The Witness of Change

 This is me, being 32.

This is me, holding a secret - or at least, a social media secret. 

See, this is me, being 36 weeks pregnant. A fact I kept off the Internet. At first non-intentionally, and then just because I could. Because I’d gone months without posting a staticky sonogram, or an artful shot of my gently swelling stomach, and why not keep it up?

Before I gave birth to Alex, the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie also had a child. She never announced it, did no publicity, and chalked it up to not wanting to “perform pregnancy,” a phrase that lives rent-free inside my head. I did not want to perform pregnancy. I was already a vessel to my wonderful baby boy, I didn’t want to become only a vessel to the world at large as well.

And although the pregnancy was just over half of this past year, it still seemed interminable. I look back at pictures from the before times, and wonder if it was all a glorious dream. Was there ever a time I wasn’t miserably pregnant? Truly, honestly?

And yet, as 31 dawned, I wouldn't ever believe I’d be in this precise place when it set. Life was drastically different. I had absolutely zero plans of being pregnant. I would have broken down sobbing to know that I went back to teaching. And I would have guffawed in your face to think that Texas, of all the miserably backwards places,* would be the closest I’ve ever felt to home.

As I type, I’m staring at my beautiful baby boy, all wide eyes and solemn stares. I’m coming off my best educational year ever (yes, this COVID-soaked, hybrid-teaching chaos of a year), hyped about unit plans and even data collection, spurred on by a teaching partner so amazing I’m still pinching myself that she’s real. And I’m sitting in a house with year-round Halloween decorations and a room dedicated to instruments.

There were two songs on constant rotation this year. This kick-awesome RatM anthem was one, as I re-entered education and took my power back after a disastrous school placement. And then, once it dropped, I became obsessed with this incredibly smooth Anderson .Paak/Bruno Mars collaboration. I mean, watch each and every video. It's astounding.

I enjoy those as a representation of my life. I'm deeply satisfied right now. Yet, as with everything, there’s room for better.

32, I took that power back, but I'll still leave the door open for more.

31. 30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*and yes, I do still find it politically and infrastructurally backwards, thanks to mewling conservative sycophants of a governor/other state reps. Vote them out! But this is a beautiful place! But down with misguided libertarianism! Oh, the conflicting feelings! My emotions!

Floating in the Dark, Temporary Scars

Clearly, I'm not always full of sunshine and rainbows about my move back east.

But Boston has one thing.

Nearly every night when I walk home in the oppressive dark, I look up.

And there, beyond the tree-lined edges of my view, are stars.

After almost two years without, stars are a welcome presence.  I've missed my friend Orion, and Cassiopeia's regal throne.  I see the chained Andromeda, and I feel free.

Dancin' the Night Away

This week I survived the official first day of school.  It was a day fraught with terror, but completed with my own unique brand of reverence and ritual.

The old?  Forcing down a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, fighting a stomach tight with nervousness.  From my first day of Jr. High as a measly twelve-year-old, I've been cursed with this near-manic excitement and apprehension at school's start.  Back then it was worries about whether my teachers and peers would like me.  Would they accept me?  Will I get lost?  How will I know where to go and what to do?  Now, it's concern over whether my students will warm up to me, and if the other faculty will be nice.  And whether I'll adjust to the schedule of a new school, whether I'll know when to dismiss classes and where the students will go.  So basically, will they accept me and will I get lost?

The new?  Going to a concert the night before school starts.  This is the second year in a row I've done it, and I think I might try to keep up the habit.  It's a nice way to keep my mind off the upcoming day.  My excitement for the music at night staves off the vomitous butterflies of nerves during the day.  That sense of
excitement/anticipation is basically the only thing in common between this year and last.  Since I'm a sucker for year retrospectives (I often look at every day in comparison to the year before.  It helps remind me of how well I'm progressing in life), let's compare, shall we?

August, 2011.  The artist?  Death Cab for Cutie.

I miss chubby Ben Gibbard.  Come back!

I was so looking forward to Death Cab.  And musically, the band did not disappoint.  It was just too bad everything else did.  This experience marked the beginning of a long four months that continuously and harshly proved to me that my time in Utah was over.  I might have been there, but I was not a part of it.  Last fall helped me understand how expired milk feels--my presence in Utah was also a nauseating, unwanted one, an act in me taking up fridge space in a place I was no longer needed.  And let's throw in smelly and lumpy, just for the sake of the metaphor.

It didn't help that I was so nervous about seeing Death Cab, full of terror that I might run into the ex from a nasty break-up.  I had planned to go with a bunch of guy friends, dudes that could offer a good support system. Instead the only guy that showed up sucker-punched me with the presence of his summer girlfriend.  Seeing a band you love while your friend and his semi-significant other are canoodling beside you sucks.  Especially when your own canoodler is 1000 miles away.  If anything deserves a fail label, that does.

September, 2012.  The artist? My friend Amber's band, Varnish.  Check 'em out.

This year I traded the back of an awkward stadium general admission for the intimacy of a tiny bar.  I think it's a good indicator of my life this time around.  Maybe it's not as outwardly glamorous, but the events around it are genuine, filled with peace and belonging.  Like the previous year, I was walking into a concert experience (essentially) by myself.  But rather than sit around the edge feeling uncomfortable, I chatted with people.  I rocked out to this band headed by a woman who had an intense commitment to music, to her identity, to her life. The authenticity of the experiencewas through the roof.

So that progress-o-meter?  Doing well.  This year has been streets ahead so far.

Random Segment: What's Making Me Happy This Week

On my beloved Pop Culture Happy Hour, the final segment is always a small focus on what is making each cast member happy this week.  And, for the first time in a while, I actually have something that is not the podcast itself that is making me happy!  Win?

Two years ago, I would obsessively watch the True Grit trailer.  It was a sure-fire cure for the blues.

I'd like to introduce this year's contender for the most happy-making trailer.  A trailer that feeds country and funk and snark and gore.  A trailer with history and anachronism.  Mostly the latter.  A trailer made for me.  A trailer made as a precious gift for you.  A trailer for the masses.  Without further ado, I present: Django Unchained.



I may or may not have just watched this five times in quick succession.

I regret nothing.

"The Time Has Come," The Walrus Said

After three months of perfectly coordinated work/school schedules, Taylor and I are operating at different times, which means I finally get some alone time in the apartment.  Oh yeah!

On the flip side, it also means I don't have anyone to work/cook/make myself look decent for.  Which is awesome, but also a throwback to College Cat, who lived for months on tortilla chips. J-Dawgs, and whatever food Ashley would make.  It was a glamorous life.

ANYWAY.  The basic point to that exposition is to say that tonight, I felt no urge to actually 'make' food, but my hunger was driving me to do something.  That, and a tomato that had to be eaten, led to this:

If you think this is gross, TOO BAD.  It was delicious.  And full of tasty subtext.

And all of a sudden, I was transported.  Zapped back to a simpler time, when I read Harriet the Spy ad nauseum, made endless tomato sandwiches despite my aversion to mayonnaise, and carried around a little red notebook festooned with exclamations of "Private!"  and "Keep Out, Under Penalty of Death!"

Do you remember Harriet?  It was amazing.  That book was hands down my favorite as a child.  I spent most of my six-year-old life jumping over fences and lurking around my neighbor's backyards.  I meticulously wrote down everything I saw.  Unlike Harriet, I did not live in an exotic city.  I did not have eccentric hermits or family groceries in my neighborhood.  Instead, the notebook was filled with tidbits like "Mr. Gove moved his tramp to mow the lawn.  Why?  You can mow around it.  Also, he looks old," or "Oops, Mrs. Kirkpatrick caught me.  But she gave me cookies!," or "The Murray's dog is really friendly, so I wonder why they keep such a big fence around it.  Every time I sneak in, he just wants to be pet."  Such ground-breaking observations.

I could go on about how I was one of the first to see the movie, at good old Gateway 8 in Bountiful.  Or about how incredible Harriet is as a character--how's she's snotty, and honest, and funny, and so self-assured and resolute about her life.  She wants to write, and nothing will deter her.  And it's amazing.  Or I could discuss how Ole Golly is basically the perfect sage figure, so full of wisdom and truth, the perfect life guide. Or I could make more deep and emotional ties to my own childhood, admitting that the depression and loneliness Harriet felt as she was tormented by her peers mirrors my own elementary experience, and how the fact that she did not change herself to fit in, that she managed to be strong whilst being ostracized gave me hope in my own future.

Yes I could talk about all those things.  But as I could not do them justice at the present, I'll just say that Harriet the Spy is a wonderful book, one that I think you should definitely read if you haven't.  Yes, it's a kid's book.  But it's smarter, and tougher, and more honest than half the books out there.  And it's vastly more enjoyable.  Just saying.

So that book, plus tomato sandwich, equals bliss. Trust me.  You won't be sorry if you do.

Quote Dumps and Philosophies

A while back, I read Travels With Charley, by John Steinbeck.  I really, truly loved that book.  You know the feeling when you read a book, and you can tell that it's changing you?  Where you read it, and every page tingles because you're connecting with the text in a lasting, meaningful way?  That's what happened.  Reading it was an experience in personal philosophy making.  A tangible, recognizable extension of personal canon.  Within the first ten pages, I knew that I had found a favorite book, one that immediately joined such elite tomes as Dracula, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Fugitive Pieces in my All Time Favorite Books Ever List.

When I read it, I was borrowing a friend's copy, and it drove me crazy that I couldn't underline my favorite passages.  Yes, I am one of those people who "desecrates" their books.  Here's how I see it: in Judaism, the Rabbinical studies of the Torah are considered so sacred and beautiful that they take on new life as part of the Talmud, a book that is studied and revered on the same level of scripture by certain sects.  Now, I'm not saying that my comments and interactions with the written word are that enlightened.  But I like the idea that books take on new layers and dimensions as they accumulate discussion.*  Reading a used copy of a book, one that has previous markings, always makes me pay attention to lines I might have skimmed over.  Even if the only interaction is a long-forgotten inscription in the front cover, the fact that this was an ancient gift colors my reading, makes me look at it in a way where I try to see the value that made that book so important to someone that they would share it with another.  So yes, I write in my books.  It helps me remember why they are important to me, and lets me make similar connections with others.

Sorry.  Tangent over.  Anyway, I couldn't mark up that copy, so I was left to frantically type the quotes I loved in my phone (naturally, it was the only thing I could count to always have on hand, as I sometimes didn't have a notebook near me when I was reading).  I didn't want to lose those quotes when I finally bought the book, so I'm putting them here as a method of safe-keeping.  And so that perhaps someone else will read this under-rated treasure, and it will spread to the masses!  Revolution!  Or, at least, I'll have someone else to geek out with me.

So, without further ado, some of my favorite Steinbeck moments:

"I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found."

"How myth wipes out fact. ... I am happy to report that in the war between reality and romance, reality is not the stronger."

"A man with nothing to say has no words.  Can it's reverse be true-- a man who has no one to say anything to has no words as he has no need for words?"

"The American tendency in travel.  One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward."

"What I found was closely intermeshed with how I felt at the moment."

"But to get to be people they must fight those who aren't satisfied to be people."

"This used to be a nation of giants.  Where have they gone?  You can't defend a nation with a board of directors.  That takes men."

"In those days there was no world beyond the mountains."

"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike."

*If you want to learn more about these theories, I highly recommend The Talmud and the Internet by Jonathan Rosen.  It completely changed my relationship with text, and strengthened my respect for Judaism.

Ink and Paper

I visited you this weekend. While I was home--home for two whirlwind days full of wedding planning and first visits to a beautiful, sacred place--I couldn't resist spending some time with you. I saw you every night, packed up demurely in the corner of my room, or stacked haphazardly in bags on the floor, and I had to let you know how loved you were.

So I unpacked those boxes, removed tape and peeled up labeled tabs, surrounding myself with stacks of wisdom and truth. Gently, I freed you from the precarious Jenga confinements of your cardboard prisons. I ruffled your pages and caressed highlighted words. Fanned out covers and re-read earmarked corners. Built walls around myself, walls of myth and lecture, poetry and essay. Basked in the constant waves of language as they swirled around me, feeding through eyes and ears and lips, filling my mind and spirit.

And then I packed you up again. I liberated a few sad souls, souls whose words I could not live without any longer, stuffing Billy Collins and The English Patient in my backpack. But as for the rest, you were delegated back into the shadowy corners. Left to dream of that glorious day, not too far off, when you will breathe on shelves doused in sunlight, the delicate touch of fingers on your spine and exhalations of wonder on your open pages.

Must Be This Tall To Ride

Well, I just watched Reality Bites again. Dearie me, what a great movie. Except every time I watch it I wish, with all my heart, that I could find Ethan Hawke even just a little attractive. I mean the character he plays is fantastic, intriguing, and has that whole dirty musician thing that's usually my weakness. But I can't get over his greasy weasel face. Such a shame.

Anyway, watching it inspired me to write. To write candidly, and with very little censor. Well, little censor for me, that is. Going from an emotionless brick wall to a wall with a small crack might not seem like much, but take what you can get.

If you've read this blog at all, you might guess that I'm a little media-obsessed. I'm an escapist in the truest sense of the word. Well, maybe escape isn't quite right. I don't seek to lose myself in the art of the day. Actually, it's the opposite--with every piece of music or TV or movie I watch, I try to use it to figure out my own existence. In fact, this trait has been exhibited several times on the ol' Angst Muffins, and even in a previous post about Reality Bites (found here). But I'm starting to wonder if this isn't the best tactic to take. Possibly, just possibly, stories by others do not carry clues to figuring out my own puzzling situations. What a blow.

That sounded a wee bit crazy. It's not as if I take everything I watch to be some great mystical Ouija Board. I don't think that I should mimic character's actions or anything. But the reason media is fascinating is because it forms connections, and I do believe that the more you examine the connections, the better any viewing/reading/consuming experience will be.

Take this Christmas Break for instance. Things you need to know about my Christmas Break: A- Fall semester was absolute Hell.
B-Over Christmas Break, I watched the series My So-Called Life in it's entirety.

I am not proud of this statement. Mostly because, all nostalgia aside, My So-Called Life is a terrible show. No, really. There is not a single likeable character in the mix.

* RANT* Except for Ricky. Ricky is pretty great. I never really understood why he hung out with Rayanne, except for the whole momma-bear 'no one will look out for her if I don't' spiel. She's a bad seed Ricky! You are better than that. *END RANT*

But back to MSCL, as the cool kids say. Really, just an irksome show. Like I said, bad characters, sophomoric, irritating dialogue ("It was, like, so totally elemental. Like my soul was, like, all, exposed or something." I don't think this is a direct quote, but it might as well be), and episodes that seemed to jump around and were over-dramatic, over-acted, and straight up annoying.

And yet I loved it. And what's more, I identified with it. Go figure.

There were times when I would finish an episode and just sit and squirm, I identified with Angela Chase so much. You see, back then, I had my Jordan Catalano, a guy I was oh-so-into, but like Jordan, all he wanted to do was make out in the high school furnace room and ignore me in front of his bandmates (not literally, that's referencing a story arc from the show for emphasis). And that Christmas, I had my Brian Krakow, the childhood friend, the boy next door who just wanted a shot, but circled my street on his bike one too many times (once again, a show reference, not reality).

And I thought, 'hey, MSCL. These can't be the only options, right?'

So I would sit a fume and vow to find the third character. An escape route. And all this time I would sit and have internal monologues that were undoubtedly in Angela's voice, and then I would get frustrated because my subconscious sounded like a fifteen year old girl. I didn't ever want that, even when I was fifteen.

See, I think that was the part that bothered me the most about finding myself in Angela Chase. She was a sophomore in high school. And I was twenty-one and finishing up college. There should not have been any comparison, right? I should not be sympathizing with the struggles of teenagers.

Sometimes I seriously worry that I have stunted growth. That is not to say that I am immature. In fact, I've usually considered myself more rational than other people my age (she said ever so smugly). That sounded condescending, and I apologize. It's not intellectually, or physically, but emotionally. I joke that I am an emotionless brick wall, but for a long time, I think that was true. I didn't start letting people in--whether it's friends or relationships or whatever--until college. So I guess it makes sense that I'm a little behind, desperately trying to catch up to the high school sophomores of the world, to figure out how interacting with others is supposed to work. I'm working on it, but sometimes progress is slow. Sometimes, I still think it's easier to just shut everything and everyone out. But alas, as I'm discovering, I'm an unexpectedly social creature, and I don't think the arms-length method of living would be worth it in the end.

So I'll progress. Slow but steady. And who knows, maybe I'll hit where I'm supposed to be one of these days.

Procrastination

I don't want to write my "Inquiry Paper" (socially acceptable way to say research paper. Ha! I am not so easily fooled).

I love my topic. I love it so much I am nigh unto obsessed with it. Using TV and movies in the classroom? Sign me up! The research process has rocked. If I could do nothing but sit and read articles about television, I would be the happiest girl in the whole wide world. All my findings have organized themselves neatly into a cohesive paper, with my outline practically writing itself and just waiting to burst from my typing fingers. And I'm oh-so-very eager and excited to share my findings and rub the glory of pop culture into snobby elitist faces.

The world of academia, actually, the world in general, never really progresses past playground fights, does it?

Anyway, this paper should be the easiest thing I've written in my college career. Yet here I sit, swigging from a two-liter of Cherry Coke and whining about how I don't wanna do it.

Oh, and procrastinating by salivating over things at outofprintclothing.com. I want them all!

Here are the best, with the selection based less on appearance (though that's a factor) and more on what books I've read. I don't believe in false advertising, and I will not wear a shirt of something I don't support.

This is my favorite, the one I dream about at night:


These are all equally delightful, and I want them:






Out of the those, I'd have to say my top three shirts are Fahrenheit 451, The Song of Solomon, and The Lord of the Flies (or To Kill a Mockingbird). Fitting, since those are a few of my favorite books.

I should really just write a hierarchy of my preference in literary shirts. Can I get a Nerd Alert?

Couch Monster

Oh the joys of having an animation major as a roommate.

No, really. I love it.

It's always an adventure. Like today, for instance, where I spent an hour getting eaten by a couch for a short stop-motion photo project. Yep, you read that right. I got eaten by a couch.


And no lying, it was the highlight of my day. I think I might have a talent for making barely perceptible motions very slowly, resulting in some awesome flip-book-tastic photos. I wish Lauren had the movie ready already, so I could post it here, but it's not to be. Just believe me when I say that there are some pretty incredible flailing leg actions going on that I am quite proud of. I'm 100% positive that I completely captured the trauma and physical motions that would occur if a couch were to spontaneously eat the occupant.

Also, painstakingly propping up cushions with Xbox games and books was pretty enjoyable, as was manipulating orange ribbon to act as the couch's grabbing arms/tongue. Sometimes I wish I hadn't dedicated myself to being a teacher at such a young age (ten or eleven, to be exact). Who knows, maybe I could have had a lucrative career in film, either as an actor, or director, or props manager, or my secret ambition, a screenwriter.

That last one is actually serious. I still sometimes fantasize about moving to New York or LA and writing for some second-rate sitcom, all while harboring secret dreams and working on a screenplay that would be my magnum opus, something combining the dry wit and drama of the Coens with the indie sensibilities of Wes Anderson, but much more accessible and meaningful.

Honestly, I'm just shooting for Tina Fey here. That's kind of my only ambition in life.

My Man Harem?

Once upon a time there was a girl. This girl had average looks, average social skills, and above-average intelligence and wit. She was coming off a junior year where she abandoned the identity she thought she wanted, left a group of friends, and was entering her senior year with few ties and great potential for loneliness.

Luckily, this girl happened to love journalism, and was returning to the school newspaper (despite being HORRIBLY slighted the editor-in-chief position) (not that she's bitter) (she's still a little bitter).

Pictured: Masthead of School Paper

That class opened up the girl's world, and was where she made friends that have actually lasted. The girl has been out of high school for four years, her and her friends have all gone separate ways, and contact has been sporadic at best (mostly because said girl is horribly lazy at long distance communication). But the few people she still cares about from high school mostly stem from that class. Jon, Ashley, Kelsey, Paige. These are people I ... I mean, this girl, treasures.

Enough story-telling.

Despite the connections I made, there is one group that holds a special soft spot in my heart, and that is my Junior Boys. The Junior Boys are exactly what they sound like--a group of guys a grade younger than me. But these boys were intelligent, passionate, and most importantly, fun to be around. They challenged my thinking and pushed me to expand my intelligence. They helped build both my knowledge of politics and my resume (thank you, JSA). They introduced me to Scrubs and sat with me through countless Office parties. They helped make my senior year unforgettable.

Tonight I hung out with Kyle and Andy, the two main guys from the Junior Boys. I'm lucky enough to see Andy fairly regularly, and really, he's one of my very best friends and in my top favorite people in the world. But I rarely see Kyle, since he got all pretentious and went to Yale. Hey, you don't want to get made fun of for that, don't get all East Coast. Anyway.

But tonight wasn't about any of that. It was the group, just chilling and talking and enjoying being around each other. I've heard people talk about old times, and kind of understood the phrase, but tonight really felt like that. It felt like old times, a reliving of glory days. And you know what? I don't even care that those glory days involve sitting around a computer, listening to music and mocking each other. The three of us, together again? Magical.

And They Call Me...

... the Jackal.

It's time for me to wax eloquent about The West Wing. However, due to the fact that I don't blog until late and I almost always would rather go to bed than do this, I will probably not do it the justice that it so richly deserves.


Let's boil it down to a few main talking points, upon which I might elaborate at a future date.

1. I love Aaron Sorkin. I think his writing is beyond brilliant. The way he creates the most complex, and truly human characters is admirable. Sorkin also manages to mold situations and plot in a way that never, ever ceases to be magical. I just finished the second season, and I am still getting chills from the writing. The fact that I often just stare at the screen, dumbstruck, only able to whisper "this is the most well-written production" should attest to his genius. Also, have I mentioned that the man has an Oscar? Because he does. Aaron Sorkin now has an Oscar. And I have never supported and fully endorsed any win as much as I have his. Aaron, I am genuinely full of joy for you.

2. It has the perfect cast. I never thought I would like Martin Sheen, let alone be so loyal to his fictional president. I would vote for President Bartlet in a second, because (according to his character) he is a good man, with an excellent and supportive staff. He is the kind of president I would be proud of. He has to make the tough calls, but at his core he is a bleeding heart who truly wants the best for every single American. And that's just my opinion of the president! I haven't even started talking the rest of the spectacular cast. Like CJ, the amazingly incredible press secretary, or Toby, whose speeches make me shiver and inspire me, or Sam's idealistic heart of gold, or Charlie's sheer dedication to the president, or Josh. Sigh. Josh. Josh and his fantastic cockiness, his magnificent air of surety and his brusque, yet caring manner. I'm a little bit (a whole lotta little bit) in love with that man.

Basically, awesome cast. I could wax on and on, but I should probably stop before the sheer fandom makes my computer explode.

But what's magical about The West Wing is how it makes you genuinely care about the world. It makes you realized the importance behind those people who work tirelessly at the White House. Are their jobs easy? Not at all. Do they always get what they want? Far from it. But it shows a staff with dedication, with heart and hope and a sense of humor. It inspires me. If they can make those tough decisions, and have their hearts broken time after time after time, and yet still carry on with a modicum of hope, with some deep-ingrained belief that they can make this world better, then so can I. I won't let life break me. I will remain full of passion and inspiration and a desire to do good.

The gospel of Aaron Sorkin. One convert at a time. Join me, brethren.

ZAPTACULAR!

Oh my ... oh MY ... there are no words.

"Drink of the Miracle Sauce. Rehealthify yourself."

You'll thank me later, I guarantee it.

MILKQUARIOUS from +JOE HURSLEY+ on Vimeo.

A Planet of Regret

Subtitled- Musings on Culture and Generation After a Viewing of Reality Bites.

Who knew Winona Ryder could be so inspirational? After all these years of being mildly annoyed at her early Tim Burton muse status, her need to constantly keep up her brunette locks (natural blonde does her no favors), and her no-good-dirty-shoplifting, I have found solace and philosophy in the most unlikely of sources. Namely, a relationship between two initially hateful actors- Ryder and a greasy Ethan Hawke- that I can not only identify with, but that poses the universal question: who am I, where do I fit, and what are my values?


A few months ago I read Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, a must read for any and all pop culture junkies who fancy themselves part of the untapped intelligentsia. In the chapter "Sulking with Lisa Loeb on the Ice Planet Hoth," Klosterman uses The Empire Strikes Back and Reality Bites to define Generation X. And if that alone doesn't make you immediately want to read this book, I don't know what will.

Klosterman describes Gen-Xer's as a people who reject society because they recognize it's flaws, but are ultimately too lazy to change their world. They are the genius with wasted potential, but are imbued with a sort of enviable pride. Using that definition, Winona Ryder's tumultuous relationship with Ethan Hawke stops being the ideal of friends morphing into perfect lovers. It becomes a desperate declaration of her refusal to compromise.

For young twennysomthin's, that's what the 90's were all about. It wasn't just "stickin' it to the man," but it was firmly saying that the man should not, and does not exist. They lived their lives secure in their knowledge and smug sense of superiority. And I can't help but admire that, that utter assurance of self.

And what do we, the waifs of the 21st century, what do we contribute to the scale? Do we have moral codes? I wonder if, when faced with a choice, the average contemporary would exhibit a stubborn refusal to sell out, or would take comfort in safety and success regardless of the cost. Are we schmoozers with a dollar sign on the bottom line, or are we the brilliant bums on basement couches? Perhaps it's an impossible question, as there are no absolutes but mere situations. But history books prove that this is untrue, and how will they portray the present?

Like the most intriguing questions, I suppose this will take time and patience to discover. My two least favorite attributes. Ah well. That's it for now, folks. I'm Audi 5000.

Style Maven

I couldn't really think of a creative title, and I think the word "maven" is cool, so there you go.

So I shouldn't be writing right now, because I'm trying this new thing called "being efficient and finishing schoolwork earlier than three hours before class". Right now I'm attempting to trick myself into believing a paper is due tomorrow, instead of Thursday. Sadly, I'm not buying it. Why can't I be more gullible?

That was a very long-winded way of saying that while I was slacking off (typical paper-writing process), I found something most excellent.


Tavi is thirteen and blogs about fashion. I know what you are thinking. Why would Cat be interested in fashion? This girl who wears nothing but Converse, jeans, t-shirts and cardigans?

Don't fret, I am still as fashion oblivious as the next person. More so, probably. But Tavi is blowing my mind! At points I can't believe she is that young, because she's so hip and intelligent. Forget fashion, her blog is delightful to read. It's witty, colorful, and peppered with references to some of my favorite things (30 Rock and Freaks and Geeks! Let's be friends). I also like the beautiful images she posts. And the way she dresses is truly outrageous. I LOVE it. It's how I would dress if I had A) guts, and B) siblings that didn't make fun of me when I wear their super cool over-sized flannel shirts, John.

I'm probably breaking some law by posting that picture and linking to her blog, but until I get caught I ain't gonna stop.

Sidenote: I would probably be a successful rapper. Right? Right?

"Who wants flowers when you're dead?"

J.D. Salinger died today. He was 91 years old. He wrote stories. He was notorious for being a hermit, hiding away from the world after he almost single-handedly revamped the written word. Some credit him with the invention of the young adult genre. Some call him a menace. Some blame his magnum opus, The Catcher in the Rye, for the degradation of society. Most don't even know who he is.

In the movie Finding Forrester, Sean Connery's character is loosely based on Salinger.

Actress Zooey Deschanel is named after Franny & Zooey, one of Salinger's collections of short stories.

It took me until college before I finally read The Catcher in the Rye. One day I was walking to the store, passed a yard sale, and picked it up for the low, low price of fifty cents. I read it on a plane, an overnight flight, and it was stunning. It floored me in every way. I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to embrace this work of fiction.

After my first time reading it, I wrote this about it:

A great tale of crisis, the insanity that plagues us all, and how cynicism effects the world, as seen through an adolescents eyes. Holden is mesmerizing. I love how you can identify with him so easily, but some of his musings can be unnerving, leaving you to wonder about your own sanity in this mad world.

My opinion is pretty much the same. I do love Holden. He completely captured me when I was reading. Yes, sometimes his thoughts seemed to contradict each other, but how often does that happen in real life? Aren't we all tormented to some degree, driven mad with trying to figure out what this world, this life, this entire existence is about? All of us are merely passing through, observing humanity and trying to cling to some basic truths. And sometimes it's hard. And sometimes you don't understand. And sometimes you think you have everything figured out, only to have that change moments later.

See the whole sanity issue? I'm guessing you do.

At work I was in mourning, and told my co-workers about Salinger's death. They asked who that was. I told them it was the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye. They had never read it, and had no idea what it was about. When I gave a brief plot summary, one girl raised her eyebrows. "So, you enjoy reading a book that's just the inner ramblings of a teenage boy?"

Yes. Yes I do. Most books about teenagers at this time were horrible, one-note, craptastic moralistic serials about boys and cars, or a girl detective, or about how Timmy played football and loved it and won the big game. Salinger gave his characters emotions. He let them be confused. He said it was OK to think about deeper issues, to come up with theories and figure out who you really were and what you believed in.


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Thank you, J.D. Salinger. Thank you for contributing to the records. Thank you for your creations. Thank you for your poetry.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.