (apparently everyone likes distraction on Fridays)

Breaked for bathroom: 2 times (and no, it has nothing to do with the bran muffin, in case your wondering)

Written: 5 pages of thesis (lots of blanks to fill in, but hey, pages are pages)

UPDATE: 4 p.m.

Eaten: 1 peanut butter chocolate chip cookie with sea salt (sweet + salty = bliss)

Drank: last 1/2 of large iced coffee

Written: 7 pages of thesis (I do best at deadlines; I wrote five of those jibberish-filled pages in the last hour, knowing I gotta leave for work at 5)

Effed off on: 1 laptop application - Photo booth

What too much caffeine looks like.

What the best tasting cookie in the world looks like.

Arty

2009-07-22T22:34:00.001-04:00

This is the most picturesque thing I saw at an art opening last night.

I was too busy hitting up the open bar on the rooftop to see any of the exhibits downstairs. Oops.

Camp

2009-07-22T08:57:00.015-04:00

Urban people believe camping is more about a state of mind than it is about "roughing it." The rules and constituents are flexible, but you usually have a car, a tent, close proximity to a running toilet, the intention of getting back to nature and the inclination to regress to your spoiled ways.

This last weekend in the Catskills, two and half hours outside of NYC, this is how I incorporated both my earthy and urban tendencies:

Things I Like To Do Outdoors (Plus This Weekend's Highs and Lows)...

1. Hike

High: See above.

Runner up: Bypassing my boyfriend, Mr. Fit-and-Trim Eagle Scout, on the steepest stretch of a 2,000-foot elevation gain.

Low: Dirtying the seat of my stretch pants as I scooted down the cliff near this waterfall.

2. Drink

High: Opening a beer bottle with a giant stone.

Low: No High Life in the liquor store.

3. Sit around a fire

High: Watching Jiffy Pop catch on fire and then disintegrate like little critters into the ashes.

Low: Not getting to eat any of the Jiffy Pop.

Things I Like To Do "In Town" (Or Things That Make Me a Townie)...

1. Drive to and from the foot of the hike

High: Taking off my dirty shoes, putting my feet on the dashboard and singing to Danzig.

Low: Having packed only one pair of socks and putting the same dirty pair back on for another hike.

2. Have people serve me food and drinks

High: For once, not being the oldest people in the bar. In fact, in the village of Pheoncia, NY, a two-block stretch of five antique stores, we may've been the youngest.

Low: A place that serves spaghetti and meatballs and curly fries can't make a stiff drink.

3. Peruse the antique stores

High: Too many. The complete discography of Toto, the taxidermied mink and ammo window display, oil paintings of dolls, dolls that look like oil paintings.

Low: The Wren's Nest, which sold wolf tee shirts and staffs topped with crystals and little metal bulls, always seemed to be closed.

Show

2009-07-17T22:44:00.010-04:00

I like cushy seats and audible conversations so I don't see as many live music as I used to. However, I did go to two shows recently.

Because its been over 15 years since I started going to concerts, everything that was in style back then (like floral babydoll dresses and baggy plaid) is back in style again, and all the things that never go out of style like pubescent body odor, jackass heckling and testosterone were also still in tact.

However, when comparing my then (i.e. my concert-going youth in Hawaii, a random stew of whatever 90s punk, ska and alternative acts made their way to an island) to my now (the free, all ages Man Man concert I went to the other day at East River Park on a much larger island called Manhattan), a few things stand out:

The Pit

Similarities: Somehow there's always a cloud of dust above the pit, like Pigpen in Peanuts, regardless if people are moshing in dirt or on pavement like they're doing here.

Differences: In Hawaii, a lot of times moshers were grunts so these bulky Navy guys with crew cuts and steel-toe boots had a lot more aggression to get out than gawky emo kids wearing shirts that say "Broke is the new black."

The "Music Moves Me" Dancer

Similarities: There's always that weird girl in the corner who flails her arms and gets into her own groove, acting as though she is the only one in the room, while everyone else is acting like rowdy, careless drunks.

Differences: In the 90s, she was more goth and pretended to shun the attention. At Man Man, a band that wears neon war paint and plays the kazoo and the xylophone, she is hula hooping.

The Dweebs That Do a Poor Job of Pretending to Belong:

Similarities: Being a social misfit in a group of social misfits isn't as cool as it sounds.

Differences: In Hawaii, the grunts would almost fit into this category because even though they could kick all of our asses, no one liked them (except a few dominatrix friends I knew). However, in this day and age, as exemplified by the hula hooping girl, we have entered some wonky territory of nerd cool, so in theory, the hacky sack players that gathered by Man Man's last song could reasonably "belong." Just not in my book. To me, a circle of dudes gently kicking around a bean bag pouch is just always going to look plain sad.

Aerial

2009-07-13T11:12:00.004-04:00

From the top of Coney Island's Wonder Wheel, the tallest ferris wheel in the world:

On my left, half a million people and the Atlantic.

On my right, Brooklyn and beyond.

Circus

2009-07-13T09:12:00.013-04:00

Boardwalks are like giant runways for freaks. But I think the attraction has less to do with showboating in front of a large audience than it does with congregating in front of one.

Compared to the likes of Southern California's flamboyant Venice Beach, the boardwalk at Coney Island--home of the original carney freak show, Barnum & Bailey Circus--was a little tame this past weekend. But a few did get into the groove.

It's hard to tell from this photo, but the woman in the purple, near the DJ booth, likes to tear it up. (She can also do a mean windmill-haymaker combo.) See two photos below, which was taken three hours later.

And while I'm all about a dance party, I think the DJ would have had a better turnout if he didn't play rave music.**

However, the macarena was a big hit, so what do I know.

** Seriously, who not still trapped in 1992 or 1997, still listens to techno? And btw, it was bad back then. This is why I don't do drugs: I don't trust anything that will make infinite oonce-oonce-oonce-oonce-ing sound pleasurable.

Perspective

2009-07-08T16:04:00.004-04:00

Perspective is what I'm trying to get after the crashing of my physical, emotional, and dare I say, spiritual world (and after writing that highly dramatic statement).

Three days ago, my hard drive went kaput. It took with it 100 pages of thesis and whatever other pages upon pages of writing I've never thought to back up or email to anyone. (The wound is too fresh to get past this first thing to start doing a head count.)

I could bitch about this for an entire post, like I have to friends and family, but the truth is, I can't do anything about it. (Plus I'm numb and still in shock. I'm sure I'll eventually hit some uglier stage of grief.)

But what I did notice while sulking around the city the other day was a bevy of good deeds going on all around me, things I never see (not just never notice) on regular basis here in New York. For instance,

* A woman who offered to, not was asked to, help another woman carry her baby stroller up the crowded subway stairs. The mother couldn't speak English, so the woman just picked up one end of the stroller and began walking.

* Passengers digging in their purses and their pockets as a bone-thin blind woman pushed her walker and held out a knitted hat as she sang a gospel song. I have never seen more than one person per train car give a handout before. Five did that day.

I can't say witnessing others worse off than me or seeing humans take care of each other has abolished all remnants of self pity, but it has made me rethink how I could wrap up my entire identity and sense of usefulness in one compact machine.

Disgrace

2009-07-03T10:03:00.011-04:00

I love Barbie. I don't care if that makes me a girly girl, some anti-feminist throwback or the sole reason why American women have body issues. Growing up, I wanted to be just like Barbie. She was hot.

Last night, however, as I perused the massive Toys R Us in Times Square, I was a little disappointed in Barbie Land. First of all, there wasn't much selection (and some weird correlation to Thumbelina), and the selection that they did have was rather peculiar.

The Highlights:

Jersey Barbie - Okay, this is actually Malibu Barbie, circa 1971, but check out the orange tan! The see-thru, matching lounge ensemble! The obvious peroxide job! Give the woman some heavy gold baubles and a few of those babies from below.

Williamsburg Barbie - Again, another vintage Barbie, but vintage is oh-so appropriate for W'burg! I think I saw one of these mesh rompers on the L train yesterday. And she even comes with an extra metallic lycra ensemble in case she can't make the L back in time for a quick evening change. American Apparel couldn't have designed a shorter, better fitting A-line.

The Lowlights:

Barbie has made some poor career choices. New and from the "I Can Be A..." Collection:

Pet Sitter. (She can also be a pet boutique owner.)

Host of a TV Cooking Show.

Baby Doctor, not to be confused with Newborn Baby Doctor, which is also available.

While I'm happy that at least this Barbie has a degree, just about every career fun-pack comes with a set of children or pets. See "I Can Be A Soccer Coach" or a "Sea World Employee.") I am disturbed by this not necessarily because I'm turning into a bra burner in my old age (really though, is pet sitter the new preschool teacher and baby doctor the new nurse?), but because if Barbie is indeed beautiful and hot shouldn't she be at least using those assets to do something cool? I mean, cooking host? What girl wants to be Rachel Ray? How about host of a super catty model competition, or how about a reality show contestant who weasels her way to the top by manipulating men and alliances with her looks and underrated cleverness? She "can" at least strap on a guitar and manage her own rock band for chrissakes.

The 80s: Barbie's glory days

Therapy

2009-06-30T14:29:00.005-04:00

It wasn't until I heard silence did I realize I'd been without it for two months. It took me an hour and three trains to find it.

On Saturday, I went to the Rockaways, aka the beach in Brooklyn. I packed my snobby Hawaiian attitude (the water will surely be polluted and cold, the sand too crowded and the culture more "street" than beachy - though I'm not sure what I meant by street - Low riders? Spandex and gold chains? Fictitious Brooklyn accents I have yet to hear? ) Anyways, I was completely wrong. If you are someone who is die hard enough to spend an hour on a train to be near the water and/or surf, then you are not pretentious or uber-urban. This is not the orange tan and zebra-striped bikini parade of Miami Beach or Malibu. At 10 in the morning, on the first bright day of the summer, the Rockaways looked like a spot for people who simply like the ocean.

Oddly, the beach culture here in this pocket of NY is one of the most similar to that of Hawaii's I've come across (mostly in terms of style). Bathing suit coverups are simple tee shirts and shorts. The scene isn't a re-creation of every spring break movie with a row of bars wrapped in hula skirts touting margarita specials. Okay, so there are newly-built vacant condos lining the beach (but at least these aren't the couture shops or behemoth villas and shopping centers of Waikiki).

But the rest of the architecture could be out of North Shore or at least near the Alawai Canal. One- and two-story storefronts look sand and sun weathered and taco and sandwich shops (not to mention a stand of the east coast equivalent of shave ice--Italian ices) are literal shacks manned by friendly stoner types and that serve fresh, honest food. There's even a guy who sells gear and rents out lockers so city folk don't have to trek their boards back and forth all summer.

Like with any beach, there's the local surf spot (i.e. the one farthest from the train and closed off by 10 to accommodate for the kiddies)...

...and the one everyone else goes to (where novices piss off locals, and locals usually steal most of their waves anyway.)

But that's as far as my surf observations go. I'm a sunbather, or at least, I use sunbathing as an excuse to act like a sloth. Whenever I get near the ocean, I just stare at it, mesmerized by the tide going in and out until I lay on my towel and pick up my book, which after a few sentences, usually leads to a nap, followed by more staring. I like to think of the ocean as Prozac for my city-obsessive disorder.

Peep

2009-06-26T09:57:00.008-04:00

Yesterday, I was sitting at my computer, actually getting some work done on my thesis (no joke) when one of my best friends in LA sent me a text:

"Crazy!!! Did you hear Michael Jackson died!"

I screamed out to my roommate, "Holy shit Michael Jackson's dead!"

Gasps and utterances about Billie Jean and needing to get a drink ensued, while we texted friends like chain mail and scrambled back to our computers to Google for more details. Oddly, only one source said Jacko was a dead man: TMZ. It'd be another 45 minutes before LA Times would confirm his death.

Although the celeb gossip site is no CNN or the New York Times, I knew I could trust it, much like I knew I could trust my friend. Why? They are both based out of LA; they are both linked to Twitter. (Side note: I used to work for a newswire service in LA that got most of their best tips from TMZ.)

No longer do the paparazzi have to bribe paramedic insiders and ER nurses. Now, thanks to Twitter, hospital staff can be news-bearing glory hogs themselves! At first I thought it was weird that tens of thousands of obsessive Twittering phone junkies and faceless cubicle heads can know when tragedy strikes strangers (I can think of three plane crashes earlier this year) before these strangers' loved ones do. But then in the case of MJ I realized: Do his parents, or his plastic siblings, or his nephews named Jermajesty, count as loved ones? I think it was more fitting that fans were the first to find out.

Newspapers are caving, magazines are shrinking. No one wants to print words anymore and no one wants to pay anyone to report and relay them either. (Trust me. I know.) So I joined the town crier of the 21st century last night. (Okay, I joined Twitter months ago but didn't do a damn thing with it. I thought of it as another distractionary extension of Facebook but for the worst type of narcissist and compulsive status updater. But then I realized most of those over-updating moms still haven't caught on to tweeting yet. And even if they do, I don't have to feel bad about not following them.) I even added a link to the left of the blog. (Warning: I'm still standing on the outside of the playground waiting to jump in.)

Oh well, there goes all that thesis momentum I was building.

Tribute

2009-06-25T23:05:00.003-04:00

To be honest, if Michael Jackson lived another 20 or 30 years, he would've have only gotten creepier, more recluse and tragic. So I thank god that most of us will and can remember him as the best goddamn dancing machine that ever lived.

Here's one that MTV and all the network retrospectives haven't (yet) overplayed:

Devour

2009-06-22T16:31:00.015-04:00

This is a photo I snapped over the weekend.

I like food. I admire food. I'll even go as far as to say I think food is art just to justify why I felt the need to document something I've eaten, oh, I don't know, about 4,000 times! (Really, when did I become this weird, or this obessessed with bacon, half-cooked bacon at that? Sure, it was Sunday, but I wasn't even that hungover.)

Looking back on a year of iPhotos, I came across more than 20 pictures of food items. I know as I've gotten older I'm less apt to take woo-hoo drunk, buddy-buddy pictures (Put up your peace signs! Act street tough and laugh, ladies!), or pictures of me or loved ones standing like statues in front of semi-important arhitecture (like the house from Goonies or my favorite bar in LA), but this isn't because I'm too sophisticated for such endeavors, this is more about vanity (going through iPhotos, it also occurs to me I'm not in my prime anymore, and need to be in significantly less pictures.) Regardless, some of these food photos are outright ridiculous.

But to make a weak argument that there was some sort of point to all this food obsession, I've decided to make a gallery of sorts and let the art the speak for itself (aside from the accompanying titles and mini artist statements). So track my progression, if you will, and see how far I've come as an artist. (Note this is less about the photography, and more about the subject matter.)

"Dainty, delectable, sweet" - How three young women interpret themselves on holiday. (Montreal, QC, May 2009)

"Transgression" - A metaphor for one last horrah, a phase where a young lady says goodbye to junk food consumerism and beer pong keggers, and much like the vehicle her goods were on, has to move forward, feel the air roll through her cabin and take flight, past all the Chinese buffets, tire shops and Wendy's drive-thrus along the I-87, to become the poised artist of the work noted above. (Bumfuck, NY, May 2009)

"Fate" - Moment of awe captured on film. Greeted by three menus and thirty ways to make a peanut butter sandwich at the JFK airport. Also referenced as "Girl Arrives Home." (New York, NY, March 2009)

"Sugar Bomb" - Materials: Zippy's Apple Napple, broken plastic fork. Documentation on how hard it is to eat through 20 layers of flaky pastry with a plastic fork, especially when drunk. (Kahala, HI, December 2008)

"Grassy Knoll" - Inspiration: tequila, the humor of a 13-year-old boy. Process: Spontaneous, collaborative piece that came about after professionally-made artwork was left in a fridge many miles away, and four road-tripping drunks got a hold of confectionary squirt tubes and battery-operated candles. (Newport Beach, OR, August 2008)

Studs

2009-06-19T12:33:00.014-04:00

The other night I went to a reading by two of my favorite writers. Although I didn't recognize Nick Flynn at first, I should've. Not just because I study bios on the back of book jackets (and then Google authors to find out juicy personal information like said author dating Lili Taylor), but because of the obvious self-deprecating swagger of a lit star. This is not to be confused with the bravado of a rock star or the good looking cockiness of a movie star, but instead, the insecurity worn on the sleeve of every writer, that coupled with some sort of acclaim or success, can be used as a means to get laid.

Nick Flynn and Chuck Klosterman (the other aforementioned writer/reader of the night) are talented writers; they have a way with words. The self they write about in their poem/essay/memoirs--the Flynn/Klosterman character--is often a fuckup. He's bumbling through life like the rest of us and he isn't too sure of himself. But the man who is telling this story--the writer--delivers his flaws with an honest, complicated self-awareness. Striking a delicate balance between the character's struggle to arrive at some sort of insight and the smooth writing that gets the reader to arrive there with them.

Again, this is talent, and therefore to a writer like myself, this is hot. But I think most women over the age of thirty would find self discovery in general attractive. (He's in touch with himself but he isn't a sap! He's a mess but I don't have to fix him!) Flynn is more this type of writer. Although Klosterman isn't as skilled with language (Flynn is a poet first; Klosterman a journalist), he is better with persuasion. You'll follow Klosterman's arguments and exploratories because he appeals to your common sense and common generational experience. (Is Bono for real of full of shit? People like bad television because it's reassuring; no one cares if it's interesting.)

The subtle discrepancies between these two lit stars were exemplified in how they entered and where they sat at the bar Wednesday night. Klosterman looked like the caricature on his book jacket (a blond male version of Velma from Scooby Doo). He was parked on the first bar stool closest to the entrance--the place where you had to order your drinks. By the time I did a double take, a petite brunette was in his face praising all of his books. A steady stream of above average looking, modestly-built brunettes continued to come up to him until the reading started. (A friend who once went to a Tin House writers conference said all the established writers there had brunette girlfriends who were in their late twenties/early thirties. I suppose smart girls, or lit groupies, have dark hair and a few years on them, and why I was here instead of say, backstage at a Bret Michaels concert.)

Flynn on the other hand, showed up five minutes before the show started, which was technically ten minutes late, and headed for the corner of the stage, actually my bar stool while I was in the bathroom. (I felt like a douchebag when I realized this after he took the stage, but not before shooting him a contemptuous smirk when he made some comment about my friend letting him keep my seat warm or whatnot.) Flynn had a more stereotypical I'm-of-the-new-generation-of-irreverent-but-acclaimed-literati look about him. Mid forties, casual buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Wavy hair, a little too long and greasy. A loner, who'd probably really would prefer to talk to absolutely no one, but has learned how to turn snark into wit over years.

I could go on to describe the reading itself. But it was what it was: self conscious disclaimers, followed by verbalized prose and a plug for their work that'll be coming out in the fall.

Instead, I'll skip to the part after the show, when girls continued to come up and ask them to sign their books. The writers stayed and chitchatted for a bit but then they disappeared before a band closed out the evening. Which was surprising to me because I thought a seasoned writer didn't know when to leave a bar. Hmph.

Equations

2009-06-15T15:08:00.005-04:00

With summer prolonging its official debut here in New York, I embraced a fleeting a moment of sunshine this weekend and headed over to McCarren Park in Williamsburg to read in the grass. Except I spent more time doing what I do best, people watching, (which is actually best done hungover with friends since the only physical exertion involved is staring and letting immediate judgments dribble out your mouth without a hint of tact or remorse).

Therefore, I present to you, a day in the park condensed in quick judgmental equations:

Guy with two yappy dogs = not single

Middle-aged woman slowly walking her bike on a designated bike path = mother reluctant to return home

Couple laughing while staring at guy in neon sunglasses and purple ball cap = hungover too

Guy with ponytail in black and white bowling shirt and faded black denim shorts, lying in grass with handheld device = misses early Metallica/Legend of Zelda

Girl in gingham plaid, carrying a wicker picnic basket and white fluffy dog = not Dorothy

Gay couple suspiciously carrying a Gap bag when there isn't a Gap for miles = eco-conscious lushes without any other plastic bags around the house to transport the bottle of wine they opened for dinner last night and planned to finish for lunch today

Girl putting down her notebook and glancing at the unopened novel beside her = ready for a nap

Freezerburn

2009-06-13T13:35:00.008-04:00

New York's inflation apparently extends to vaguely-named animals and their byproducts.

Trashy

2009-06-13T13:31:00.006-04:00

Carrie Bradshaw would never be caught dead digging... with a khaki canvas tote.

Soda

2009-06-10T09:53:00.002-04:00

In Atlanta, there is no soda. There's only Coke. A Sprite's a Coke. A Dr. Pepper's a Coke. A Pepsi, however, is not a Coke; it's the devil.

This is because Atlanta is Coca Cola's headquarters. In the South, Coke has the monopoly on everything.

These days, I don't drink much soda (sorry, out west this is what we call it), but I was kind of excited to try 66 Cokes on my World of Coke tour this past weekend. (Did I mention my brother works for Coke? However, he has just as much beer in his garage as he does cans of Coke.) But first, I had to endure a lot of propaganda.

At first I was skeptical of the cheerleader tour guide who made us shout our favorite Coke flavors. I even raised an eyebrow at the new slogan "Open happiness." But then, while watching their new seven-minute promotional video, I became mildly distracted from my cynicism. The commercial didn't have much of a plot, nor did it have much product placement other than Coke Classic (btw, my brother tells me they're doing away with the "Classic" part). It was surely a showcase for new, hip CGI animation. But all I saw was one sexual innuendo after another--in every movement of every round, curvy character with giant lips crossing and recrossing her legs and in every swing on the trapeze where some slimy glob with multiple nipple piercings moved back and forth, back and forth. Who knows...I could've just been horny. Still, I'm no dummy; getting me all worked up was surely part of the plan.

As I tried to shake the video, we went through a museum of memorabilia, followed by a 3D film where two researchers try to figure what makes a Coke a Coke. By this point, every time I'd hear the pop of the tab opening and the sound of fizz being poured from the can, I was ready to jump out of my seat. I needed a Coke NOW! I was horny, hot and thirsty dammit! (And awkwardly with my niece and brother.)

The tasting room ended up being 10 or so soda fountains, separated by continents. Only a few were atrocious (the Europeans suck, especially stogy old "Beverly"), while most were pretty good (the Latin Americans know what kind of sweet, fruity goodness can quench a thirst). I walked away with a slight buzz and surprisingly, not sugared out.

About an hour after we left, I felt an itch in the back of my throat. I was, again, craving some fizz. Next thing I knew, I had ordered a giant Diet Coke to go with my sushi over lunch.

Sure, I have an addictive personality (give me one shortbread cookie at Christmas, and I'll be needing one every hour by New Years.) But it's no mystery why one person can't name a single bad memory associated with Coke and why the Coca Cola logo practically sings off of signs and the back of delivery trucks. Marketing genius, I say. All they needed was to start piping in "It's a Small World," maybe give me a cigarette once I satisfied my Coke fix, and I'd almost buy into this "open happiness" crap.

Pop

2009-06-09T09:05:00.007-04:00

I knew this would happen: Living a year and half without television has made me dumber. I felt like a complete imbecile last weekend when my brother, a 43-year-old executive with an MBA from Stanford, schooled me on the premise of Gossip Girl. Sure, I read US Weekly every now and then, but I practically have no context for Katy Perry and I'm not sure whether the Jonas Brothers are part of the High School Musical squad or if they're Menudo 2.9.

So I enlisted the help of my aforementioned 13-year-old niece and my 10-year-old nephew to help me uncover the answer to every pop culture question I've been too lazy to Wikipedia.

This is what I learned:

Lil Wayne is the shit. Even when he raps with a white guy.

T.I. is not.

I see through Lady Gaga’s "poker face," i.e. her Cher mask, complete with a gay dance anthem, Vegas showgirl weave and leather bodysling (ala "If I Could Turn Back Time"). Underneath, she is a less interesting fame whore than Lily Allen in disco drag.

Mad TV can be funny, thanks to a lanky, blushing manchild named Stuart and a hood rat named Bon Qui Qui.

No one is actually watching TV anymore. Instead, they're on YouTube watching millionaire teenage web superstars like this guy:

Which brings me to my final lesson, or revelation, the one my niece and nephew were too kind to say aloud, but instead let me figure out on my own: I'm old. My pop culture ignorance has nothing to do with my cable TV disadvantage. I'm just out of touch. Which reminds me of something else I learned from my young gurus: Those damn annoying Facebook quizzes (What kind of moron are you? Which city should you be castrated in?) are indeed made for a middle school kids. Yup, the same people who dictate which country you should live in also tell you which Pokeman you should be. So may I be so bold as to ask my fellow old folks to pass on this knowledge to their own friends and high school acquaintances who need a misspelled quiz to tell them their aura color? Embarrass them and spare us all from the non-interesting updates, please. Thanks. Class dismissed. Now back to my antiquated playlist on iTunes and my admitted Facebook compulsion.

Hope

2009-06-08T09:13:00.018-04:00

Meet my 13-year-old niece Ali.

She is why I believe in the youth of America.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Last year for English class, she wrote a research paper on the history of metal. (Her bibliography included a VH1 documentary.) In this paper, she referenced the term "sleaze metal." Having written numerous pieces about glam metal, hair metal, butt rock and the like, I was giddy to add sleaze metal to my vernacular (even ignoring my reflex to debate its authenticity) and was compelled to use it immediately, and in any and all pieces of future writing, whether appropriate or not. The cherry: According to VH1, my beloved Guns N' Roses falls into this genre. Sleazetastic!

May I present further evidence that Obama isn't the only bright light shining the way for our future generations...

Ali has a poster of Motorhead's Lemmy--in all his gnarly-mole glory--ripped out from Metal Edge and tacked to her wall.

She thinks "90s bands" like Pearl Jam and the Chili Peppers are overrated.

At an age when I was too chicken to dance to crap like "I Wanna Sex You Up" at a school dance (see here), she and her friends will perform a body rockin' routine to a Miley Cyrus song for the school talent show (she likes the beat and doesn't care if everyone thinks Hanna Montana is lame). Then, she'll pick up her guitar for an encore of "Paint It Black."

She has a pair of everyday-wear Chuck Taylors and a dressy pair that she hasn't doodled on.

Her favorite guitarist is sleaze metalist Slash.

While all my girlfriends over the age of 30 are pining after Robert Pattinson in Twlight, citing that his character's intense devotion to his girlfriend is the stuff of teenage romantic fantasies, Ali tells me that he's a terrible actor.

We played Rock Band for two hours and she humored me when I belted "Hungry Like the Wolf."

Okay, sure, her biggest crush is Pete Wentz, but when I was 11, I made my mom take me to see George Michael when he came through town on his Faith tour. (I thought his five o'clock shadow was rugged. I also though Kip Winger's eight o'clock shadow was rugged. Hell, I still think Prince is the sexiest man alive.) I'm not one to judge androgynous elfkins.

Dazzle

2009-06-02T11:08:00.009-04:00

I moved from one sublet to another yesterday. When I arrived at my new place, it seemed Rainbow Brite had thrown up all over my room.

Yes indeed, that is a hand-bejewled dresser. I would show you what the room looked like in its full regalia but I immediately started stripping things from the walls.

The artifacts (once on the walls, now in the closet):

(Yup, that's a trampoline underneath that stitched heart, which I must say, is pretty effin cool.)

In context to the rest of the house:

The living room. (The pinata was apparently leftover from a birthday party and now serves as candy dish and sculpture.)

The tutu light fixture in the bathroom.

Okay, so you ask why or how I managed to overlook all of this when I agreed to sublet here for the next few months. Let me try to explain.

At the time, I was living in a loft without a window in my room, and even the drapes in the living room were constantly drawn because my roommate, who exclusively wears black, usually laid on the couch watching cable from the moment she got off of work on Friday evening to when she went to bed Sunday night. And my other roommate usually slept past noon or whenever she had to get up for work or felt the need to discuss her chemical dependency problems with the goth roommate. These were nice girls but they were in a dark place. Literally.

However, as of yesterday, the Portland doom-and-gloom in me suddenly made a case for the solace of gray. (Should I buy black tarps to throw down on everything? Like an idiot, I did buy brown sheets, which next to the pink night stand, now makes the room look like Neapolitan ice cream, which I guess isn't so bad really.)

After stepping away for a few hours, I came back to find my new roommate home. She was quick to mention her plan to de-colorize the place now that her former roommate took off. I was happy I didn't have to hide my sunny aversions; she's from San Francisco.

Shakin

2009-06-02T10:22:00.005-04:00

I seem to instigate or attend more dance parties now that I'm over 30 than I did at whatever age it was appropriate to stand around in a circle and have your friends, one by one, jump in the middle and essentially forget they're white. Gyrating and body rocking is much more fun when you're older and have a sense of humor. Or you're broke and all you have is free downloaded music, a gut full of High Life and a spacious living room.

Whatever the case, these are the songs I've noted make the best (and sometimes most surprising) dance hits:

5. Crazy in Love - Beyonce - Okay, I think chicks dig this one more than guys do. It starts off so sassy, like you could sashay down a runway to it, or enter a room full of men in uniform, yank one by the collar, and bring him to his knees with a series of "oh, oh, oh, oh, oh-uh huh oh"s. And the sassiness does not stop. Well, until Jay-Z starts rapping. Still, this is a much less threatening dance hit for men to bob along to than say Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back," which, honestly, if embraced, could be the male answer to "Why your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now?"

4. Buffalo Stance - Neneh Cherry - At some point in the party, dancing is not enough. We all have to prove that we know every word to a particular (preferably rap) song that'd be difficult to follow even if the words were written out on a karaoke screen. It becomes a competition of who can get to the chorus without taking a breath and who actually knows the second verse. See also "Bust A Move" or Eminem's "Lose Yourself."

3. I Wanna Sex You Up - Color Me Badd - Every dance party has to have a dose of seventh, eighth or ninth grade nostalgia, just to make us feel better about why we've essentially recreated one of the most humiliating moments of adolescence (a school dance) now that we're better adept to partake in one (we're drunk and don't mind making asses of ourselves). Hell, if we're lucky, other drunken asses in the room may find us charming and we may even get laid by acting like unencumbered idiots. Which is why this song is sort of joke, but not.

* This is another one of these songs that can be easily substituted with Digital Underground's "Humpty Dance," Bel Biv Devoe's "Poison," or Tony Toni Tone's "It Feels Good," etc.

2. The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson - I once worked with girls who were too young to remember when Michael Jackson wasn't covered in surgical masks and pasty clay. This is tragic. I'd like to think these young ladies are an anamoly because when the rest of the female population hears "Hey pretty baby, with high (g)heels on," they want to get up and strut for even the noseless, glove-wearing asexuals in the room.

* I realize many will disagree on my MJ song choice here. And while I'm willing to agree that "P.Y.T.," "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" and "Smooth Criminal" are also classics, I've noticed that those don't illicit the same response as "The Way You Make Me Feel" does in someone's home. People are too used to hearing the other songs at clubs, and the point of a dance party is rattle someone off the couch with a "holy shit" or "hell yeah," not make them feel they've entered 80s night.

1. All Night Long - Lionel Richie - Well, my friends the time has come. To raise the roof and have some fun. Imagine, we're on an island off of Jamaica, swirling maitais under the stars, doing some sort of fake mambo, or whatever people do to fake calypso music. With one quick jerk of the wrist, you pour the rest of your drink down your throat and throw your head back in laughter because you're going to party, karambu (?), fiesta, forever. Come on and sing along...ALL! NIGHT! LONG! (All Night!) Oh yeah! Whereas Beyonce is unrelenting from the get-go, Lionel builds you up to a climax....one that's ALL NIGHT LONG for chrissakes! It's the kind of chorus that makes even the non-dancers crawl out from the corners of the party to meet in the middle of the dance floor, stack hands and release in a "Go Team Lionel!" (All Night!) Sure, the man's got a creepy dad vibe (or maybe he just kinda looks like my dad) but his pop attack is oh-so-smooth.

Congestion

2009-05-28T12:31:00.006-04:00

Congestion is the quintessential picture of Manhattan. Elbows to ribs. Purses to chest. Hopscotching to potholes and train vents, around strollers and hand-holders. The melding of tourists, Manhattanites and Manhattan migrants. Their eyes diverted from where they are--ahead, away, in their maps or at their handheld devices--ignoring each other. Ignoring their symbiosis.

The most obvious hub for tourist-native meltdown is Times Square.

But this weekend, that all changed. The city decided to try something new, something that could be indefinite if all goes well. No more cars, no more traffic. Welcome to Times Square: The Pedestrian Mall.

A Memorial Day glimpse from The New York Times

This is an interesting sight, yes. But the larger picture, or perhaps, an aerial view, is even more interesting. Tourists are isolated in this neon mecca. Manhattan migrants are on the outskirts passing out coupons to Broadway shows. Cabs of Manhattanites are beyond the border of cones, racing to get from downtown to uptown. Divisions have been made.

Last Sunday, I wasn't aware of the city commissioner's latest public space project when on my way from Central Park to the theater (note my NY-savvy terminology, as opposed to "watch some play"), all traffic came to a standstill and was diverted in another direction. Seven blocks from the theater, my friend and I hopped out of the cab, already late, and started running in our cute summer matinee outfits, dodging tourists and peddlers and families of five. We avoided eye contact and crosswalk signals. We were on a mission. However, I still managed to take note of marquees announcing Jeremy Irons in "Impressionism" and James Gandolfini in "God of Carnage." I did a quick take at the mile-high flashing Coke billboard. I smelt the roasted nuts coming from the street vendor.

I suppose the symbiosis of New York can also happen to the person.

Bridge

2009-05-18T22:45:00.012-04:00

bridge - (n.) a connecting, transitional, or intermediate route or phase between two adjacent elements, activities, or conditions.

Two months ago, I lived in the city of bridges (eight to be exact) and three months from now, I will live there again. That's why I thought it was odd that this weekend as I meandered through the pockets of Brooklyn, the only pictures I took were of bridges.

Not once did I pick up my camera when I walked down tree-lined Greenpoint, much like Portland's Mississippi Avenue, crowded with patios of young people nibbling on eggs florentine; or when I stared up at the rows of brownstones in Fort Greene, an east coast version of my Nob Hill neighborhood with mismatched walkups stretched out from the sidewalk; or when I perused the Dumbo flea market, housed in a stone archway between contemporary art galleries, like the Pearl. Instead, I never lost sight of the Brooklyn Bridge from the moment I got off the train in Brooklyn Heights to when I trotted downhill to the flea market toward the water. That was when I finally took out my camera, mesmerized by the sheer heft of its foundation, the gothic detail of its towers--confident, grandiose, storied--its suspension stringent yet dipped in feminine curve. As I turned away to head home, that's when I realized I hadn't stopped to capture anything else all day.

After I got back on the train and navigated my way through closed stations and repaired lines, and arrived at my sublet, where I walked past my roommates who are practically strangers, I went into my room, painted the brightest of blue days, and downloaded my pictures.

Suddenly, the bridges seemed quite fitting.

Peeves

2009-05-14T14:32:00.008-04:00

I've recently been reminded of a few pet peeves. But my irritations weren't as cut and dry as I remembered them. For instance, I hate...

1. Strange men telling me to "smile" when I walk down the street. But it's not that I'm upset by the attention (or any attention), I just don't appreciate people telling me what to do. Catcalls, whistles and "hey mamacita"s don't bother me. (Heck, sometimes, I'll even say "hey" back.) But being bossed around does.

Today, on a my way for a run, (yes, I walk to a park, I run around it, and then walk back), dressed in faded track pants and a hoodie, I felt a man brush up beside me. He put his smiling face in mine and started saying way too much. I had my iPod on so I continued to ignore him, but when he kept blabbering, I finally pulled an earphone out. "You should at least get a greater pace going if you're going to exercise. Move those arms!" I put my earphone back in. I mean, really, what woman is going to be charmed by such advice or even demands of emotion, like smiling? (Okay, maybe one who doesn't have the same issues with authority as me.) Hell, maybe these guys just get off on the look of female contempt.

Sometimes known as "WTF"?

2. Cats. I realize now that it's not cats that bug me, it's cat people, or any pet owner for that matter. Why must they only talk about their animals? The same rules apply to people with children: Cutesy stories about little ones regurgitating breakfast are not interesting to people who don't have them.

My new roommate has a cat. She's kinda cute, white and fluffy; I can deal with her. (The cat that is; actually, the roommate, other than what follows, isn't so bad either.) But when I came home the other day, there was another cat. This one looked like every other gray straggler on every other street corner or in every other bodega. (Really, what is up with cats roaming down the aisles of the mini marts? Isn't there a NY health code against this somehow?) Whitey was not a fan of sharing her territory and went into hiding. Frenzy ensued. Trying to get Whitey out, talking about getting her out and the social breakdown of cats became the preoccupation of my roommate for the next several hours. I nodded and listened, when all I wanted to do was watch the "I Love Money" reunion show and eat my string cheese.

Okay, I get why she thinks I'd be interested in what's consuming her immediate world. Sure, I'm self-involved too. But at some point, when I notice people have lost interest or have stopped humoring me, I'll snap out of whatever diatribe I've ventured off on. (Another one of my pet peeves is boredom - being subject to it and inducing it.)

I think the "New York City Cat Meetup Group" needs to do more advertising. They have less than 300 members. (This may be a reflection of what I knew all along - people in NY have way better things to do than hole up in an apartment with a cat. Well, most do anyway.) I think social networking groups for cat people would not only rescue bystanders like me from nights like this, but these groups would also take care of the source of the problem. Such as why cat owners choose companionship with an animal that snubs most humans and looks perpetually pissed off.

(I was going to apologize for cattiness of this entire entry, but I think I'll apologize instead for using a bad pun and then pretending that I didn't purposely use it by apologizing and overusing parenthesis.)

Hasids

2009-05-13T18:45:00.009-04:00

Several nights ago, I learned firsthand that there are two sides to my Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg: Hipster and Hasidic.

To the north is hipsterville--with sprinklings of ethnic color for good measure (pricey vintage stores and all-day brunch spots alongside $5 T-shirt marts and mobile fruit stands). To my south is the home of more than 60,000 Hasidic Jews. (Yes, 60,000. Trust me. Keep reading.)

While I was aware of their existence (I mean, I've seen a number of spiraling sideburns linger on the Broadway border before), I didn't I expect to find more action in their neighborhood at 10 p.m. than I'd regularly see around the dive bars on the other side of the tracks.

Apparently, my friend and I picked the right night for a walk. On Hasidic turf, on what to us was just a regular Monday, kids were running down sidewalks screaming Yiddish, and men were popping out of synagogues and bakeries that were, for some reason, still open. Upon further inspection, I noticed all these males were coming and going from a barricaded intersection. Here, in this closed-off enclave, children and men gathered around what appeared to be a scarecrow, or a dummy constructed of sticks, hanging from 10 foot pole. A ragdoll ready for sacrifice.

My friend and I stared, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did, so we kept on walking. (Note: We were the only non-Hasids out and about.) When we got to the next intersection, we saw another sacrificial totem. Then another. This one had people dancing and singing around it. This one, suddenly, went up in flames.

At this point, I needed to get the scoop. One man explained to me that the ceremony is honor of Rabbi Simeon, who was born and died (by being set on fire) on the same day (yesterday).

I'm not sure how long this went on; I probably went to bed before these pre-mitzvahed kids did. But the hood creates an interesting dichotomy, and apparently a hotbed of conflict. Upon further research, I found out that Williamsburg Hasids hate hipster fashion as much as the rest of us.

From an article in last September's New York Magazine:

"I have to admit, it's a major issue, women passing through here in that dress code," Simon Weisser, a member of Community Board 1 in Williamsburg-Greenpoint, told the Post.

Indeed.

Tourist

2009-05-09T09:19:00.029-04:00

I grew up 15 minutes away from Pearl Harbor. However, I didn't step foot on the USS Arizona until I was 28. Blame it on my lack of interest in historical guided tours, youth's fixation on the immediate present, or my taking for granted what was in my backyard, but it took moving away from Hawaii and coming back on vacation with a boyfriend before I even thought of visiting the WWII landmark. He was the one who suggested we go.

Don't get me wrong, I know it's disconcerting for me to be impassive about an event that killed or wounded nearly 4,000 people where I grew up; it happened only five years before my father was born. I can only take solace in that I'm not alone in my indifference. Many of the friends I grew up with have never been either, with the exception of maybe a third-grade field trip.

Since I can't recall a time when the bombings have made their way into any causal or even political discussion had or overheard in Hawaii, it could be argued that now, two generations after the attack, local people think of Pearl Harbor as just another base, another exit on the freeway that they pass on their way about their daily business. The bombings happened during a time most of us have never lived through on a corner of an island we usually have no reason to visit. Its impact has been relegated to a few paragraphs in textbooks, a part of American history, which is much different than Hawaiian history and less pertinent to local culture. I believe because of its geography, Hawaii always has, and probably always will have, a strange disconnect with Mainland America.

The other day, I ventured to Ground Zero for the first time. I have been to New York on one other occasion since 9-11, but having made the token tourist stops on a pre-9-11 visit in 1998 (Statute of Liberty, Times Square, Central Park), I didn't think to do anything but simply be on vacation (i.e. shop, eat, drink) while I was here last. Visiting Ground Zero honestly slipped my mind. (Again, the only excuse I'll offer is that murky Hawaiian/American paradox: I'm almost too familiar with the tragedy's impact because I'm a media-consuming American, but the event's distance, enormity and its aftermath has left me somewhat desensitized because I'm a self-centered West Coaster, and well, a media-consuming American. Like I said, I'm not proud of my bizarre disassociation or my priorities. I know if I were a tourist from another country, this would probably be the first place I'd go.)

Almost eight years after 9-11, if there weren't posters advertising the soon-to-open September 11th Museum stapled to the site's perimeter, a tribute center in a neighboring storefront or a staircase leading to a covered walkway for photo ops, Ground Zero, almost, almost could pass as another construction site in the city. Sure, a steady stream of people circle this block of Lower Manhattan, but a steady stream of people plow through every block of Manhattan. Ditto for the cops manning the fenced-up site; cops commonly patrol "no trespassing" zones.

In the covered overpass, I was one of several tourists taking pictures through a roped-off glass window. Behind us, businessmen in designer suits shuffled off to the World Financial Center at the other end of the walkway.

After I took some photos, I paced the overpass for a bit, stopping at several windows, trying to look past the cranes and scaffoldings. But I felt like I couldn't strain my neck far enough to get inside this space that was now just a dock for steel, concrete and piping; I would never be close enough to walk in the dirt where those buildings once stood. After a few minutes, I joined the rest of the tourists. I took a last photo and walked away.

I wandered to the FDNY memorial wall, located off a side street. I found another handful of tourists reading several handwritten tributes. Around the dedication plaque were a few bouquets of dried flowers.

Today

When the memorial was resurrected in 2006.

Of course I'd be silly to think I'd find New Yorkers grieving here on their lunch break. Naturally, I'm sure they avoid this crowded area as they would any crowded area. But I don't assume to know what goes through a New Yorker's mind, nor would I ever suggest that 9-11 compares to Pearl Harbor, an event that happened 67 years ago. However, time, memory and the instinct to move on--call it self-serving, human nature, or simply survival--make curious allies.

Noise

2009-05-06T11:33:00.012-04:00

Noise comes up a lot in my writing. I seek loud, musical, buzzing distraction when I want to escape my own head; I absorb sensational disturbances to mask internal ones. For instance, I often put on my iPod to walk three blocks to a boisterous bar because I've been sitting at my desk all day, struggling to admit on the page that I've turned into my mother.

One of the things that's always attracted me to New York is, in fact, noise. But unlike the pretentious noise I succumbed to when I lived in LA--paparazzi flash, celebrity buzz, the jingle of keys given to the valet--NY noise has always seemed more authentic. I romanticized the notion that because one was surrounded by Manhattan's constant chaos--umbrellas clashing down Lexington, the stress of honking cabs, men muttering various languages in front of bodegas--one couldn't help but be aware, alive even, especially as a newcomer. In the only U.S. city that matters, every moment would be The Moment.

Now that I'm here (okay, I'm only one week in), I have yet to concede my romantic delusions of NY, but now I believe that sometimes noise is just that. Noise.

There's one place I've grown accustomed to quiet--my home. It's my refuge. Currently, I'm staying in a loft where the JMZ trains run one story above me and the tracks block the view of my living room window.

My view

Alright, so the cheesy part of me loves the sound of trains rushing by every four minutes. ("I am so in NY!" this cheesy part of me boasts.) But I'm also right at a train stop, convenient for traveling, but inconvenient for sleeping. Screeching tires and the recorded voice of "You are on the westbound J train. The next stop is Marcy Avenue. Watch for the closing doors, please," are constants. Although I do admit, it does get a little meditative after awhile.

In a converted loft (under the train in Brooklyn), conversions are made cheaply. I'm convinced that not only the walls in my apartment are made of plywood but so are the walls in the entire building. Apparently one neighbor has a drum set and the another just likes to play Rock Band. On one side of my bedroom wall, my neighbors always seem to either be chatting or cooking bacon, and on the other, I can hear my roommate punching the buttons on her Blackberry, which means that I can also hear every sigh she breathes into the phone and vice versa. Last night, as I lay in bed trying to read (yup, I was home and actually reading), my two roommates had a rant session about their exes after one walked through the door at midnight. "I hate her so much. If she comes back here, I will beat her," one says of the other's ex-girlfriend. About her own failed relationship she adds, "I'm realizing I can be without him. I'm working on my support system. [Phone rings.] Oh wait, I gotta take this. So-and-so just sent me this link on Facebook and maybe I can get into such-and-such for free on Friday."

Nothing against my temporary roommates; they are actually very sweet and accommodating. And living with them here in this apartment is very New York, or very young New York--in a large building with affordable rent in a hip area, surrounded by the sounds of all night partying and trains letting people off at 5 a.m. But my current living situation also serves as a reminder that I'm glad I'm no longer 25.

Me at 25. Yikes.

Snapshots

2009-05-04T08:28:00.004-04:00

... in NYC ...

1. From the window of a weekend rental in the Lower East Side: A sluggish parade of middle agers chanting "smoke more blunts" down St. Marks Place during lunchtime.

2. Peeking into a train car as I walked out of the subway: A man doubled over, his shoe submerged in a pool of chunky, blood orange puke.

3. In an art gallery in Greenwich Village: A svelte woman in head-to-toe black (long-sleeved silk dress, ruffly collar, tights, four-inch heels) with a matching black yorkie perched on her shoulder.

4. On Broadway in Williamsburg under the JMZ train: A police car slowly driving past three young women crossing the street. The passenger cop leers out from the window, jerks his head and grins in their direction.

5. From the showroom of Top Shop in Soho: The demise of 80s fashion. One-shoulder gold lame tunics, stretch pants with triangle cutouts and flower-embroidered acid wash short shorts.

Proof that there is nothing left to be milked from the 80s. Trendsetters, you may now move along.

Tally

2009-05-03T14:19:00.009-04:00

Street food consumed by 3 gals over a 3 day period in NYC:

Slices of pizza: 9

Hot dogs: 2

Bags of candied nuts: 2

Giant pretzels: 2

Bottles of water: 25+

(Side note: Ounces of water needed to pre-hydrate before drinking alcohol: 24. Ounces needed to hydrate per drink while drinking: 6. Number of times this information was used while drinking: 0. Number of mornings spent regretting not using this information and overcompensating for it: 3.)

After three days of street grease, I agree with everything about this picture--his sentiment, the name of his cart and the haze.

Viced

2009-04-28T13:23:00.003-04:00

Hating hipsters is as common a pastime as drinking PBR and smoking Parliaments. (It's pretty easy to talk shit about people you surround yourself with.) But really, the term is so generic these days no one should be offended by it. I'm not even going to bother trying to philosophize on hipsterism, but my general take on hipsters is this: If you're my age and you're reading this, you are probably a hipster, at least at the most basic level--you give a shit about being cool.

But there's also the extreme level of hipsterism. For this definition see Vice magazine.

Last Saturday in Montreal, I diddled in this Vice realm when I went to a party thrown by one of the editors. (Say what you want about me going to such a party in the hippest French city not in France. Like I said, I'm not defensive about it.) It was ironically (token word usage) located in his loft/permanently converted dance space above a Starbucks overlooking the Musee d'Art Contemporain de Montreal.

I don't think there was a purpose other than it was Saturday but there was a theme: the Apocalypse.

At first glance I thought the host was dressed as a baby. But he was actually Jesus, swaddled in a white diaper cloth with a crown of thorns and a detailed heart muscle painted onto his bare chest.

Fake tattoo art was the easiest way to express being struck by the Wrath while not having to sacrifice everyday costumes like mini rompers and neckies. Such as this girl with an upside down cross on her forehead:

A few others had 2012 written in their knuckles but couldn't explain much more than they knew it had something to do with the Mayan calendar. One guy I talked to opted for a gang member tear below his eye instead of the forehead cross. (Trying to be ironic without properly using the term perhaps?)

This was about as far as the apocalypse theme went, other than annihilating ourselves with vodka shots from espresso cups.

The music--mostly spun by the host, sometimes by a bear in a fur vest and red-and-white striped boxer briefs--was the real superstar of the party.

For instance, this song has been added into my instant classic repertoire: Let Me Smell Yo Dick by Riskay. Sample of the lyrics: Why you coming home five in the mornin? Sumtin's going on. Let me smell yo dick. (I highly suggest clicking on the link for the video. I'd embed it but it's been blocked.)

At around 5 a.m. the dance floor was still booming but we thought we'd depart the Vice disco bus. We were hungry tourists (and basically just not on drugs) so we opted to sneak out during the Thong Song and dive into a mound of fries covered in cheese curds and gravy, otherwise known as the Canadian delicacy, poutine.

Another annihilation accomplished.

Dwarves

2009-04-25T09:05:00.006-04:00

A conversation in Montreal (a.k.a. what Canadians think of Oregon):

Canadian: Ahh Oregon! The dwarves, they are so cool.

Me: Excuse me?

Canadian: You know the show. The Little People?

Me: Oh, yes that show. Little People, Big World?

Canadian: Yeah, I love those little guys. This is Oregon, no?

(Canadian lights cigarette, brings over lady friend.)

Canadian (points at me, exhales): The midgets, the little people, this is where she lives!

Analogy lesson of the week: A pumpkin-farming family of dwarves is to Oregon as a raittailed, meth-head hunter is to Hawaii. In other words, reality TV brings the world together.

Confinement

2009-04-22T15:53:00.007-04:00

Today, for the first time in 24 days, I left the compound. I got into a car. I saw the cover of an US Weekly. I entered a strip mall. Twenty-three days I went without leaving a quarter-mile radius, and to be honest, even though we only drove ten minutes through manure pastures to get to the next town, our rendezvous made me feel like I was cheating on Johnson.

View Larger Map

The good news is that I'll get over it in a few hours. The reason for the trip was to buy hard alcohol to celebrate the artists' open studios and one of our last nights here. Which makes this a record-breaking day all around for me; yes, it's also been 24 days without vodka.

But I digress (a lot), I've become so enmeshed in small town life that I recognized over half the people at The Hub last night, including:

1. Two of the three girls who work at the coffee shop, Lovin Cup Cafe. When I approach the register most mornings, one of them will call out "Double Americano" to the other. Within a two week period, I've already filled up my second "buy 10, get one free" coffee card.

2. The lacrosse/frat guys, a.k.a. my friend's next door neighbors. This afro-sporting pair (one looks like Richard Simmons) stands out in the room full of dreadheads and lumbering overalls. They're always decked out in their Saturday-night-out-in-the-village gear (but on $2 beer Tuesdays). Richard wears a long, thin, khaki-striped scarf draped around his neck like a crochet snake, and the other flaunts marijuana leaf bling on his earlobes.

3. The hustler.

Other indications I'm in a small town:

* One day, a fellow writer knocked on my studio door. He had my wallet in his hand. I'd left it on the cafe's counter. Thankfully, he happened to be the next person in line.

* The only thing I carry are keys. I go from the studio to the dining hall to the gas station to other people's studios to my apartment--all steps away from each other. I don't need to plan or pack for later. My right shoulder muscle is grateful after years of purse lugging.

* On walks to the gas station for beer, we play games like, "I wonder which guy will be working tonight, the curly haired one or the teenager?"

* Beer was mentioned quite a few times in this entry. Also, the only non-essential store in Johnson (a description that can be disputed for the purpose of this list) is a smoke shop.

Block

2009-04-19T20:53:00.004-04:00

Someone once told me that if you want to be a writer then do what writers do: Writers write. Sound, simple advice. And a complete utter lie.

Tell a writer that he has the entire day free to write, and he'll spend most of his day finding a way not to. There's a guy here at VSC who purposely packed 50 unsharpened pencils and no pencil sharpener to give himself some mundane, non-writing chore (like seeking out a pencil sharpener). Surely, there are regimented, devoted writers out there who wake up, make themselves a cup of Earl Grey and churn out 20 pages from their their antique mahogany desk and ergonomic chair, but most writers I know agonize and torture themselves about why they aren't writing AT THIS VERY MOMENT. Which makes them not only not write at this very moment, but also the next moment because the agonizing has now perpetuated. We are an anxious, neurotic breed.

In the last few weeks I've had to adapt my "writing process" to my new studio. These are my five favorite activities to do when I stumble:

1. Chew a lot of gum. Someone came into my studio and commented that it smelled minty. That's because there's 45 pieces of wadded spearmint gum in my trash can.

Not staged.

2. Click on Facebook. I'm too anxious to do any full blown stalking, like hunting down an old coworker I had a dream about last night. I usually just run through the updates and read what the same three people are doing every hour, three people I barely cared about in high school and care even less about now. Because I don't want to appear to be one of these people with too much time on my hands, I rarely post any of my own updates. Well, with the exception of my last post:

Jessica Machado is blocked. And needs to be blocked from FB so this block has a chance of being overcome.

3. Consume multiple beverages. This is the way my mind correlates my thirst to my productivity: I can't start writing without an 16-ounce americano to the right of my computer. (See trash can pic.) But I also need water to hydrate. Hydration is important to balancing my physical and mental state. Okay, my americano is now gone but I still can't concentrate. I need more caffeine. Maybe I should take a walk to the dining hall and get a soda. (This usually leads to me running into someone and the both of us making a 10 minute conversation out of "Procrastinating too? I wonder what's for lunch? Smells like curry.")

4. Take naps. I feel sort of guilty about premeditated nap-taking so instead I sit in my chair and "read."

After the first time I did this and dozed, I decided to prepare a little better.

Creative footrest.

Today, I stopped fooling myself and threw the seat cushion on the carpet.

My senile writer neighbor, thinking my studio was his, opened my door by accident today while I was "reading." Lord knows what he thought when he saw my feet on the floor through the cracked door.

5. Blog. Blog about being blocked. Keep typing so minutes will go by. Keep my fingers moving so it will feel like I'm doing something productive and more minutes will pass and this block will disappear, or it will seem like a decent enough hour to retire for the night. Like 10:36 p.m. Hit "publish post."

Jammin

2009-04-17T08:58:00.010-04:00

Quote of the week:

"The only reason to get an iPhone is for that Grateful Dead app. You know, the one that's got all the recordings of pretty much every one of their live shows ever? It's amazing, man. It's like a dollar or something. I swear there's like 2,o00 songs on it." - What the dreaded bartendress at The Hub said to me, a gal wearing sparkly lip gloss and tight jeans.

I learned this fascinating tidbit last night during a conversation about the iPhone. (Okay, really, who thought to market every Deadhead's wet dream to a population that buys a $300 telephone?) I had whipped out my nifty party trick called Shazam, a free iPhone application that picks up the sound waves in the room and tells you what song is playing. It's for the spacy, instant gratification types, who while in a bar or department store, wonder who's singing the song buzzing in the background.

Unfamiliar with the local sounds of Johnson, my friends and I thought we'd give Sahazam a try at The Hub.

Thursday Night's Playlist:

This could play in the background for hours on a continuous loop and I wouldn't notice it, nor would I think to Shazam it unless prompted to do so for this exercise. Mr. Obrien's serenade isn't really drinking music, nor is it visually stimulating concert material, but I don't think beer is Vermont's vice of choice anyway. Even at a bar.

Shazam couldn't pick up several songs, but it's safe to assume that many were from this band:

Why do I believe that this is where John Mayer's career is heading if he's lucky?

This was the only song and artist I could figure out without Shazam, even though I'd never heard his rendition before:

Before listening to this, I wasn't sure it was possible to hate an Otis Redding song so much. I wasn't even sure I had much of an opinion about Eddie Vedder or his gargly voice post 1995. But upon consideration, I'm starting to get angry that he was ever compared to Neil Young and that people liked that Into the Wild movie just because of the soundtrack. (It was a terrible movie.) And looking back at Vedder's peak, the acclaimed epic video about a mass murdering teenager, that video really is pretty lame. I mean c'mon. A kid wrapped in a burning flag? His torture expressed by the flashing words "numb," "disturbed," "wick-ed" (yes, there's a hyphen) and "90210"? Please. Brenda Walsh was the most pleasurable thing about living through puberty in the 90s.

Cliques

2009-04-15T09:05:00.005-04:00

Welcome to the cafeteria.

At the Vermont Studio Center, we 50 artists eat three meals together everyday. At night, the Red Mill dining hall is also the place where we listen to readings, watch slides, attend craft talks, and make plans to build bonfires and hold dance parties. In other words, we are constantly here and we are constantly engaging in small talk.

Over the course of four weeks, the talk can't help but get bigger, if for no reason other than we've all run out of our best cocktail conversations. Friendships that normally take years to grow (or fester) in a work setting are fast-forwarded here at VSC. All we have is each other and the freedom of days, hikes and naps. On our compound, Mondays don't matter and neither do showers. At this point, we believe the rest of the world has stopped existing.

Though this solitary solidarity bonds us, there's a natural progression that happens within a large group: Cliques. And here, cliques form fast.

Nothing is a bigger metaphor for this social breakdown than a cafeteria. Enjoy the view.

Week 1 at Red Mill:

Shopping for friends. Most of us have been in large group settings enough times to know better than to sit next to one person on the first day and continue to eat every subsequent meal with that same person. There are 48 other people in the room who may not annoy you as much. Meals are approached like speed dating.

Names are hard to remember. People whisper to each other, "Who's that again?" Residents are referred to as San Fran, Houston and Brooklyn.

Week 2:

Cliques are solidified. Tables are marked. The staff has the corner table; the writers have the one near the window; the residency hoppers (or veterans) are spread out on smaller tables and the younger artists/MFA students are in the center. But because we're all adults and we're all aware that this whole clique thing is absurd, some of us will sit outside of our chosen group if we show up late for a meal. We act like this is where we wanted to sit anyway.

We stop referring to each other by hometowns and instead use each other's most striking characteristics or odd habits, i.e. Lanky Mike, The Nineteen Year Old, Regurgitation Karen.

The writers start bringing wine to every dinner.

By week's end, shit talking has begun. Everyone knows who they like. These are the people we can now tell who we don't like. But unlike a small town where you look over your shoulder before you say something nasty or catty, here, you continue smack talking in your regular speaking voice even if the subject's right next you because he/she is probably engrossed in the same.

Week 3:

Major disruption! About 8 to 10 people leave because they were only enrolled in a two-week session; another 10 or so arrive for the last two-week session. These people are abrasive. They storm already-established tables, hungry to make friends and fit in. No cute or polite stories, but in your face demands for attention. We old timers may've acted this way too when we arrived, but we were all doing it at the same time, so no one noticed.

The new people are all given the first name Abrasive, as in the Abrasive One With The Rhinestone Pinky Ring or the Abrasive Ukrainian Guy.

We stop sitting at tables with empty seats and instead scoot vacant chairs over to the corner of our clique's respective table.

Prediction for Week 4: Quirks and annoyances will become somewhat endearing. Nostalgia will set in because we'll know our time here in our studio bubble is ending and no one else in the outside world will understand us.

Prediction for Week 5: We will form a long distance support group for people going through withdrawls from disco naps, excessive putzing and being fed three square meals a day.

Easter

2009-04-12T11:34:00.004-04:00

The sun has risen. Just like Jesus.

Fog

2009-04-11T15:38:00.008-04:00

I've always said that being hungover is more dangerous than being drunk. While I may say or do something careless or senseless after my fourth glass of wine, at least at the time, I think what I'm saying or doing is interesting. However, when I wake up the next day, the opposite is true. I'm a complete space cadet, incapable of putting together a series of words without a splattering of "um"s or "uhhh"s, and so indecisive that I stand in the bathroom for ten minutes, contemplating whether I should brush my teeth or take a shower first.

May I even be so bold as to say that driving hungover is worse than driving drunk? My reaction time is nil and my judgement may be even worse. And I'm a sensitive, paranoid mess. I've spent quite a few hungover mornings, poring over an email someone sent to me. (Why did my editor push up my deadline? Is she hinting that my stories are so atrocious that she needs more time to edit them?) Only to return a painfully awkward, overwritten email that just should have read, "No problem."

Well, it looks like The New Yorker supports my theory:

But hangover symptoms are not just physical; they are cognitive as well. People with hangovers show delayed reaction times and difficulties with attention, concentration, and visual-spatial perception. A group of airplane pilots given simulated flight tests after a night’s drinking put in substandard performances. Similarly, automobile drivers, the morning after, get low marks on simulated road tests. Needless to say, this is a hazard, and not just for those at the wheel. There are laws against drunk driving, but not against driving with a hangover.

So back to the relevance of this diatribe: After drinking from a smorgasbord of cheap red wine and canned beer last night, I decided to take on the remedial task of doing laundry this morning. I haven't been to a laundromat in quite some time so that may explain part of the confusion that follows, but really, the whole thing is pretty inexcusable. Anyway, I unloaded my bag of clothes into the machine and turned to my friend, who also had her share of assorted booze the previous evening, and asked her, "Where do I put the detergent?"

"Right on top?" she shrugged, pointing to the clothes. She had been to this laundromat before.

I stared at the pile in the machine, the detergent box weighted in my hand. Something didn't look right.

"Hey, where do you put the detergent?" my friend called out to one of the locals doing laundry. "On top?"

He turned to us and said, "That's a dryer."

The scary part is that before all this laundry hoopla, I successfully scooped peanut butter, filled cereal containers and displayed (and ate a lot of) bacon. I guess all this proves is that when riddled with a hangover, my body is more used to performing restaurant tasks than domestic or common sensical ones.

Klutz

2009-04-09T10:01:00.007-04:00

As part of my fellowship, I have kitchen duty three mornings a week. This usually involves working with materials I hold dear, like scooping peanut butter, filling up cereal containers and displaying a tray of bacon. So naturally, I don't mind. My supervisor was immediately impressed by my innate restaurant work ethic, although I must say I was a little disturbed to have retained a decade's worth of service industry knowledge. It's like riding a bicycle I suppose, but then of course I don't know how to ride a bicycle. Dare I assume though that bike riding is a way more practical skill than balancing a tray of lettuce on your hips while opening a walk-in fridge.

I'm also in charge of salad prep. My supervisor expected I'd be just as quick with these craftsman-like tasks as I was with the laborious stuff. He was wrong. I'm a bachelorette. I didn't eat salad until I was 25. I make tuna burritos for chissakes. I do not have the patience, or apparently the skill, or maybe it's just the passion, to cut vegetables.

On day two this happened while chopping cherry tomatoes:

Two hours ago while piling the cutting board onto the egg tray:

Seriously, how did I get Rudolph finger from a plastic board?

Locals

2009-04-08T09:41:00.005-04:00

A few friends and I were curious to sample a slice of local life here in Johnson, so last night we headed to the place where the name says it all, The Hub.

We even wore plaid to fit in. (Actually, this wasn't planned.) But then someone told us that our plaid made us stand out. (Maybe because mine had a poetry ruffle and I paired it with pearl studs, as one friend pointed out.)

Anywhoo, much to our surprise, we had stumbled upon $2 beer night. The place was packed. Our main objective was to play a game of pool but this turned into quite a feat being that a gaggle of locals had dominated the table even after we put our quarters on the rim to show them we meant business. After much coercing, we got them to let us play as a team. It goes without saying that we lost.

At one point, a man who described himself as a local sculptor came to our table with a deck of cards and asked us to play strip poker. Let me mention there were also dudes at our table. It also goes without saying that the sculptor won. We kindly turned down his request to remove the plaid from our bodies.

The hustler

The hustled

Contemplating our losses

A few other noteworthy things we learned from being in The Hub:

* Unlike Vermont Studio Center, where the ratio of male to female artsy fartsy pansy residents is 5:50 (no joke), here at the bar, the air was thick with testosterone.

* There's at least one man in Johnson who doesn't touch sugar anymore. He uses maple syrup to sweeten everything. Even coffee.

* Although my first guess was that many of the patrons were from the community college up the road, when I conducted a survey, I found I was wrong. Most of them had graduated from the college and were, um, I'm actually not quite sure what they did for a living. (Sorry, I had a few glasses of wine. Local career options will be the focus of my next survey.)

* And this is what the start of dreads looks like:

On a side note, my friend here is modeling a 100% cashmere Juicy Couture sweater that she found in the town thrift store for $2.

I have no idea what to make of this steal but I'm more enamored with the name of the store: Teen Challenge. I feel like when I walk in (it's located in a laundromat), kids should be competing for these Juicy sweaters by running through wacky obstacle courses like they did on that 80s Nickelodeon game show "Double Dare."

Analogies

2009-04-07T17:21:00.004-04:00

Several of us around here have noticed a few things about Vermont.

Tattoos are to Portland what dreads are to Vermont. Johnson's effortless look not only matches the current state of terrain (clumpy, muddy) but also coincides nicely with the continuous loop of jam band music played at the town bar (yup, I was there by last Wednesday) and the less hipster, more authentic lumberjack style of wool flannels, dirty blue jeans and knee-high hiking boots. On a related note, Vermont also beats Portland in being "whiter than sour cream," as one resident put it.

Mud is to Vermont what spring is to the rest of New England. Right now, we are in the crux of maple and mud season (the other two seasons being the more traditional winter and summer). Walking along, you'll find maple trees "tapped" with tubes, dripping sap into buckets. You'll also be doing this walking in a lot of dirty snow and mud.

In an attempt to force the season of spring, everyday my new friend Megan, a performance artist, takes her hairdryer (connected by a zillion feet of extension cords) around the campus and tries to melt the last pockets of snow. Yesterday, a fifth grader walked by and muttered almost hostiley, "Yeah. Right. I get the joke." (I was going to film her today, but alas, it's actually snowing.)

She has also written an open letter to the Vermont tradition of "sugaring," the process of making maple syrup.

She also has a few opinions about milk.

This may be more of a reflection of the colossal milk dispenser in our cafeteria than the drink's statewide popularity. Though I have to admit that I do hit up that monstrosity every night to wash down my frosted brownie or pecan pie. Yup, we have dessert seven days a week and the rumor is there won't be any repeats all month long.

Which leads me to one last analogy: Cupcakes are to Vermont Studio Center what unicorns are to um...an already magical place? (Where do unicorns live? Wikipedia tells me Germany.) Whatever. Whipped cream cheese is fantastical.

Distraction

2009-04-06T11:13:00.004-04:00

I spend most of my day staring at this river. I hear there's a canoe somewhere on campus that we can use. This sounds like an excursion that will be made on a Saturday, probably after midnight, when the liquor store has closed and the case of High Life has been plundered.

Identity

2009-04-03T15:39:00.009-04:00

Bare with me as I take a moment to reveal myself as a pretentious MFA student.

I went to a craft talk this morning with our visiting poet, Rosanna Warren. Although I know nothing about an iamb or a couplet, she said some pretty interesting things about art in general. One of them being how we now live in this confessional culture, where we believe people should care about everything we think or say, but how these rants and ramblings (and ahem, blogs) don't necessarily make Art. And while I'm sure there are bloggers and YouTubers out there who could rattle off numerous arguments about what constitutes art (and have done so many, many times because this argument is not new), this one point is indisputable: Not everything we say or do is worth reading or listening to.

To paraphrase Warren, art has to start with truthfulness, but we don't know why those truths should matter until we create a story.

Here's a few lines from the poem "Symptoms" by Robert Lowell. While I'm no poetry scholar, I'm convinced that the man can turn confession into art by using honesty and imagery (the physical contradictions of dolphins) to describe his struggle with manic depression:

I feel my old infection, it comes once yearly:

lowered good humor, then an ominous

rise of irritable enthusiasm....

Three dolphins bear our little toilet-stand,

the grin of the eyes rebukes the scowl of the lips,

they are crazy with the thirst. I soak,

examining and then examining

what I really have against myself.

Writing careful, poignant lines like these is a lifetime aspiration and a daily challenge. It's the reason why I write.

So to defend what I'm doing at this very moment, all I can say is I'm not sure what I'm doing. Right now, the blog's serving as a travel log, my test run at this whole blogging thing. While I'd like to focus it on words, beautiful words, meaningful words, other people's words, humorous words, relatable words, not-taking-myself-too-seriously words, for now, it's the gray area between a journal entry, or maybe a conversation, and something slightly more composed, or just edited more closely. But it's definitely not Art. You can't rush discovery.

** (Rereading this last paragraph now, nothing sounds more confessional, or skitzophrenic, than all that rambling. Sorry.)

Vanity

2009-04-02T10:13:00.008-04:00

It's been five days since I came into contact with a full-length mirror. I would like to say that this just occurred to me, but it didn't. I'm vain.

In my apartment in Portland, a mirror the size of a large child meets me at every turn. Not that I live in a funhouse; I only have one mirror. But my apartment is a studio and the mirror faces out toward my so-called living area, so every time I get up from the couch and walk to my desk, or walk from my desk to my bed, or from my bed to the fridge (my kitchen is technically in my bedroom), I look in the mirror. I always look in the mirror. I look in the mirror tilted above the produce at the supermarket; I look in the mirror behind the bartender's head while I'm ordering my drink; I look in the rearview mirror when I'm sitting in the back seat of a car and leaning over to talk to someone in the front.

What's ridiculous about this besides the obvious (again, that whole narcissism thing, basic chick insecurity nonsense, being a victim of habit) is that I'm going nowhere or that I've gone nowhere since the last time I checked myself out. I won't somehow look slimmer in my jeans since breakfast and wacky eyebrow hairs haven't manifested between my second and third cup of coffee.

But here in Vermont, I only look in the 1o-by-10-inch mirror behind my closet door to put on my makeup in the morning and to double check it before dinner, and this is because of this one simple reason: That shiny piece of glass is not constantly in front of my face. Suddenly, magically, here, I don't need to see if my ensemble looks well-put together or if I look "hippy" (as in "of hips," not as in "of Eugene"; let's hope that's never an issue) because guess what? I've worn this ensemble about four dozen times before (can you say, v-neck, green cardigan, black jeans?) and I've had breeding hips since I hit puberty. Nothing has changed. It's pointless. And I've always known it's pointless but I'm forced to make a new habit, and not to sound all Oprah-esque or self-help enlightened, but it's freeing. Yes, I said freeing. It's the most accurate feeling I can think of. Plus, there's always my reflection in glass doorways if I really get desperate.

iPhone reflection: the epitome of ridiculousness.

Village

2009-04-01T11:29:00.015-04:00

Someone observed that many of the buildings here in Johnson are either schools or churches or were once schools or churches.

The main block of Main Street.

The painters' studios are housed inside of this old church.

An old masonic temple is appropriately the home of the Johnson Historical Society, which may or may not document how many old schools and churches are actually in this town.

A real, working elementary school. Honestly, I see more school buses on the road than anything else.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of Main Street:

To decorate my very plain studio (it's so plain, I'm close to rummaging through the artists' dumpsters), I went to the town thrift store, hoping to tear up some old fabric or photography books to color my walls. Alas, all I found was a collection of 1971 American History encyclopedias and a variety of VHS tapes, titled "Jesus." (Yes, they actually just said "Jesus" on them. Maybe all the converted churches around here mean that people are giving up Christ. Not sure.) Anywhoo, the rest of Main Street includes a book store, a grocery store, a maple syrup store, a post office, a cafe, a diner, a Chinese restaurant with Wok in the title, two laundromats, two salons (who'd guess that clean clothes and highlights would be big business around here? One of the salons even advertised tanning), and last but not least...

...a bar, which surprisingly, looks like the most modern thing on the block. More surprisingly, I have not seen the insides of it yet so I can't attest to the modernity of its decor, but I'm sure I'll report back soon.

Also, here is where I lay my head at night. A converted wool mill, which also conveniently functions as the dining hall. Yes, I'm just a flight of stairs away from my very own peanut butter and jelly bar, which may be why I haven't needed the alcohol just yet.

And here is my writing studio. The three-year-old building is home to 11 other writers and is the newest on the lot. Every "room of one's own" overlooks the Gihon River, which I was told was name of the waterway flowing out of the Garden of Eden. Hmmmm....

Representin

2009-03-31T11:50:00.021-04:00

This is my first time officially introducing myself as "from Portland" to a group of people I have never met, people from places like Singapore and Louisville, Kentucky. I've quickly learned that I have to clarify that I am not from Portland, Maine, (a city that I thought was second rate because of its near absence in all my previous "Portland" Google searches). I'm okay with losing my west coast centricity now that I'm out east. I don't mind readjusting.

But for once, I feel semi-competent, dare I say proud even, to represent the city I live in. Back when I lived in LA, I would utter those two loaded letters with a snarl and an "eww" grimace when someone asked where I was from. I was usually quick to add the disclaimer, "but I'm originally from Hawaii." Yet with further prodding, anyone would discover that my Hawaiinness was a disappointment. I don't surf; I don't do the hula; I still get lost driving to the North Shore on a 100-mile loop of an island. Portland, however, is a place I feel qualified to speak of because I've been living there for a decent stretch of time (two and half years) and my job is to research and write about city happenings. Read any culture feature I've ever written about Portland and it essentially says the same thing: Portland is under-the-radar cool. Or at least it's still trying to be.

Portland is no longer sooooo under the radar that the NY Times still regularly writes about how edgy it is. Recently, we've been ranked as both the nation's most depressed and most unmanly city. While this backlash just heightens our emo cred, it also asserts that our radar is, if not radiating, beaconing perhaps. We have arrived. But the rise and fall of our popularity is of no consequence to us. We Portlanders like to spout that we don't care what people think anyway; we innately know that we're cool, but we're also introverted and passive aggressive, and therefore, we'd never say "we're cool" aloud, and instead we'd skulk around in an air of cool. Thus making us even more cool. Or just kinda annoying.

Regardless, here on the east coast, these intricacies of coolness aren't common knowledge. Here, at my residency, I am one of the few from the west, one of three from the northwest. Since most people don't have much to culturally associate with Seattle besides grunge, and the only thing I have to associate with Olympia is that grunge song by Courtney Love, therefore, between the two Washington gals and myself, I am the urban "other."

This is not to be confused with the exotic other. Exotic was what I thought I was when I would brag that I was from Hawaii. Unfortunately for my naivete (hell, I was from an island), unless I was speaking to someone not from the States, most people already knew, met or worked with someone from Hawaii. And usually that person was very proud about being from Hawaii, talked about Hawaii all the time and frequently dared people to try weird food. My bubble of paradise was officially popped when someone asked me recently, "Doesn't Hawaii have a lot of meth addicts and trannies?" Thank you Dog The Bounty Hunter for that glowing, yet sadly truthful, depiction.

Anyway, Portland still has a smidge of mystique. Here, in an international artists' colony, I get to brag about how there's either a coffee shop or a bar on every corner; how it's the easiest city to navigate and how transportation's a breeze; how we don't close ourselves off to the rest of the world, or change, or creativity, but we still manage to shun national superstores and chains, and buy, grow and reuse what's made locally. And when people ask if the weather is depressing, I say yes, but then I listen to these same people complain about the gray skies here in Vermont, and I think about how I enjoyed listening to the rain fall on the roof of the old mill I slept in last night, and while everyone decides not to tour the town of Johnson because they don't want to get wet, I don't mind going for a walk in the drizzle. I feel a slight charge from the moodiness of a bloated cloudy sky, from the sound of rain washing away the day, and from the sun peeking out in surprise. And while I'm neither Portland's stereotypical flannel-and-Converse-clad hipster, nor am I some Northface-wearing sustainability advocate (heck, I don't even ride a bike or drink much craft beer), I do feel comfortable about where I come from. I may not be convinced that Portland's my home, or that I'll ever really know what home truly feels like, but I have made very few smart alek asides about Portland in the last few days, (okay, I did say a few things about the coolness factor), which is something out of my comfort zone, and that feels nice.

View

2009-03-30T11:31:00.004-04:00

Overcast days seem more romantic, or at least less despairing, in a quaint New England town.

Affirmations

2009-03-30T10:55:00.009-04:00

What I've learned in the last 24 hours (i.e. universal truths)...

Writers are:

1. Spacey. Standing outside of a locked building in 30-degree weather, only one in 12 writers remembers that each of us has a key to get inside.

2. Self defeatists. During introductions, sentiments include, "My genre is poetry, but really, I write emails" and "I stopped keeping a journal because I realized I've consistently learned nothing since 1983."

3. Drunks. After self-defeating statements are uttered, someone mentions that we'll probably all be seeing each other at the town bar by night two. At breakfast the next morning, this is mentioned again.

4. Procrastinators. In a residency of 38 visual artists and 12 writers, the only table left once breakfast is over is a four-top of writers brainstorming ways to remember writing down ideas.

5. Defiant. During orientation, the tour guide tells us that the nearby hiking trails are muddy and pretty much off limits until about June. Another writer and I question what "off limits" means and what shoes would be appropriate if these trails were hypothetically not off limits.

6. Indiscreet shit talkers. As soon as this other writer and I walk away from orientation, we moan about forbidden hiking and plot how we will not write, but instead, head up to the mountain later. Only just before noticing the orientation guide is right beside us.

Why

2009-03-30T10:04:00.002-04:00

I've contemplated this blogging thing for a while. Friends say, "You're a writer, why don't you blog?" or better yet, "Why don't you blog, pull some ads and make some money?" I hesitated. I had internal discourses about lacking a niche and creating something of literary value, or running out of clever things to say, or sounding too contrived, or being even more narcissistic than I already am. Then I arrived in Vermont.

It is here on my first day of my writer's residency in the woods of Johnson, Vermont, that I decided to give this blogging thing a go. Here, where I am supposed to focus on writing my thesis for the next month, frantically examining, reexamining, writing and rewriting about myself, yes here, in the most pretentious of literary settings (a writer's colony in my own private studio named after Jane Austin), this is where I decided I will write about myself some more and then I will post it for the reading pleasure of everyone I think loves me or is interested. Better yet, I'll write about how I'll be doing nothing but writing. No niche, pure narcissism.

Enjoy. Or rip on me. I like banter.