Sunday Nights

Every Sunday night is the same. After watching Grey's Anatomy with the roommates, I turn off the television and say these 8 words:
"I don't want to go to work tomorrow!"
It's my mantra and I'm sticking to it.

R.I.P. dear house

Today my parents sold our house and I feel like they have sold my childhood and all my beautiful family memories. I realize that this is a completely absurd way of looking at the situation, but there you have it. It feels like a family member has died and I cannot get beyond this irrational sense of… (dare I say it) betrayal.

We moved into the house on Raich Drive when I was about a year and a half old and I have no memories prior to the ones I have in that house. If you haven’t spent your entire life in one house, I guess you wouldn’t understand, but the prospect of never having another Christmas or another big family gathering at that house is almost too much to bear because I have spent every single Christmas in that house except one.

I buried my hamster underneath the redwood trees in the Japanese garden. There were sleep-overs in the playhouse that my dad designed and built for me, and I gave myself a black eye (and a scar) swimming in our pool one hot summer night. I pricked my fingers picking roses in our rose garden. My dad and I made applesauce in our kitchen with the apples that grew on the trees out back.

There are so many things that my parents will leave behind – things they build with their own two hands. My dad designed and built the gazebo and all the layered decks. He painted our house by hand. Together my parents built a garden that could easily be in a magazine – if you’ve ever been to my house, you know that it’s true. When I envisioned a room with spring green walls, my mom painted them. She put beautiful things everywhere and made everything warm and wonderful.

I tap danced and learned to sew in our garage. I learned my lines and practiced my Mock Trial speeches in the blue-bathroom shower. I used to think the guest bedroom was haunted. In the summer the attic fan outside my bedroom roared and lulled me to sleep. When I could not sleep my best friend Lauren and I would lay in my bed talking about silly and fantastic dreams. At one point, we tore out the carpeting in the family room, and my brother and I rollerbladed on the bare concrete. We played basketball in the driveway, although neither of us is any good at it. We slid down the stairs on the hardwood floors after Aurelio came to wax them. On Christmas mornings, Sean would climb in my bed and we would lie in bed guessing what presents were under the tree until the morning light turned wintery orange, and it was late enough to wake up my parents.

There has always been something about that house that nurtured my creativity – I have written more stories there than anywhere else, and even now find that I can think better there than any other place I’ve ever been, or ever will be. Today my parents sold our house. But they have not sold our house, they have sold our home and as a result I have no longer have a place to go home to. Instead I will go to my parents’ house… in Atlanta… a city I’ve never even been to.

At the Gym

occasionally (though not too often) interesting and amusing things happen to me at the gym...

(1) McGym
As I hand Mr. Orange Tan my membership card-
Dude: Do you want to hear about this totally amazing limited time deal we got going today?
Me: (early for my class) mmm... ok. I guess.
Dude: Ok, so if you pay for 3 years of gym memberships upfront, today, at your current rate, you will pay only 25 bucks a year for the rest of your life! (smiles big cheesy grin)
Thinking and calculating how much 3 years of membership would actually cost...
Me: So... that would be nearly $1400
Dude: Yup! It's a hell of a deal
Me: (laughing) Ok, so assuming that I could afford to pay you $1400 right now, which I can't, I probably won't even be around here for three years.
Dude: Oh, but that doesn't even matter! Pretty soon we're going to be like the McDonald's of gyms!!! (he's really excited now) We're going to be EVERYWHERE! (making big hand motions)
Me: (raising an eyebrow and grimacing slightly)
Dude: uh.... we're going to be the Starbucks of Gyms!
Me: (walks away)

(2) Creepy Guy?
Most Tuesdays Lauren and I go to a kickboxing class and I'm always a little bit annoyed by the guys who linger in the doorway just a little too long watching a mostly female class jumping and flailing about. There's always at least one and today was no exception.

I'm happily doing my triple-jab-cross punches when I notice a creepy looking guy in white track pants and glasses standing in the back of the class, looking around and laughing to himself. This is enough to get me going, but next thing I know, he pulls his camera phone out out of his pocket and starts taking pictures. Now usually I can restrain myself, but today I wasn't going to take it. I turned around and walked up to him:
Me: What do you think you're doing!!!!!!
Creepy guy: (not even looking up from his phone) I'm filming my wife.

I marched back up to my spot in the class, feeling a little bit foolish. But let's be honest, filming your wife or just filming girls in the class - both are a little bit creepy.

apokalupsis eschaton

What exactly is an apocalypse? I asked myself this question as I started to tally up the natural disasters of the last year and began to wonder if the apocalypse was near… I had always thought the apocalypse meant “the end of the world,” and that it would be signified by a great many natural disasters leading to the extermination of man, if not the implosion of the earth itself. But is that actually the definition of apocalypse? Well, sort of. After a bit of research (ok, after browsing Wikipedia, which is hardly research) I found that the actual definition of apocalypse is a revelation or disclosure of hidden things (usually concerning the future). We often interpret this as the revelation of all things at the end of the world (a Judeo-Christian belief).

So, if we go by the definition that it is a revelation of future events, you could say that the apocalypse is not near – it is here! The apocalypse is not the end of the world, it is the preview. Is this the trailer for a movie coming to a theater near you:

Tsunami: 275,000 people killed
El Nino: Biblical rains and floods in Southern California send homes diving off cliffs
Hurricane Katrina and flooding of New Orleans: 1,242 people killed and over a million people displaced from their homes
Pakistan-Indian Earthquake: around 25,000 people killed, millions displaced

And these are just the major disasters. Forget the flames licking Southern California, or the deaths in Iraq – they are puny by comparison.

But then I wonder, have there really been more disasters this year than in years past, or am I just more aware of them? Have our preparation and responses to these disasters really been so dismal, or do we just have unreasonably high expectations? I don’t know the answers.

When I returned from my trip Peru I was stunned to find New Orleans mostly under water. With the government and social ties literally washed away, the people fulfilled Hobbes’ theory that without government man would be in a state of “nature red in tooth and claw.” The entire ordeal illustrated the vast incompetence of our leadership in the United States, and it greatly affected my faith in our form of government. The reason that people enter into the "social contract" and pay taxes and allegiance is for protection in return - from foreign attacks, from natural disasters, from hunger and pain. But when forced to actually fulfill its obligation to protect its people, our government failed, and failed knowingly! In the aftermath of the storm, social chaos ensued.

Granted, when you look at a disaster like Katrina in comparison with a Tsunami or the recent Earthquake, you might say that things could have been worse. But things could have been a whole lot better.
I am not sure whether the multitude of recent disasters is meant to be some sort of revelation of hidden knowledge by a higher power – but if we are smart, we will look at them as precisely that. I wish that people would realize that the apocalypse is never near. It is either here or it is not and it means nothing if you do not open your eyes to see it.

Americans at their finest...

The "Mrs." Degree

I am rarely so struck by an article in the newspaper that I find myself thinking about it in the shower, while making breakfast, on my drive to work, AND on the drive home, but I recently read the following article in the New York Times and did just that:
Many Women at Elite Colleges Set Career Path to Motherhood By LOUISE STORY Women are being groomed to take their place in an ever more diverse professional elite. But many of these women say that is not what they want.

The article interviewed several young women at Ivy League universities and sited trends illustrating that more and more young women of "my generation" are planning to be stay at home moms. Intrigued by this notion and a bit befuddled by the tone of the article, I emailed it to my mom and a few of my girl friends and received the most interesting, diverse responses. For the benefit of debate, I will copy their comments here. I would be curious to hear your responses!

My mother:
Dear Jessica

Very interesting article! Im glad that someone is giving this some thought, Dad & I were just discussing it the other day. You're so lucky to be living in the "Internet age", Dad's company seems to have no problem with the "working from home" scenerio.....one of dad's co-workers, Michele, lives in Santa Cruz works from home, rarely comes into the office. Dad's big boss lives in New Jersey, works from home. It's becoming so common. I imagine by the time you have kids it will be fairly standard.

It also makes me feel good that young people are seeing the value of "stay at home mom's", I got alot of crap in the early years...It used to be an embarrassment to say "I'm a stay at home mom"....now I'm proud to say it!

Disney seems to be a company that value's family, that's clear....I bet they would totally support a woman that made the choice to cut back hrs & work from home,
You're a lucky girl.

Much Love
Mom
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Kim:
you know, this is actually QUITE interesting.

the debate on women's issues concerning work and motherhood has gone on for a GOOD amount of time. this article brings out some interesting questions and observations:

-the second shift (work and home life) has been an INCREASINGLY dichotomy in the last 20 years, with women taking over jobs that require less time at home.
-more men have taken over the role of stay-at-home dad, and society (seems) to be taking this as ok.
-it seems that fewer incoming college women are not realizing the "out of the box" ideas that full-time working and full-time parenting can happen, no less for BOTH genders.
-as more companies begin providing on-site daycare, the problem of parenting OR working becomes less of an issue; however, this assumes one can obtain such a job and work at such a place.
-this survey definitely shows an upswing back into 1950s mentality of women not HAVING to work--the choice of whether or not they WANT to work brings an idea of fulfillment outside of current gender ideals for women.
-some would consider this a step back for the women's movement: is it? is feminism about taking power and control of one's life as a woman? (even if that means choosing to be traditional) or is it defying all traditional gender roles to create a space for girls to understand they aren't boxed in? hasn't that already been done? and why go to yale or harvard if you already intend on staying home (i totally don't believe in this one, but it's a good question nonetheless)? .....

------------------------
Kristy:
This article is VERY interesting and very true. I have been on abridal forum a lot recently and it is so strange for me to hear theslide towards traditionalism. While I think that in our currenteconomy/house prices it is pretty much impossible for a Californiawoman to quit working, I do know that many people are looking to getwhat Andrew calls an "Mrs" degree. Everyone wants to be a Mrs! Ihave yet to meet a woman who wants to keep her name (besides mycousins who never took their husbands names and my feminist friends).

Now to REALLY answer your question. I think it is tough for womento have it all. Somewhere, there is a chance that either home or workwill suffer. This isn't a garuntee, but it is a possibility.Especially since there are so many "bad" kids out there and lots of itis blamed on lack of parenting. There is still the issue of womenmaking ~74 cents to the male dollar. Well if two parents are raisinga child and one had to stay home, obviously the one making less will,right? Most of the time, that's the woman.

Thirdly, and this is where I fall into this group...many women justwant a break from working and see motherhood as an easy way out.Heck, I get TIRED from working so many hours and with all those kids! [fyi: Kristy teaches middle school] I would love to be able to take time off. Now does this mean that Iwant to stay at home all day with my rugrats? Not really. But maybe that's because I have never been a lover of young children. Hopefullymy own someday! All I know is that I hate cats, but I still love myChloe. :)

So we women have such high standards set for us from birth. Andof course, we try to do all that we can to reach it. But my guess is,many of us women are just getting lazy and want to slide back into the"old way", which seems easier. Yeah, its certainly easier, IF andONLY if you have a man who has evolved past the ways of the 1950s.That is something I think most women forget. Me? I'm just kissing the ground thanking the fact that Andrewcooks and cleans. Watch for me to be taking time off in 5 years, butas soon as I get sick and tired of that lifestyle, I will definitelybe back to work. Because, as you know, every smart woman needs achallenge. :-P
.......
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For myself, what I found interesting about the article was the author's attempt to suppress what I sensed was a tone of dismay - as though these ivy league girls were going to waste their education by being stay at home moms. I would have been interested to know what percentage of men are considering the option of being a stay at home dad or part time dad. For example, my boss' husband is a stay at home Dad and she works from home on Fridays. The article just assumed that because more women were willing to stay home, we are returning to more traditional gender roles (and as Kim later pointed out: just because the article interviewed 4 girls from northeastern ivy league schools doesn't mean it's a trend). In another light, I think this can be seen as a step forward in the women's movement because a woman can "choose" to be a stay at home mom and not be thought of as a second class citizen because of it. The idea that a woman's monetary value is her only value is simply absurd, and a truly backwards way of thinking.

The article also seemed to skirt around the real problem (which Kristy also touched upon) - that it's simply not possible to be the best parent when both you and your spouse/partner are working full time; and unlike our parents' generation, our generation can see that. Sure, there are plenty of parents who have pulled it off and do a reputable job, but not without a considerable amount of stretch and stress - mostly on the part of moms. If you're going to make it to your kids soccer practice and piano lessons, you're probably not working the long hours usually required to make it into high-power roles.

If and when I ever have kids, I imagine that I would try to take a year or two off, or position myself in a job that did not require me to always be at the office... but I would expect my husband to have the willingness to do the same. And therein lies the rub, which I think Kim, Kristy, my mother, and I all agree on: If you can find a man (or woman) who has evolved beyond that 1950's mentality of subservience - who can respect his or her partner for staying home and raising their kids, then that is all that really matters.

20 Minute Story (No. 1)

For the last several months I have been experimenting with the 20 minute story. I sit and write uninterupted for 20 minutes (more or less) without editing or thinking too much. Most of them are fairly worthless, and perhaps this one is too. I wrote it a couple months ago and had forgotten it until I reread it tonight. Make of it what you will, I suppose....

She dug her feet into the sand gently. The water rushed up over her toes, her ankles, but then stopped there before rushing back out again. It’s funny how a wave seems to hesitate like that – and it’s an immeasurable amount of time, that moment when the water stops before rushing away like a blushing girl. How long did it stop for this time, she wondered? A second? One third of a second? It didn’t stop long enough.

The water was warmer because the air was cooler, but now the thrill of water’s tickle-kiss was fading.

He should have met her there at least twenty minutes ago now, and soon those tiny lines the moonlight made on the ocean’s rippling surface would glow less bright as the moon continued to recede. They only had two days left, and already she got the feeling that he was growing tired of her.

(His hand reached across the bar’s surface to rescue the falling strands of hair that were about to make their way into her cocktail, and when she looked up she didn’t look away.)

She was not often on beaches when there was no one else around. She was not often on beaches. Most things move too quickly, but she likes how quickly things move until she hesitates for that brief moment – the moment before rushing back out again – and she wonders if she’ll ever rush back out again.

She was not often on beaches when no one else was around. She was not often on beaches. Especially at night. The sand keeps its moisture at night and the night smelled like dewy flowers, which would have seemed right if he would ever show up, but she was nearly convinced that he would not. She heard leaves brush and the crackle of a few branches but did not turn her head. It could not be him, and even if it was, a rushed flip of the head, a flyaway strand of hair would be all too expected.

And it was him. It seemed so artificial. So contrived, he thought. The air smelled of dewy flowers and the moon sparkled on the water. He did not like such things. They bothered him because he had read it before in a book that he didn’t even enjoy or in a magazine at the dentist’s office. So he stood there watching her for a moment in silence wondering whether he should give up the proposition all together.

Without turning her head – knowing he was there – she spoke:

“Did you bring it?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

He approached her slowly and sat down next her, opening the case carefully, and pulling out the small guitar as though it were a child.

“What is it tonight?” She asked. “New or Old”

“New. It doesn’t even exist yet – the song. I thought tonight that I would just play and you can tell me stop when the song is over.”

“Why didn’t you write it first?”

He didn’t answer. He tuned a few of the strings and then began to play. With a song that already existed, she would say Yes or No within the first few moments of his tune and immediately those to which she said No were crumpled and thrown into the ocean or made to vanish into thin air. But with a song that didn’t exist, she wasn’t quite sure how she would be able to perform her service correctly. Her service was to say yes or no to songs, but if a song didn’t exist, what was she saying yes or no to?

She stared down at her feet as the water came up to meet the bottom of her flexed foot. With its contact he struck his first chord – minor. Fast and bitter sad. The wave rushed back out like a blushing girl and the chord broke into the million tiny pieces – the wave crackling and foaming as it sunk into the sand, the musician boy leaning over his small guitar with his eyes closed and his mouth torn into a sideways wandering grimace.

Was it Yes or No. Yes or No? She thought of Yes or No. Yes! or No! it wasn’t so calypso as it was a rage or rush of something else. It subsided and brewed off shore for a moment as it rolled into itself. And he lay his chin into his chest.

(I’m going to help you, she had said to him the moment she met him. I will help you I will help you I will help you.)

He could play whatever she wanted to hear now and he knew it. A week of these nights. Nights on beaches and nights on park benches and nights in her hotel room, and he could play whatever she wanted to hear. And was that all she wanted?

“No.” She said. But this time he did not stop. There was no paper to crumple up and throw into the ocean.

She knew that he could play exactly what she wanted to hear, and that he would no longer come to her, and for that reason she wanted to hear no more of what he played. She wanted those hands to stop plucking those strings. They seemed tied to her somewhere.

The wave pulled up over the sand but did not meet her this time. It stopped just before the end of her toe, and she reached out to meet it but couldn’t.

He shook his head and laughed but did not stop playing. Soft trembling things now. Soft and trembling murmuring, but angry and sarcastic things. She stood up. The music stopped. He grabbed her skirt.

“Wait” he said. “No wait!”

Walking down the beach and not stopping, he lay down his guitar and walked just behind her until the nearness of him made her stop.

“I cannot help you.” She said just above whispering. “I cannot help you I cannot help you I cannot.”

And as she said the words he could not bear the thought of them being true. And his heart leapt in his chest.
She dug her toes down into the cool damp sand and tried to keep herself from rushing back into the rush. She dug her toes down into the sand, and breathed a deep shuddering breath. How long could she stop this time? A second? A third of a second? Not long enough.

Metropolis (and things in print)

If you didn't know already, I am an absolute magazine fiend... and my god, this is a fantastic magazine:

www.metropolismag.com

If you have any interest (at all) in design, architecture, and their social contexts... or just like pretty pictures and good writing, I offer Metropolis for your consideration.

My other recommendations include~
The New Yorker (a classic)
www.newyorker.com

Mc Sweeney's Quarterly Concern (Dave Eggers' journal)
www.mcsweeneys.net

Don’t Eat Guinea Pig with Germans in Peru… (and other observations)

I needed to get out. This was the conclusion I came to back in May, and as a result of a somewhat random bout of inspiration while sitting around the drum table in my living room, Lauren and I decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Peru. I needed to get out of LA, and out of the United States, and out of the seeming rut I was in. I need to get out.

I had these vague notions of Peru that mostly stemmed from misty pictures of Machu Picchu and the knowledge that there was once a great people in Peru called the Incas, but in retrospect I had absolutely no clue what I would find in Peru. When people would ask me why Peru, I would ask: why not? – simply because I had no better response. But even after reading my Lonely Planet and a couple other guide books and feeling like I had a pretty good idea of where we were going, everything about Peru proved to be a great surprise. To write an expository piece about my adventure would take too many words, and so for now I will patchwork together some snapshots of my favorite parts:

In Peru there are no traffic rules and no lanes and cab drivers charge you whatever they wish unless you ask them ahead of time. Instead of stopping at intersections, they honk. They also like to honk at pedestrians and speed up to scare them out of the way.

A view that will take your breath away is one located above 11,000 feet. Just a short walk up to the top of an island in Lake Titicaca can literally take your breath away and leave you lightheaded. So can the sunset and 360* views of a lake so huge it could be an ocean.

Standing next to an outhouse and the giant cow in the dark on an island that had neither running water nor electricity and realizing that I have never seen so many stars in my entire life. We could live on a lot less, with a lot less, and still be happy. We would be no less human.

Would you like some potatoes with your… potatoes?

The 7 hour bus ride between Puno and Cuzco: The window that had to be taped shut and still couldn’t keep out the winter cold. Wearing the alpaca knit hat and gloves the entire way. The native women in their brightly colored skirts and bowler hats and dozen parcels each yelling at each other at 1 in the morning because they could not agree who owned which box of shampoo bottles.

At one point (I think while we were on one of the “local” busses again and stopped in the middle of nowhere) Lauren made the astute observation that a place is only made shady by the people in it. People who live in crumbling adobe homes in cities where dogs run stray have no reason to harm you simply because they are poor.

Arriving at Machu Picchu at sunrise, we soon made the decision to hike the trail to Huayna Picchu… I am awfully glad that the mountain was hidden in the cloud because I do not think we would have made the massive climb if we knew what we were getting ourselves into. But sitting at the very top and looking down at the ruined city from afar, I realized that the truly amazing thing about Machu Picchu is that no matter how much it is hyped up, it will always exceed one’s expectations. I have never experienced anything else like it in this world.

Listening to Frank Sinatra on a cell phone mp3 player while drinking Pisco Sours with cute German boys and feeling swoony drunk. There will never be another night like this. I was awfully glad that I could lean on Lauren’s shoulder on the walk back to our hostel that night. The streets were cobbled and dimly lit.

In those same cobblestone streets, a tiny girl squatting next to an ancient Incan wall on a Sunday morning – her pee streaming toward the gutter. She looks at me with worried brown eyes and behind her in the Plaza de Armas a great Catholic clergyman speaks. Flags flutter soundlessly in the cold clear air.

Fresh squeezed orange juice and an avocado sandwich on a sunny porch where two dogs sat quietly at our feet. A stray horse ran through the street and frightened a couple uniformed school girls who had just left class for the day. The old gentleman tried to run but could not catch up with his horse. Where is his horse now?

Roosters. Damn it, not again!

Learning a lesson: Don’t eat Guinea Pig with a German boy in Peru, there will not be enough meat for the two of you and they will bring it out with the head still attached – its malicious little teeth gleaming… Bernd had it right when he said: “If we were out in the wild and all there was to eat was Guinea Pig… we would starve.”

Awaking before sunrise in the rainforest to the eerie din of Howler Monkeys like a stormy wind creaking through the trees and vines. Later discovering a family of Howlers in the trees above our heads and quietly venturing off the trail, through the jungle to have a closer look. Their fur an even more fiery red… their black faces looking curiously back at us. Thinking how this was my childhood fantasy come true.

3 girls hiking through the jungle at night looking for bugs (and Lauren’s peal of screams when a giant spider used her as a launch pad.)

The novelty of hot running water and electricity after a time without it… and realizing that our trip was almost over. In that moment I knew that even after I was back in my own room in Los Angeles, I would never be the same again.

Adventures in Boredom - Part I

It’s a hazy Tuesday morning in Burbank (not that I would know that, considering my proximity to a window, but I digress). It’s a hazy Tuesday morning on the 24th floor of the ever-looming Burbank Tower, and it seems that I am about to enter Day two of boredom induced by a severe dearth of things to do. No documents to create? No meetings to attend? Not even a single binder to organize or email to send. You might think this a very fortunate event - a cause for celebration - but one can only check her email and evite responses so many times before realizing that these activities have eaten a mere 40 minutes and are already stale.

First attempt to stave off boredom: try to do something business related and think of important-sounding questions to ask the CIO of IT at tomorrow’s Townhall meeting. After doing the required research on the company website, reading his bio, his strategic plans, I realize that knowing next to nothing about IT makes it next to impossible to think of any questions other than generic ones that will likely be addressed in his presentation. This was a ridiculous idea. Waste of time (success!)

Attempt numero dos: Try to think of what a realistic cloud looks like and attempt to replicate this image on a blue post-it note reminding me to ask Mike about macros. Clouds are surprisingly unrealistic, and rather cartoon like. Convinced that I am in the wrong department. Should surely be in cloud animation (don’t most cartoons have clouds?). Must make note of this talent.

Attempt the third: Make lists. It doesn’t really matter what I make lists of. I began by addressing work related questions I might ask my supervisor, such as who would be a good person to speak with about my interest in publishing. Perhaps a children’s editor or one of their magazine editors…
Digression 3.1 – Decided a little looky-look around the publishing website might be a good idea. Will become an expert on current publishing activity and impress someone enough to give me a job! When I came upon a publishing directory, I thought: marvelous! The holy grail! I can answer my own questions. Alas, it was but an alphabetical list of names and extensions. I was hoping for titles such as: “semi-junior head hauncho of children’s editorial staff who likes meeting with directionless interns” or “knowledge glut for Disneyish Magazine with lots of connections.” More aimless wandering and I learned about the new Fairies line of books (based off of Tinkerbell) and wonder whether this book was developed by an actual author or a marketing team who saw the fairies as a new synergy to sell candy and fairy wings.
Perhaps asking my supervisor is still a better path. I made a second, very careful almost perfect bullet point, but could think of no other questions for him. Hmm. (Stared blankly for a minute at my Mickey pencil.) Nothing. In need of a break from all this work, I started making lists of songs I might put on a mix cd for a friend. She likes beautiful things… happy things, so perhaps I will start with a little Shuggie Otis – Happy House or Sparkle City, and then ease her into Kings of Convenience – Toxic Girl. And then, oh yes! Feist with Mushaboom, which is so summery and light. I don’t think this is what Disney had in mind for me when they thought of how an intern might spend her day.

And suddenly (and soundlessly, I might add) a fellow coworker stoped at the opening of my cube. My computer had long since gone idle and my stomach sank a little as she stood there with a smile on her face. “Whadya doing???” she asked knowing quite well what the answer was. I frantically searched around for some excuse for work, but there was nothing. Just a mess of post-its with doodles of clouds, playlists, and half-baked questions. And so after a bloated pause, instead of making something up, I raised my eyebrows and answered honestly: “Nothing. Absolutely Nothing.”

Bits and Pieces

The other day at work I went into a meeting. Since I am still getting my feet wet at this new job, I was trying to be really professional and not ogle my boss’ spectacular view. I had made neat little bullet points on my yellow legal pad and had restrained myself from doodling geometric floral architecture in the margins. I made pointed recommendations and gave succinct summaries of my projects, and all-in-all was feeling very businessy and “professional” (a virtue that I assure you is highly overrated). And then, as I am about to return to the cube my boss hands me and my fellow “team members” a booklet titled: Quality, Service, Teamwork: the foundations of excellence. She says nothing, just: Here you go! smiles, and gives us the look that says, “and now it’s time for you to leave…” As I flipped through the flimsy yellow and black pages I was bombarded with quotation after quotation. Little gems of wisdom such as: “Either we’re pulling together, or pulling apart, “ and, “The race for quality has no finish line.” And then, as I turned to the last page, I realized that I’d been had! A small synergistic triangle and the over arching word: Successories. Angie, Justin, and I had had a good laugh about this ridiculous line of inspirational books and accessories, ahem, I mean, successories… Who buys these things?!?! I asked in disbelief that such a company even existed. Well, apparently TWDC (aka “the mouse”). Seeing as I was given no instruction with this book, I am not quite certain what I am supposed to do with it. All suggestions will be taken into consideration.

*****
The I-5. In between Northern California and Southern California there is a vast abyss and a solemn bridge of road. A thin grey pencil-etched line alongside blonde, velvet rolling hills that are sometimes brandished by the silhouette of a black burned one. A picture with the contrast turned up too high. The stench of agriculture off to the other side. The I-5 and I… I am never sure if we are friends or enemies. I’d rather forget that all that space between home and … home never existed. I-5 and more than 5 hours of restless, unrelenting song to keep the paranoia of the car sounds away. Once I am back in the house I grew up in and floating atop the glassy black pool (how blinding is the sun), the distance doesn’t seem so great. It is mere hours between the two places… until I am back in my car mere hours later and forced to turn the music off because after 6 hours my ears are just too tired. I would just have to exchange Benny Goodman and Air and Bobby McFerrin for my car’s helter skelter humming. The humming that makes me think of the first time I drove this road all alone the maddening undistant distance. A space, a stretch that seems so long because of the thoughts that dwell in between.

curried

There’s this girl that I know – Brandi - and I don’t think she knows how much joy she brings into my life. Every time we go out, life seems brighter and sunnier – she’s just one of those people. And when a dinner over Japanese curry comes at the end of such a monumental week as this, it’s all the more sweet. Sweeter than sesame laced mochi cakes from the ninja market on Sawtelle. Sweeter than memories we both have of times in Japan.

We only worked together for a few weeks, and we’ve both moved on to different places, yet that doesn’t seem to matter. “People come into your life for a reason,” she always says. It’s the sort of optimistic thing that I don’t say too much anymore, and yet it’s easy to believe it and not feel cynical about it when Brandi is around.

I remember, a few months back (on a late winter weekend when the rains had finally stopped) I was going to read by myself at the Coffee Bean on Main Street in Santa Monica (for lack of anything better to do) and there was Brandi, sitting there by herself with coffee, a magazine, and nothing on her agenda for the day. People often assume that you’ll never run into people in LA, but it’s simply not true. I run into people here – and I run into them for a reason. We sat out on the patio in the sun all afternoon, even when our cups of coffee had long been empty. She had just survived what should have been a fatal car crash, and I had just survived the worst winter depression I’d ever experienced, and yet we had so much hope and so many dreams that day.

This week, she just completed her first major job at work, and I completed my first week at Disney – there’s a lot to be happy about, I guess. And then I realized, there’s a lot to be happy about, not just because I spent my first day of work at the happiest place on earth, or just because I finally have a job that I think will challenge me. There’s a lot to be happy about because I have people in my life who can share in my milestones, big or small. Maybe I ought to be more cynical – but it’s just too exhausting after a while.

*** Side note: In other exciting news, you can find my very first published short-story in the July issue of the Los Angeles Journal – it’s a free journal you can find in various locations around town or at http://www.losangelesjournal.com

Thank heaven...

Don't forget: as of this moment, it is 7-11, which means FREE SLURPEE DAY! It's gotta be my 3rd favorite holiday after Christmas and Halloween.

Minutiae

My weekends are often filled with tiny nothings, but this weekend was filled with tiny (if bizarre) expeditions that make me feel like an explorer. Here is why:

1) I went to a drum core show in Diamond Bar with a boy I don't know very well, his sister, and his high school friends. Who knew that some people liked marching band so much that they would do it regardless of whether they were affiliated with any school or sports team. These are hard core marchers - wait, drum core... It made me realize how many niche markets exist out there. Apparently I'm in the market for professional marching band music. I even paid good money to see it. And afterwards, we passed by the lotus festival in Echo Park (in the dark) and somehow it was more eerie and beautiful that way.

2) Shopping in Pasadena. It seems like this far off place. It's past downtown and you traverse through multiple tunnels to get there, but once you get there it is this magical place where it actually feels like summer. You can eat frozen yogurt and it melts the way it should because it's HOT. You can feel it beaming off the pavement. In addition to the beautiful old buildings, there are old ladies who wear moomoos and lipstick that ventures out beyond the boundaries of their lips, and there are hot men who work at the J.Crew. mm hm. It does not matter that when they introduce themselves to you as "Ian," it is because they are commission whores. All that really matters is that my friends will humor me and try to convince me that one of them was checking me out.

I love these tiny bizarre adventures, and how they get sandwiched between conversations over frisbee and last days of work.

Liminality and the Embassy Suites Airport Hotel

It’s funny. The moment I hand in my letter of resignation, the job that once seemed so unbearable doesn’t seem so bad anymore. I get up in the mornings, drive to work, everyone is congratulatory and wants to come chat. They’re sad to see me go, they say. They want to go out for last drinks and last lunches and they want my opinions about things that they never wanted my opinion about before. They tell me about all the potential I would have had if I had stuck around, and it would be enough to make me a little bit sad if I didn’t know better. It’s happened before – this post-resignation euphoria. It’s similar to the “grass is always greener theory” not just for you, but for your co-workers. And I suppose that the old adage about how we don’t know what we’re missing until it’s gone is a bit true.

But what am I saying? For the last nine months at least, all I could think about was how much I hated the day after day monotony of my job and its menial tasks. Next Tuesday I’ll be putting on the mouse ears, and after two weeks of post-resignation euphoria, I start to second guess myself. I suppose that’s perfectly rational. I am really looking forward to this new job which promises so many different opportunities, but for now, here is what I am going to miss:

I am going to miss Friday lunches. I am going to miss L. yelling at her kids over the phone, teeth clenched, booooyyy, imgonnawhoopyoass - and that look on her face at meetings that says I’m not even going to pretend that I like being here. I’m going to miss conversations with K. about circus freaks and llamas and ninjas that span for far longer than they ought to. And talks about spooning with dogs and killing fish with a garden hose. I’m going to miss Asians don’t do Oysters, and BB, you know blue balls, which really are purple, if we’re going to be honest. I’m going to miss the froot loop. I’m going to miss last Friday of the month food comas and haughty men who look with disdain at my hot pink shoes. I’m going to miss the way the six pillars of character are spoken of as though they were an inside joke even though we all secretly sort of believe in them.

And there you have it. Sitting around at happy hour tonight at the Embassy Suites Airport Hotel, I thought about what a bizarre, liminal space it is. People come and go. It is a portal. And yet, we’re here eating nachos, drinking beer, and toasting Roderick’s birthday. I suppose if I’m going to read into it, the Embassy Suites Airport Hotel represents what this year and this job have been for me – a space between. A space that I don’t want to linger in for very long. A space that is inevitably awkward and that doesn’t try to be otherwise. I think this is why this year has been so trying for me: this year is middle school and the Embassy Suites Airport Hotel and waiting rooms at doctors offices and laying in bed waiting for your snooze alarm to go off one last time. In retrospect, it’s all amusing. Spend enough time anywhere and you can be nostalgic about it.

The Chicken

This morning on my drive to work I saw a chicken walking down Airport Boulevard through the morning fog. Not a pigeon. Not a seagull. A real-life red chicken like you might see on a farm somewhere in one of those red states. It was the highlight of my day.

Is that how it goes?

Is that how it goes?

In a private karaoke room with friends, co-workers, and (oddly) co-workers' mothers there was enough laughter and joy and ham-titude to make all the follies of this week seem ridiculously small. The Stevies, the Brittanys, the Mariahs... it's strange, how singing along to these pop songs with a microphone can be so much more satisfying than singing along to them in your car. Forget about the LA recording scene, in our tiny room, everyone was a star. Especially Paul. He can sing them all, but when Eminem's 'Forget About Dre' started coming out of his mouth, the look on the faces of my co-workers' mothers nearly sent me out of the room. Paul wasn't the only one who knew all the lyrics - now Lana was chiming in and the two of them together were throwing their arms around like the real Dre and the real Slim Shady. Having tried to avoid eye contact with anyone, I finally turned to Justin who was in stitches and laughing so hard that he had to literally lay down. I wasn't sure what was more inappropriate - the obscenities flying around the room like fireworks, or Justin's (and my own) inability to contain our hysterics. Is that how it goes? That situations that are already awkward are made more-so by our laughter? Or does laughter mitigate the silence that surrounds situations in which we do not know how to act? Soon we moved on to more culturally appropriate power-ballads, but I'll still wonder what was going through the heads of the mothers, and whether their embarrassment was greater than my own.

Is that how it goes?

Five friends sitting around a table, gilded by bare bulbs on a Friday night. One friend on the verge of leaving as we silently contemplate melting a plastic monkeys tail. Did I say leaving? I think I meant going. When does leaving become going somewhere else - is it half-way between here and the destination point? Is it that walking away from Bar Marmont (Adieu, Adieu, he said) he was leaving, and as he pulls onto the 405 one last time, he is going? Going home, going somewhere exotic, going to grad school. My friend Oscar is going, now gone. And so are the afternoons meticulously interpreting the scribblings of children and evenings drinking cocktails out of tea cups. Don't people know it is so much harder to leave than to go? With friends like mine, I guess I'm just a lucky so and so.

thus spoke jet

The concept of starting a blog has perplexed me for some time. I distinctly recall having a conversation with a friend of mine about a year and a half ago where we scoffed at those incessant bloggers and vowed to never submit to the shameless self promotion. Aren't there any aspects of our lives that are still sacred? we asked. Aren't there certain things better left unsaid and kept to ourselves for no one else to know? I wondered...

Why then, you might ask, have I opened myself to accusations of hypocrisy? Is it that I have gone against my principles? After all, I have been known to do so in the past - I bought a cell phone despite my promise that I never would. I drive my car to work everyday despite my cries that we are killing the earth with every rotation of the wheel. I eat meat when I know in my heart that the vegans are probably right. But these are the sacrifices I make to live in the modern world (or because I am too lazy to do otherwise). However, perhaps this is not so much a sacrifice as it is a realization. A realization that if I am ever to become the writer I ought to be, I need to write and summon the courage to let others read my words.

and thus spoke jet...