lost

Currently looking for: motivation.

Seriously. I don't have any right now. It's the midst of finals, and none of mine are especially difficult or stressful. All I have to do is quickly write a review, study some adolescent development (yeah, it's as not exciting as it sounds), and I'm free. But what do I care?

I can't bring myself to work on anything. All I want to do is listen to Jimmy Cliff* and the Raconteurs, sleep, make donuts, sleep some more, and read books that aren't required for class.

Oh. And burn my copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion. But I've complained enough about that.

On a completely unrelated note, has anyone checked out the list of Golden Globe nominees? Wow, this awards season looks horrible. And I thought last year was bad. Avatar? Are you joking me? Remind me to completely over-hype all my projects from now on. Apparently that's the recipe for success. "But Professor, you don't understand. This paper has the greatest usage of semi-colons you've ever seen! These semi-colons will BLOW YOUR MIND. Just wait! We are talking about some seriously almost realistic semi-colons here!"

I blame winter for all of this. Take that how you will.

*Shout out to The Professor at Wounded Mosquito for this one.

RIP Weezer

OK, it's time for me to weigh in on the new Weezer album. This is going to be tough, because I have something important to say.

I did not buy the new Weezer album.

It's just... I just... it was too soon after Red Album for me to really even think about Weezer, and then suddenly they have this new single out, and I couldn't ever listen to it all the way through, because it just made me sad that Weezer wasn't as awesome as they once were, and I know that makes me sound like one of those snobbish fans who think Pinkerton is the only good album, but you know what? People say that for a reason. Pinkerton and the Blue Album are legendary. There is not a bad track on them. And I'm not a purist. I'll listen to stuff from the others. I love songs from the others (especially "Keep Fishin'", "Burndt Jamb", and yes, "Hash Pipe").

But this album is different. It doesn't have the incredible Weezer aura surrounding it. It's too soon. It's too hip... or not hip enough. It's just trying so hard. And I can't get behind that.

Today, I was putting off writing a paper and decided to give Raditude a second look. As I gazed through song titles, I saw one I recognized. "Can't Stop Partying" was one of the best demos on Rivers Alone II, with this heart-breaking desperation that reminded me of why I love Rivers Cuomo. So I decided to give the official album version a try. And it destroyed my spirit. It jumped on my heart with German hiking cleats. How could they take a song that was so perfect in it's faults, notable because it was those typical rap lyrics but with a film of melancholy, and make it into such RUBBISH. A rap interlude by Lil Wayne? What is this?

I am not completely abandoning Weezer. They are part of my soul. I will always listen to them, and I will always love them. But as far as new material comes, I have left the building. No longer will I hope for a perfect return to form, no longer will I overlook the missteps on albums.

Our affair is everlasting Weerez, but now it's history, a past I will always look back on with fondness.

Vampire Week-ed Out

Whew. That was quite a Halloween season, wasn't it?

Let's just all nod our heads in agreement here. Deal? Deal.

Anyways, I can firmly say that I had one of the most SPOOK-TACULAR Octobers ever. I enjoyed pumpkin flavored oddities, fall foliage, and a wide array of scary movies. Oh, the scary movies.

That last week of October was spent glorifying in so many Vampire Movies (or Vampyre, whatever your leanings are) that I am thoroughly vampired out. Sucked dry, if you will. Yes, I went there. I was so busy observing bloodsucking fiends that I didn't have time to watch 28 Days Later, and if you've seen that movie you know what a travesty that is. It's a true one. A true travesty. Why can't the undead get along? Necks, brains, it's all part of the same human prey. Amiright?

Here's a quick rundown of all the movies I've seen in the past week. I think. It's all a blur... where am I?

*Nosferatu, a Symphony of Horror, 1922
Silent, classic, golden, with an incredibly creepy ratface that moves slowly and makes shadows menacing. What's not to love? Unless the silent aesthetic gets to you. You uncultured philistine. All I'm saying.

*The Vampyr, 1932
Another one that's not silent, but definitely has the same feel. German, expressionistic, and containing some freakishly cool images in the form of child shadows that move on their own and an out-of-body experience that's chilling. The only downside: it's a little over my head. As in, I had to Wikipedia it after to see what the plot was.

*Let the Right One In, 2008
I think this was the best one I saw. Maybe because it wasn't the typical Dracula plot, but also because it was amazing. It did things with vampires I'd never even thought of. A Swedish film that features lonely 12 year olds and focuses on the difficulty of making and forming relationships, with some gory mayhem thrown in. I jumped, I cringed, I laughed, I covered my eyes, I sat there stunned, and I decided to never ever go to Sweden. Ever.

*Shadow of the Vampire, 2000
Very very interesting. It goes behind the filming of the orginal Nosferatu, but with the theory that Max Schreck is a real vampire that Murnau hired in exchange for sacrificing the lead actress. The cast is stellar, and the parts where they recreate scenes from the original are fascinating. I just couldn't get behind this as much as I wanted. A solid meh. If that.

*Dracula, 2006
A random DVD from my roommate, featuring a Dracula musical in French with no subtitles. So needless to say, I didn't understand any of it. BUT. I knew the story. And the set was crazy cool. And the music was actually decent, with more rock opera than your typical musical score.


*Nosferatu the Vampyr, 1979
Remake of the original that keeps the same feel, buts actually adds more and enhances it. The plague scenes are a definite win, Klaus Kinski may or may not be haunting my nightmares (and walking suddenly into frame), and Werner Herzog shoots the best nature scenes of all time. OF ALL TIME.

You have consumed me, body and soul.... with HATRED

I think it's about time for me to step out of the literary closet, so to speak.

For me to reveal something my close friends and family know, but it's gotten so out of control that I want to open up to the entire world.

I am about to say something that will cause some of you to judge me, some to hate me, and some to call me a heathen sinner and never speak to me again. This is worth it, just to relieve myself of the burden I've been carrying for years. I need to come clean. It's time.

I hate Jane Austen.


That's right. All you girls, you better click off now. Run away to some happy blog that quotes Pride and Prejudice every five sentences and compares every male to Mr. Darcy. I don't care. I don't need your desperate pleas defending her writing, describing how she makes you believe in love (to which I say, PSHAW), how she stands as an inspiration for women authors everywhere. I don't want to hear it.

I hate her. This is a deep, lasting, forever kind of hatred. There is no grudge here. It's a vendetta, a lifelong disdain for her works and her self.

Right now, I am at the point where if I could go back in time and kill one person from history, Hitler, Judas, and Nero can rest easy. Live on to be horrible another day. Believe me, if I was killing two persons from history, I'd keep one eye open, but for now you all are safe. Because I would target Austen and her snobbish, restricted class fluff pieces.

I don't care if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ever get together. They'd probably both grow a lot more as people if they didn't. And I don't care about Emma and her match-making. She should have stopped being silly and realized what was there the whole time. It's her own fault. And don't even get me started on Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth. Newflash: you are both idiots who allow society to pressure you, and, quite frankly, only have yourselves to blame for years of unhappiness. If either of you had an ounce of confidence and assurity, this novel would never have happened. And I would be a lot happier. It would have led to the salvation of many souls, as girls realized that sort of behavior is not acceptable in real life, and that's why they are still alone, eating chocolate and watching BBC movies in their dorm room. Get out and actually interact with real people, instead of swooning over men in high-waisted pants and frilly shirts. No one pulls those off anymore. There is a reason that is not the fashion. If you saw a guy with a cravat, you would run away from him, not towards him. Rant rant. Rave rave. And etc.

And I refuse to believe that any merit to be found in her books cannot be found in spades in other tomes. Ever heard of the Bronte sisters? Woman empowerment that is actually empowering. And has depth. I know. Gasp. But look at Wuthering Heights. It tackles racial issues, class structures, whether man is inherantly evil or just a product of environment, AND it includes a very funny bit with a dog! What more do you want? Romance? There are lovers that are driven literally mad for each other. Or is that type of devotion too much for you? Because it is so much more realistic than anything in your silly little Austen books. But go on. Carry on with your "he's rich and prideful and I want nothing to do with him so we will fall madly in love". Good luck with that. Call me when that tactic works.

Come on girls. How many of you really just like Jane Austen because you are expected to? I mean, seriously. Colin Firth is not really attractive. Not even as Mr. Darcy. It's kind of horrible acting, to be honest.

I guess the real point of this is, does anyone want to write my multiple papers on Persuasion? Because it's causing serious harm to my sanity.

So It Begins...

I was going to write about having my first teaching nightmare. But because I am becoming a teacher, I have no time. Obviously.

Ugh. Welcome to my life.

Still, I will share two things that are making me really happy.

This:

Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear from Gabe Askew on Vimeo.

And this. (Extra Credit: this).

Chirp

Tonight was one of those ideal summer nights.

The kind of night where you sit on the front porch, relishing the warm air and the darkness surrounding you and the rising sound of crickets.

I love the crickets.

And you sit there and realize that you are experiencing perfect happiness. Until you notice that the widow across the street is totally spying on you through her blinds. But even that can't bring you down, so you just smile and laugh at the fact that your neighbors watch your every move, and soon you're going back to school so they'll have to find a new subject.

As far as days go, today was pretty swell. I love it when things turn out better than you expect.

So here's to new apartments, Batman, a chef named Joe Hicks that makes BLTs with "mother loving", my apparent inner Jew, smirking, the ever-delicious hot dog, Miniature Tigers, Pavarotti, and blackberries.

Now all I need is a snow cone, and I'll call Summer '09 a roaring success.

L'il Nothing

Last night, I made cupcakes whilst listening to Jimi Hendrix.

It's moments like those that make me realize I'd make the most kick-A mother ever.

Also: less than 24 hours until it's just me and Sam Beam's beard.

Art Vandelay, Inc.

It's official.

Architecture is now the sexiest profession.

It was bound to happen. So I'm sorry all you poets, journalists, rock stars, carpenters, rebels-without-causes and doctors out there. But there was a reason the estimable George Costanza proclaimed "architect" as his non-existent employment. It's just super hot.


We had to know this was coming with Ted Mosby. His optimistic view of love and desire to "settle down" combined with humor and sensitivity (but not total wussiness) made him a heartthrob to all, even hardened cynics like certain characters named Robin. And the only job capable of handling so much attractiveness? Architect.

But what guaranteed the win? Tom Hansen. The dreamy romantic from 500 Days of Summer will have every girl swoon as they fervently wish to console his wounded heart. And of course, architect is the only work that could show Tom as an observant, creative, but with a possibility to be succesful in a career, artist. That's what it comes down to. The perfect marriage of tortured artist with successful business sense. Whimsy and the ability to provide a level of comfort in the future. What more could we want, ladies?

So students of architecture, prepare. You are about to get so much action. You won't know what to do with yourselves as waifish hipsters cast seductive looks in your direction. Just throw on a cardigan and go with the flow, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Those Awful Normals

Tonight, I watched this movie:


It was ... ... interesting. I don't know if I'd recommend it to everybody. Actually, I'm not even sure I liked it. At least, not the traditional definition of "like". It would be more accurate to say it fascinated/terrified/intrigued me. It was one of those movies that enters your brain slowly, wriggling in through your ear and through layers of conscious thought until it hits the innermost psyche, until it feeds on every fear and doubt and insecurity and philosophy you hold.

That sounded dramatic.

The thing is, every character resonated with me. Near the beginning I saw myself as a child, identified with the imaginative worlds and fantasies. Then came the drama teacher, and she encapsulated everything I hope to be as an adult and an educator (one of the shortcomings of the film is how grossly underused she was). But even as I watched, I convinced myself that I could never be that way, that I have too much doubt brought on by social and self pressure. Can I ever really accept myself, can I ever "see myself for who I am"?

And Phoebe's mother. Ugh. Even as I hoped to imitate one person, I saw my future, far less pleasant, in another. There is one part where the mom breaks down and lists the angers and concerns she has. I want so badly to not be like that when I've reached that point, but I feel like I will, that I'll age into a haunted shell.

So I sat there through the movie, these agonizingly egotistical worries crushing me, compounded by the onscreen drama. Then came the end, which I found strangely comforting.

WARNING. SLIGHT SPOILERS.

Part of the climax deals with an absence of hope. Hope is such an odd, elusive thing. With most definitions, it goes hand in hand with faith. While I was hiking with some family/friends last week, we discussed the commonly held belief that you can't have fear when you have faith (slash hope). We all agreed that principle was baloney. Hogwash. Utter false doctrine. If there is an opposition in all things, then fear is not only going to be a part of our lives, but it is a necessity.

Right now I'm reading Mormon Scientist, the biography of Henry Eyring (not to be confused with son Henry B.) (also, this is a great book, especially for Mormon intellectuals). One section deals with the fear that accompanied and aided Henry's life. Henry managed by not having "fearfulness, but rather respect for powerful forces and inevitable consequences." When used that way, fear quite naturally runs to a confidence in ones self, an assurance that we will be able to handle what comes our way, regardless.

Bringing this back to the movie, Pheobe in Wonderland finishes in the most glorious way I could imagine. Using quotations from the book, it ends with a hanging question, leaving it open for the audience. It asks, quite literally, "who are you"? We all have misgivings about ourselves. There will be times when we aren't satisfied with what we have to offer the world, and that could tempt us to never try and to hide away in mediocrity. But if negativity is faced straight on, victory is possible. We can overcome challenges. We can more than accept the person we are, we can gain self-reliance through the process of unwavering trust in our own self.

Set You Free

OK, so seeing the Black Keys live is going down in history as one of the greatest concerts ever.

It's such a relief after last week's disappointment with Jenny Lewis (she was fantastic, the crowd and my view was not) to go to the Gallivan Center and enjoy the experience. Yes, the audience was still full of self-important hipsters, but this time with some rowdy rock fans. And yes, everything still smelt like beer, smoke, and B.O., but when you're in the FRONT ROW, who cares?

That's right. Through some miracle, my friend Paige and I ended up in the front against the barrier, just to the right of center. Which was the best luck ever, as we probably would have died where we stood for the opening act. Let's just say personal space was non-existent, and that is no exaggeration. But never before have I been so happy, even while I was incapable of moving my arms. As I shook my hips and banged my head in time with the music, it was pure joy.

Blues rock is my ultimate. It's so full of emotion, so full of passion, and these two men wailed. Patrick on drums was a wonder; he just goes into this zone and creates this glorious cacophony that fills the air with clashing and pounding and rhythm. But when Dan touched the strings of his guitar, my face melted. I was a puddle, liquefied by his outstanding riffs. Being close enough to see his hands move up and down the neck, bending and twisting notes and banging out chords is a highlight of my life. As are the many moments where he came right in front of us and we shared brief eye contact as he blasted through a solo, leaning so close I could almost touch his guitar.

I'm pretty sure I just killed my body, what with the trials of standing that long and enduring the massive crunch of the crowd (major shout out to the guys behind us who protected Paige and me from the worst of it), but it was ABSOLUTELY worth it.

Now please excuse me while I pass out from exhaustion.

Epic.

Why Do We Love? Because We Can.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

When it comes to people, I definitely, definitely do not. Call me cynical and jaded, but that magical moment where time slows and lights dim, and you stare at each other across a crowded dance floor does NOT exist.

But when we're talking about other things, such as, oh I don't know, TV shows, I say "love at first sight? Affirmative!"

The miracle of getting hooked on a program from the first episode has only occurred a handful of times in my life. Most shows take two or three weeks to hit a groove, or an entire season to figure out just who the characters are and why we as an audience should care about what is going on. My first memory of watching a pilot and falling head over heels was with Psych. Shawn's hi-jinks and fast-talking ways, the rapport between him and Gus, everything combined perfectly to pull me in. It was comedy, it was mystery, it was intrigue with a healthy dose of obsolete pop culture references. Who wouldn't love it?

Some time after that I discovered the genius that is Bryan Fuller. This man has yet to create a
show I won't watch. Each of his sadly short-lived series is a gem of quirkiness, of philosophy and smart dialogue, with ideal amounts of sweet and sass. While my love for him extends to TV long ago canceled, his latest (and possibly greatest. I haven't decided yet.) accomplishment recently aired it's finale. The loss of Pushing Daisies still smarts, and ABC must fry for the heinous mishandling of this pinnacle of entertainment. Daisies was intelligent, whimsical, and surprisingly fun for a show involving death. It was truly inventive, a rare original in the wasteland of cop shows and reality TV. The creativity of the team behind it never lagged, but they stayed true to the viewer, boldly working to create a story so heart-breaking and strange, unbelievable and enchanting that I couldn't help but fall in love. Totally, committedly in love. And then the Network Powers That Be decided a spinoff of Grey's Anatomy was more important, and axed the highlight of my television week. I just watched the last show, and it was painful to see something so good try and wrap things up quite clearly before it was supposed to. The hastily tacked on final ending almost made me cry. Pushing Daisies, I miss you.

But moving on is an important step in any heartbreak, and while nothing will replace Daisies, I will love again. And have already. I'd like to introduce you to a little show called Glee.


The commercials for this new show, airing on Fox come fall, piqued my interest. And after watching the premiere, I can say with confidence that Glee has gained a new fan. It's good for: people who have participated in show choirs, Utah residents (sorry, that was redundant), people with a good sense of humor, anyone who has lived through the awkwardness of high school, future teachers, and you.

Check it out on Hulu. Click that link. If you regret it, I'm sorry. And we are no longer friends.

Ouch

Apparently I'm a "hot-tempered hussy".

Yeah. Thanks Mom.

Following those Country Roads

Well, it's official. I am home... whatever that means. By that, I mean I am back in Utah. It's odd. Yesterday, as I sat on the airplane, curled up in some absurd position to avoid the steady stream of cold air rushing in from the emergency exit door that was my seat mate, I looked through the window at the Rockies for the first time in over two months.

Europe was such a big part of my life, but as I cruised around SLC today I felt as if no time had passed. The trip was a dream, and the last thing I remembered was standing outside of that teppanyaki restaurant in the rain, wondering what was in store for me. That sounded lame. This is why tired posts should never be allowed. Which I almost spelt "aloud". I thought you might like to know that. I think I'll give up on the retrospective now.

Summer has officially started, my first real summer since 2006, and I am out of my mind excited. Freedom! No school! No required papers! I can write anything I want and read any book I choose when I choose! Is this Heaven? Quite possibly.

Like the organized dreamer I am, I have already written a list of things I want to do this summer, a list that I will now share with you, my lovely blog audience. I am doing this for two reasons. A: I have nothing else to write about, and creativity is so last week, and B: so that if I run into one of you, dear cyber friends, we will have something to talk about. As in, you will ask me about these and I will feel pride if I have done it and shame if I have not. The basic principle.

Things To Do, This Summer, Part 1A:

-Practice the guitar and become a blues goddess.
-Cook often, with emphasis on artisan breads and pastries.
-Finish all those books I've started, including the rest of the Border Trilogy, Executioner's Song, and House of Seven Gables, along with just reading a lot in general.
-Get a bike at DI. Use it.
-Go to every concert at the Gallivan Center.
-See 500 Days of Summer, along with many Broadway film offerings.
-Flesh out all of those essays I've outlined in my notebook, and to write more creative pieces.
-Get efficient at playing the organ.
-Watch that documentary on the Vietnam War, try to talk to father about it.
-Clean my closet.
-Get a JOB.

A European Explosion

Prepare yourself. Here comes a completely random, thrown at the screen rundown of all the odd, slightly blog worthy thoughts I have had over the past two or three weeks. WARNING: this post contains a great amount of text, with no pictures whatsoever. This should be an adventure.

Mini blog A: Wherein Rick Steves is God

So, traveling with two older ladies has been a vast, VAST change from bombing around the UK with 30 kids my age. I have never been so resistant to something in my life, but sadly my easy adaptability won out. I found myself quoting Rick Steves opinion at every landmark, treated his guidebooks like the Bible, and exhaled "how lovely!" at every brightly colored apartment building and sparse field of wildflowers. Following my mother and aunts example, I fed "scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time" (I've been listening to Billy Collins poetry lately. Check out "Consolation"), snapping artsy pictures of lamposts and skylines, churches framed by tree branches and details of statuary. I did resist the 9:30 bedtime, but I still went to sleep far earlier than the 3-7 schedule of London.

Mini blog B: My Soundtrack*

I listen to music far too often, and some songs work to define parts of my life. Drama class in junior year? "Don't Bring Me Down" summons memories of crouching in the wings of the stage, bobbing my head and worrying about the latest scandal with the choir kids before I left that behind me forever. Summer of freshman year? Walking across campus like a gangsta, cruising to "Seven Nation Army". OK, this walk down memory lane was not the purpose of this segment. I swear. What I really meant to talk about was the songs I've had on repeat the past few days, the songs that have embodied my post-London self.

1. West Coast, by Coconut Records.
All right, guy I kind of sort of dated but not really February aught eight. I owe you a big thank you for all those mix CDs. I didn't give them enough attention, missing little jewels like this song I didn't even know I had. I'm sorry I wasn't responsive to your wooing, but you're married now so you probably don't care. Still, thanks for the great tunes.

I played this song over and over the last week of my study abroad. Even though I wasn't heading back to the states, I still identified with leaving places and people I loved, friendships that would never be the same and the desire to take it all with you. And the fact that it's the awkward kid from Rushmore singing to me makes it even more special and bittersweet. Somehow. Don't ask me how that works. Also, the line "rains a lot this time of year" fit perfectly into the theme of my actual travels, which leads us to ...

2. Why Does it Always Rain on Me?, by Travis.
Major kudos to Kate for gifting me this awesome Brit band right before I left, and then to my buddy Grant for noticing them on itunes and giving me this particular beauty. Along with being yet another angsty, reflective song about the past, this quite literally described my trip. No joke, after the third day of traveling every, single, place we went to was cloudy and hazy and then rained at least once. This proved a saving grace in the oppressive heat of Italy, but grey skies make for some tricky, monotonous pictures.

3. So So, by Gary Go
Ladies and gentlemen, this is THE SONG. It is me the week after the program ended. It is the way I felt, wrapped up in one glorious feat of lyricism. Basically, each line expresses the emotions I was dealing with, the sense of loss and growth that I experienced. And have I mentioned how magnificently angsty it is? All of these songs made me so "emo", even though I prefer the term ruminative. Yes, that's it. They made me contemplative and reminiscent, as I was transported to a time, not too far off, that I missed. And Gary Go himself was such a part of my London adventure. From running around town looking for music stores to buy his album, to playing it on Allison's laptop and dozing off in a Stratford guest room with a gaggle of girls, to sharing it with members of the group, Gary Go was the quintessential English music find, and So So is the ultimate in London nostalgia. "Take me back to the London Town, when it felt good to be around..."

Mini blog C: Spew, a.k.a., Random Observations from the Road

When you are in the Italian countryside, the air tastes like wheat and sun-dried tomatoes and you almost fall in love. And then you get to the city, where the air tastes like garbage and acrid cigarette smoke that makes you miss English tobacco, and then you almost vomit.

Clouds that wisp like sulfuric steam rising from Roman baths of old are pretty neat.

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder.

Italian men are an even bigger letdown than the British accent's aphrodisiac power. Hint: ear piercings aren't as cool as you think they are.

Venice manufactures romance like it's cheap insulation, but you still fall for it.

You never know who you will run into and where. And how you will look when you run into them. And when that time comes, you will always regret not taking a shower that morning.

Germans are definitely not Nazis anymore, and are in fact quite warm and hospitable. And make freaking amazing food.

What is it about countries where they speak a different language that suddenly makes you want to eavesdrop on every conversation you hear?

*From now on, I've decided every song I mention on this blog can be found on the playlist to the right (with certain exceptions, like Gary Go, which is not on playlist.com but you should look him up anyway). Important ones will be near the top, but all should be found by browsing, along with several other great tunes that help me survive at work. Enjoy!

A Major Issue

So this study abroad has been dominated by two groups: the English Majors and the Theatre Majors.

I hope you envisioned a West Side Story-style rumble right then. I know I sure did.

We don't really have a rivalry. Not a blatant one anyway. It's just been very easy to see the difference. I mean let's face it. In the immortal words of Batman, "it's what I do that defines me". And majors most definitely define people.

Think about it. I say Information Systems. You think: person, slightly socially awkward but not too bad, really good at fixing your computer but will most likely judge you for not using your machine to it's fullest capacity. Or MFHD majors: yeah, they're here to get married.

It makes perfect sense. Different personality types are attracted to different careers. And this is oh-so-evident when you are living and traveling and spending every waking moment with a very select group of people.

Let's just say, it's very interesting/hilarious to see the English and the Theatre people interact. They are like two cultures, circling each other, with wary eyes and distrusting demeanor. I expect to hear the tribal drums any second now.

Only a few more days in London. I don't really want to think about it. This place has been incredible. Woah. Get ready. Here comes a change in tone. This place has been ... dare I say life-changing? That feels a little bold, but I think it's accurate. The atmosphere just suits me so well. In London, everything is busy, but not in an overwhelming way like big cities in the States. It has this gravity gifted by history, by a knowledge that the building you just walked past is guraanteed to be at least a century older than our entire country. And it only gets better when you leave London and venture into the countryside, see the green and yellow hills and smell the air, air you couldn't believe could taste so fresh.

They sell a T-shirt in those hole souvenier shops that says "Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to London". I chuckle a little at it, but realize how misguided it is. London is heaven, one and the same.

WIZARD! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian.

Bonus points to people who get that reference. And no, it isn't Lord of the Rings.

So I continued my rampage of getting famous people's autographs. Let's just say I might have a promising career as a paparazzo, judging solely by the lack of shame I feel holding a camera in celebrities faces and not by the photographic quality.

I saw Waiting for Godot this week, and first off can I say that absurdist theatre is fascinating? It's tough not to try to apply symbolism to every little line, and in some ways that's part of the fun, but the pure nonsense that is absurdism is glorious. Godot in particular was just so fun to see.

This version starred Patrick Stewart (!!!) and Sir Ian McKellan (!!!!!!!!!!!!), and I don't know what to say. It's incredible how spry and coordinated Sir Ian is. He can jig with the best of them. I think he and Patrick should be best friends, they just played off each other with impeccable comedic timing. And let's just say, Jim Dale has some serious competition when it comes to narrating my life. Patrick Stewart's dulcet tones would perfectly accompany my actions. "As Cat walked down the street, she was suddenly struck with how beautiful life is, and how wonderful falafel would taste at that moment." Hmmm.

On a completely unrelated note, I've decided I want to live in Ireland.

Wolverine, I will punch you in the face.

Seriously. No joke.

So the point of this post? If you value brain cells, don't see this:


You will regret it.

This particular cinematical experience made me want to claw my eyes out. I spent well over half the movie writhing in pain and smothering laughter. SO. BAD. If you want to see a movie full of death scenes that make you laugh out loud, shoddy special effects including claws that look like cartoons coming out of Wolverine's hands, and a script that is nothing but a long laundry list of cliches, this is the show for you. Honestly, every. Single. Word sounds like it's a sound byte taken from a particularly awful B-movie. Like so:
"You shouldn't have come back here!" "I had to stop you!" "I can't be stopped!" "What you're doing is wrong!" "What would you know! You're an animal. Be the animal you are!" "I'll never look back! I am more!"
*Cat bashing her head against the seat in front of her*
Ack. So much bad movie. Well, at least I have something in common with one of my heroes, Dr. Perry Cox from Scrubs. We both share an undying and completely justified hatred for Hugh Jackman. Hugh, you're officially On Notice.

But at least something marvelous happened the next day, as if Fate was officially apologizing for awful films. I went on A Magical Mystery Tour, walking around London and checking out prominent Beatles sites! Thank you Universe!

I think I salivated appropriately over everything. Our tour guide was competent, only missing a couple of stories I found imperative. Not telling the "rattle your jewelry" anecdote? Shameful! Anyway, a couple of highlights.

Paul McCartney's office (his is the one with the arched window):



3 Saville Row, location of the last rooftop performance:



The art gallery where John met Yoko (also where Peter Asher displayed his work, co-owned by Paul):

The pub where the Beatles frequently visited, also where Jimi Hendrix was discovered:



And of course, the penultimate moment of the tour, Abbey Road Studios and ABBEY ROAD!!!:





I can die happy.

Dizzy With Absolutely Random Happiness

I've been seeing plays like a mad man (insane person, not incredibly suave and hip business person). I haven't been this exposed to that culture for years, and I guess it's working for me. I enjoy it. Whatever. It sort of makes me miss it, miss the thrill of walking on stage, taking on something other than self, convincing an entire audience that there is no possible way you can be anything other than what you tell them you are, all while you are safe behind an invisible wall.

I really missed it last night, when I saw three days of rain at the Apollo. *TEASER* It stars James McAvoy. And with that bit o' information, hold on while I wax philosophic for the next couple paragraphs.

The play was fantastic. It was technically brilliant, using a relatively sparse set design that served as the perfect space to inhabit two ages, both the modern day and 1960. But it was the lighting that carried me away. The action was all set within a loft type apartment, with huge windows completely making up one side. They shone light through those in such a way that it looked utterly natural, which is some tough stuff. Very impressive. Along with that, the manipulation of the character's shadows were obviously examined closely, with their movements precisely located so that the size and location of shadow added to the plot perfectly. Beautiful!

And then there was the acting. The other two actors were fine, and held their own, but McAvoy was why people were there, and deservedly so. As Walker/Ned, he proved that he could navigate a stage just as well, if not better than, a movie set. His characters were so different, one tortured and possibly mad, plagued by self-doubt, and the other still possessing doubt, but doubt that came through a debilitating stutter and a quiet demeanor. Both were engrossing, and he was mesmerizing to watch. I got a little choked up at the end, and that does not happen to me.

And then I had the best fangirl moment ever. One of the girls in our group wanted to wait for McAvoy at the stage door, so we huddled and waited for him. We stood there with a huge group of the most polite, calm women you've ever seen. Even when he came out of the theatre, there was no pushing or shoving or that ever-annoying shrieking that usually accompanies these sorts of things. Just people courteously waiting for him to sign their ticket. Which he did, every single person's that was waiting. I love it when people are just as nice and adorable as you always hoped they were, and he lived up to expectations. In fact, we even talked a little while he was signing my ticket. Cue nostaligic memory music and cut to the script!

Me: I loved you in Macbeth.

James (in Scottish accent): Thanks. You might want to watch out where you say that name though, we are outside a theatre. (Gives a wry half smile, signs ticket)

Me: (swoons, but just a little) Oh sorry, I mean the Scottish play.

James: Technically the Scottish TV show. (hands me ticket, may or may not wink).

Cheers!

I think that is my favorite English phrase so far. That and "no more getting your dongle out", but that's a different story for a different audience. Contact me if you want a more detailed version.



Things in cheery ol' London are going swimmingly. I've been fighting jet lag tooth and nail, allowing myself one morning of exhaustion before pushing myself to get out of the flat, rarely to return. It's working out pretty well. Five to six hours of sleep a night versus twelve hours of walking a day? Where do I sign?!?

Here's some words of wise thought from my British experience:



1. Chocolate is ruined for me forever. It's so much better here! Even though I'm not sure if that's reality speaking or my expectation that all British things are hip and mucho better than America. I expect the latter. I mean, NO. Chocolate is better! And there are many more Cadbury varieties. Mmmmmmm...

2. British accents don't automatically make a boy more attractive. I know. It came as a shock to me too. They might not be the automatic aphrodisiac I thought, but seriously, they sure do help. Just not always.

3. Diversity= Goodness. I went to my ward for the first time today, and it was AMAZING. Over 75% of the members are first generation and from Nigeria or someplace similar. I love being so close to new testimonies, where everyone is full of excitement and fervor. Smaller wards are my favorite. Plus, I want a black child with hugenormous rich brown eyes, like the three year old I flirted with during sacrament meeting. Sorry redheaded babies, you've been replaced.

4. Cliques are for losers and squares. The more people you know, the more people there are to mooch off of when the occasion requires it. See? You learn something new every day.

5. Nothing can compete with Shakespeare. Ever.




So go London! Or go to London. Come on. Everybody's doing it.

Losing It. Seriously.

I will give a great amount of something, possibly money, to the person who can answer the following question. Why am I losing everything I own? And why is it that the things I lose are the things I love? I don't know if it's just me being extra-spacey or if there is a grand conspiracy out there trying to undermine my sanity (think "The Net" but on a slightly lesser scale). Honestly, I think I'm going crazy. That's got to be it. How else can you explain the gradual loss of my personal items?

The whole thing started last December, when I lost this:

My iPod, glorious in all it's 80 gigs of music. It was my world. As far as I know, I left it on the floor of the JSB while I was cramming for a test. I realized I didn't have it about a half-hour after leaving, but when I returned to my study spot, my dear iPod was gone. Despite daily visits to the lost & found, it was never recovered. My cheap nature has kept me from buying a replacement, and I've been making do with a 30 gig that doesn't hold all my music. It's not fun, but at least I have something. To the jerk who picked up my iPod and didn't turn it into the lost & found, I hope you get infected with boils. Shame on you! Stealing an iPod from the religion building? You are so going to Hell.

After this most debilitating blow, more and more of my precious doodads started to disappear. To date, I have lost countless pro-recycling buttons:

One super cool Batman button:
Two of my Andrew Bird pins that look similar to these:


My Beatles shirt from the 1964 concert:


And one kick-awesome scarf, featured here:


Funny story, I actually lost the scarf while I was running around campus after a dance lab, trying to find the pair of jeans I had brought to change into. I was positive that they'd been left on the floor in the Wilk, and stolen because they were freaking awesome jeans. The pants turned out to be folded up on the couch at my apartment. The scarf was not so lucky.

But each and every one of these losses caused great emotional trauma. Seriously, I couldn't sleep well, food was meaningless, and there was a gaping hole where I didn't feel complete. I think it's because I get way too attached to inanimate objects. Maybe it's because I have a tendency to name them (Examples: My iPod Ignatius VI, or my guitar Montgomery). Or possibly it's the fact that I didn't have many friends my age growing up, blah blah blah, and so I place a heightened sense of companionship on the things that surround me.

I think it's because what we own defines who we are. No, listen. The things we decide to buy are the most perfect indicators of personality. Why would we lay down hard-earned money for something that doesn't express some facet of self? Nothing better encapsulates our likes and dislikes, personal quirks and passions better than our possessions. So when I lose something I've bought, something that is a part of my life and past, it hurts. And I can't get over it. It's not like I'm losing meaningless trinkets. I'm losing me.

So do me a favor. If I'm with you and we leave a place, check for what I've left behind. Make sure I'm not leaving a trail of pocket change and accessories in my wake. Or if you see me on the verge of tears, my eyes frantically scoping the ground, just pat me on the back, look around for a couple seconds, and assure me it will be OK. I'll have plenty of chances for new experiences, experiences equal or better than the ones that I've lost.

UPDATE: The scarf has been returned to me. Honest people ROCK.

I've Got No Write

So I had a great moment today. And by "great" I mean "it felt like my insides were forcibly removed through the navel, stomped on, and then shoved back in". Or perhaps "like my soul was ripped from my heart and rubbed against asphalt for a while, before being dipped all raw and oozing into boiling water".

I realized that I am not a writer.

That might sound dramatic, and rightfully so. But it came as a shock to me. There I was, preparing myself for another Thursday full of classes, my mind drifting. I was thinking about how tired I was, due to the sheer amount of YouTube videos I had watched the night before. This led me to consider just how much time I spent online, which led to my blog obsession, which led me to wonder whether there were any out there that I followed and hadn't checked recently. This led me to think about Emily Wing Smith, which in turn made me reflect on the last time I saw her, at her book signing in Barnes and Noble. How cool is it that I know a published author? And then I remembered that when she signed my copy of The Way He Lived she asked if I wrote, and I answered yes, and she wished me the best of luck in my own writing.

At that moment, I stopped what I was doing and stared at the wall in front of me. Because just then, I knew I had lied. I had given a gut answer that didn't hold true anymore, and that fact make me want to curl up on the couch and listen to Radiohead's "No Surprises" until there was nothing left of me but an empty shell, where all that remains is the chocolate outside of a Cadbury Caramel Egg, sucked void of all creative spark (embodied in this case by sweet caramel goodness).

I think this is my first large-scale identity crisis. My entire life, I was The Writer, capitalized and all. From kindergarten to 5th grade, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would stand up straight and say "I'm going to be an author!" with all the pride I could muster. True, back then it sounded more like "I'm gonna be an authoh" because I coulnd't say my r's, but the conviction I had was worth a thousand words. Even after I decided to be an English Teacher in 6th grade, it was just the paying gig, my service to humanity while I wrote on the side.

That dream is dead now. I haven't really written in years. I did take a Creative Writing class to try and reignite the flame, where I wrote a killer essay (man, can I write an essay, even if it is technically "creative non-fiction"), an acceptable poem, and one disgustingly mediocre short story. None of them had passion. None of them were artistic and beautiful, things that all writing should be. They were just words, and I was merely throwing more subpar material into the world.

This blog was partially meant to resuscitate my writing. But even within the casual confines of blogging, I've struggled to find a voice. It seems that you can't write well unless you know your style, and mine is still nowhere to be found. The tones of my past posts are erratic, and you can almost visualize my woebegone wanderings as I grasp at genre. Am I humorous? Am I a poet? Am I a deep thinker, with new observations about the world around me? Nope. I'm not even a journal blogger, with mundane specifics of my day.

So that's the question I vomit on the screen, my words as stinky and almost as worthy of disdain. Without being "a writer", can I write? Is there a glorious resurrection in the future for me and my work? And is that passion for the pen even still within me? If not, can I regain it?

They're trying to "Fix Me"... a.k.a. my lame attempt at a punny title involving a Coldplay song.

This is my saving grace at work. I used to listen to Project Playlist, but I got so sick of the songs I picked. Change was needed. Something new and fresh was needed. And that something was Pandora.

Listening to Pandora is fantastic. It's almost what I imagine a honeymoon would be like, but with fresh music instead of fresh marriage. Right now in my life, I prefer the music. But that doesn't have anything to do with what I am trying to say, so moving on...

There's only one problem to this system. As you might know, Pandora creates "stations" based on a musical artist you choose, playing music by the artist and similar musicians. This is a perfect system if you want to find new things to love, but sometimes the all-knowing Pandora can shove music at you. Like what they're doing right now with Coldplay.


I know most people will hate me for this, but I'm lukewarm when it comes to Coldplay. I really like "Don't Panic", and I'll jam to a couple other songs, but I don't go all weak in the stomach when I hear their music. Before you organize an angry mob (*cough* Kelsey *cough* Kate *cough* Paige), know this: I do appreciate and recognize their contribution to modern music. They just don't fill me with unhibited joy and passion, and I'm OK with that.

But according to Pandora, I should be completely, utterly INFATUATED with Coldplay. They show up on every single station I listen to. My Andrew Bird station? Up pops "Green Eyes". Badly Drawn Boy? Even more. And on Ben Folds Five, Coldplay is seriously every other song, which really confuses me because I don't connect those two bands at all. And I haven't got the heart to click thumbs down, an action that feels like ultimate rejection. I don't dislike the songs, I'm just apathetic.

The only issue is variety. What a glorious word, representing all the beautiful choices and possibilities this world has to offer us. With variety, we can expand thought and create enlightened minds that think outside the box. With variety, we can accomplish more than anyone imagined. With variety, we can RULE THE WORLD. So come on Pandora. Expand your horizons and reach beyond the Coldplay universe.

Noble Beast

This Wednesday I stood outside In the Venue for about an hour, patiently waiting with my awesome sister-in-law Kate to partake of a musical experience unlike any before. A musical experience known as Andrew Bird, a man who has changed the way I look at sound.


Right after seven we were ushered in, after being subjected to a quick frisking. Yeah... I'd rather not talk about it. But standing outside in the cold for an hour sure paid off when Kate and I scored spots right in front of the stage, complete with a handy barrier to lean on. Take that people who walked by us in line! You might be too hip for existence, but those squares near the front of the line hit pay dirt. Here's a little something to put it in perspective: we were less than then ten feet away from Andrew Bird. Is that heaven? I wouldn't be surprised.

The first highlight of the evening came with the opening band, which was blessedly the only opener. I'd heard of Loney Dear when a pseudo-friend gave some of their music to me a year or so ago. I listened and thought they were OK but nothing too special. They were just a another Death Cab rip off with whiny vocals and heavy back beats. Yeah, so I was very very wrong. Seeing a band live can completely change opinions, and Loney Dear proved their chops. The lead singer Emil Svanangen had a voice that floated above the earthy beats provided by a band with one killer percussion section. He really strutted his stuff on "Ignorant Boy, Beautiful Girl", where the audience sang a backup vocal lick while the band dropped out, leaving Svanangen to wail on the waves of sound we provided. You could tell he was having fun experimenting, and we were just thrilled to be along for the ride.

But nothing compares to Andrew Bird. Ever. I (falsely) pride myself on knowing my way around music. I think I can tell when a person is skilled or not, whether they have a firm understanding of how sound works. Bird is without a doubt the most talented musician I have ever seen. Not only is he insanely full of ability, but his imagination when it comes to music exceeds all others. It might sound like I am gushing all over the screen (and I am. Disgustingly so), but I can't even begin to tell you about how he manipulates tones to create the most unique and beautiful music I've had the pleasure to hear. The joy merely increases with lyrics that are way too smart for me but create poetical tongue twisters so thick and delicious you can swim in them.

The man himself was adorable, so tall and thin and gangly, exuding a delicately intelligent persona that matched his movements. He reminded me of that mythical liberal arts professor you have a crush on, with his long face and wide smile, hair flopping in dark wisps. But what was really impressive were his methods. As a multi-instrumentalist, Bird played violin and guitar, all while singing and whistling (something he elevates to an art form). To provide the right sound, he looped licks recorded at the beginning of each song, working pedals to produce the loops through what can only be described as gigantic gramophone horns placed onstage. He could smoothly transition from recording to immediately playing something new, backed up by what he had been doing seconds before, so seamlessly that you didn't even notice the change and wondered how one man could make such noise. The performance was something so extraordinary you really do have to see it to believe it. And I don't use that phrase lightly. It's astounding.

And the pure variety! Andrew Bird coaxes sounds from his instruments that are diverse and moving, capturing ghosts of other instruments. I was playing a song for my family, and my mom swore that she heard a bass and a banjo, when it was merely layers of violin. One of my favorite songs from the concert was "Effigy", where he starts with a mischievous plucking pattern on violin, going to more conventional playing that was rich and mysterious, looping those for a guitar pattern which he broke in the middle to play a folksy fiddle solo in the old Americana tradition.

Here's the thing: I love it when I go to concerts and feel embedded in sound. Most musicians try to do this by cranking up the volume so loud that you feel the rhythm, but lose the melody. Bird didn't need to resort to anything so cheap, instead covering you with such dense amounts of options that you get lost. The whole hour and half he played my entire being trembled, carried away by the transcendence of the music. Even Bird seemed to be swept up in the effect, as he appeared to be on a higher plane. Throughout several songs, like opener "Masterswarm", his eyes were closed as he moved his head to accentuate his work, only opening them to gaze above the crowd and into the distance, literally reaching out his hand to grasp what was presumably the sound that played beyond him. During "Plasticities" I'm pretty sure I had a moment of pure Nirvana. One of his ... gramophone things... was double headed (and accompanied by a sock monkey so cute that I will not rest until I own it) and could rotate at increasing speeds when activated. This managed to throw sound in circles around you, creating something otherworldly and exuberant.

When he closed after an encore of jazzy "Why" and upbeat "Fitz and the Dizzyspells", I didn't want it to be over. I had heard him expand songs I knew into new creations (like what he did with "Fake Palindromes" and an unrecognizable "Nomenclature"), been witness to a heady mix of jazz and blues and folk, all with a healthy dash of indie pop and improvisation. It was a concert I've been reliving in my mind every moment since it ended, and if that's not a sign of something wondrous I don't know what is. I've tried to include entertaining flippancy in this post, but I can't be light with things I love, and this music is worthy of love.

The Eighty One-th

I wasn't that excited for this years Academy Awards, because let's face it. 2008 was a sucktastic year for movies. I hadn't seen most of the nominees, and none of them were surrounded by extremely positive buzz. It was mostly "pretty good" films in a sea of "astoundingly mediocre".


The Academy was definitely feeling the pressure, as seen by the amount of press they were putting into advertising this years "changes". Some were good, some were disappointing, and overall it was a solid meh. I watched to see Ledger win the first posthumous Oscar, and that's about it. But I did get caught up in some things. It's the movies. I dare you not to.

First off, Hugh Jackman. Oh Hugh. Yes, you are the sexiest man alive, according to a questionable magazine that apparantly has the last word on attraction. He wasn't bad as a host, managing to be at least as funny as the last Stewart run. I loved his confidence, especially in the first number where I laughed out loud at the milk carton Batpod, Anne Hathaway (yes! Don't judge. You chuckled at the potential Frost/Nixon forbidden love too), and the complete lack of anything pertinant to The Reader. His enthusiasm for song and dance got a tad old after a while, especially with the whole "musicals are back!" rigamarole. Once Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens got on stage, I was ready for a return to the old formula of showcasing the Best Song Nominees--sidenote, I really missed that part. I loved getting fully acquainted with the songs, and the mash up right before announcing the winner didn't do it for me.

But as long as we're talking about Zac and Vanessa, let's get to my main complaint about the 81st Annual Academy Awards. Where the crap were the freaking celebrities?!? It looked like the first row was packed with all the nominees, and the entire theater behind them was full of faceless extras, or sound and editing people. And most importantly, WHERE WAS JACK NICHOLSON????? It's just not an awards show without Jackie Boy sitting front row center, wearing those sunglasses that allow him to look both old man creepy and lecherously cool. I mean if it wasn't for a nomination, I bet Meryl Streep wouldn't even be there. The whole thing had a B-list feel that left me feeling dirty and cheap. I mean Zac and Vanessa? Miley Cyrus? Robert "Edward" Pattinson? Apparently teenage girls wrote the guest list. Please, kill me now. Even Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie looked more stiff and uncomfortable than usual. And that's saying something.

Also, my last complaint (maybe)... Sean Penn? Again? Hasn't the man won enough? We get it Sean. You're edgy, and outspoken, and take dangerous roles and pull them off. Bully for you. But I wanted it to be Mickey Rourke's turn. I don't really know why, but I was rooting for that man to win in the worst way. It's not like I've seen The Wrestler, or really have any intention of seeing it. But America loves a success story. Just look at Robert Downey Jr. We are estatic when someone makes a spectacular comeback, and man was Rourke's one for the ages. Plus, I really wanted to see a randy hobo pimp accept the Oscar. Please Academy? Couldn't you have done this one for me?

But the Awards were not without their charm. The majority of presenters was full of inspired groupings. I have a slight crush on Jack Black, and dug the easy way he and Jennifer Aniston (who is totally hot, even though she feels some need to validate that fact all the time) interacted. And the ever elegant Natalie Portman and Ben Stiller. Who doesn't a love a well placed Joaquin Phoenix jab? I know I sure do. And I secretly want Tina Fey and Steve Martin to run away together and make small bundles of hilarity. But the definite highlight was the montage set to Pineapple Express. I don't think I've laughed so hard at a contrived awards show sketch in my life. I almost died at James Franco's sudden thoughtful expression after the Milk kiss. And a lauded cinematographer saying "suck it"? Priceless.

Finally, a quick runthrough of the wins that brought me joy. When Wall-E won I nearly jumped out of my chair. I was so nervous about all the Kung-Fu Panda upset predections, and it's great to see that the Academy didn't deprive Pixar of an award they fully deserved, especially after the Best Picture snub. Also, I was fully expecting Gus van Sant to win for director, and LOVED it when Danny Boyle won instead. His films are always a little odd with plenty of quiet beauty (even when it involves running from Rage infected "zombies"), and I was pleased to see someone so beneath the radar take home the big prize. And then there's Kate Winslet, looking gorgeous and humble and honestly so pleased to receive this honor. I loved her speech, loved her dress, just loved her.

Still, this year was kind of a bummer, with no tense anticipation or real competition. The overall feel was apathy, and that does not make for a great Oscar show. But the previews for upcoming movies gave me hope for the 82nd Academy Awards. With Public Enemies, Up, Watchmen, and my personal favorite, 500 Days of Summer opening soon, there should actually be some shows worth watching this year. I can't wait.