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.