Mind the Gap (thea!)

the one redeeming thing about facebook

2008-08-06T17:04:00.000-07:00

I'm at work. I'm at work and no one is here. It's a slow day. I'm awaiting the theater companies coming in for their rehearsals because until then I really will have nothing to do... And so what am I doing? Perusing Facebook (and procrastinating my life), satisfied that a 24-hour 'bout of melancholy,' as my lovely wife would say (wife being my nickname for my best friend), perfectly suffices for a day of lower than average spirits.

And so, it was in this time-wasting-way that I came across my lovely wife's Facebook page. I was content skimming what she'd listed as her favorite books and movies (counting which were truly her favorite and ones she wished were) when I came across her interests and saw this:

"spending time with thea - the love of my liiiiiiiife who counsels and consoles and makes me laugh until i cry"

AWW! Bout if melancholy over! And Facebook provided the medium!

And for this reason alone, I am no longer ashamed (as I normally would be) for wasting time on Facebook. The mini-feed may make stalking easy and the applications may suck up valuable time, but at least good ol' FB is good for something. ;)

you will DIE of laughter!

2008-07-25T01:22:00.000-07:00

BLAST there only being three!!!

Simon, you and your cat are genius!

pride, envy, envious pride

2008-07-24T18:34:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Steven got his "first real article" published in The Stranger this week and he got to spend and hour and a half talking to David Sedaris.

I'm so proud. And so jealous! Pride/envy, envy/pride? See my quandary?! :P

So I'm like 60% proud and 40% jealous, at least I'm supportive in the majority! (Kidding! It's really more like 90-10).

my fave new singer/songwriter/pianist – sara bareilles!

2008-07-17T02:38:00.000-07:00

If you want to see the official video (and it's cute) here it is – "Bottle it up"

Then there's this one, which is sad, but really, really beautiful – "Gravity"

he went to how many countries?!?!?!

2008-07-11T18:08:00.000-07:00

Possibly the greatest thing ever!!!

musical media overload!!!

2008-07-08T22:26:00.000-07:00

OMG! I hate, let me repeat, HATE text talk. I've never been one to spout out "lol"s and "omg"s like they in any way resemble anything close to real words. (I especially hate, HATE, when people use text talk in actual, human to human conversations, like they actually SAY them, like a real word! And they don't just say L-O-L like any other acronym, oh no, they actually say "LOL" pronounced the way a child learning to read would, sounding out the consonants and vowels!). But, this particular subject may call for the kind of bafflingly overwhelming exclamation that only a well-deserved "OMG" could do justice for. (Everything in moderation my friend, because I guarantee who won't witness another "omg" out of my mouth, or in this case, text, for some time).

I have 49.26 gigabytes of music on my computer! ALMOST 50 GIGS! AM I INSANE???

My iTunes music folder easily takes up half of the memory on my laptop, if not more, and I'm not one of those nifty people who puts all their music on some ridiculously mac savvy 500 gigabyte wireless external hard drive, thus backing up all their files and freeing up space on their notebooks. Oh no, not me. I actually carry around all 49.26 gigs in my messenger bag with me.

And guess how much of that superfluous 49.26 gigs I've actually listened to? Perhaps, 18 gigs, maybe? MAAAAAAAYBE... and that's just an estimate. I keep having massive music trades with friends in an effort to stay informed, but I spend all my time collecting artists and listening to my few rotating favorites (the ones with a double, sometimes even triple-digit playcounts).

And so, in a gallant effort to make the little hard drive space I have left not such a useless waste, I shall spend my night going through the untouched music in my library and reading the piles of magazines I also collect, and rarely get to reading. :P

the aristocrats of my ipod playlist :D

2008-07-07T00:51:00.000-07:00

Alright, it's time I introduce you to my favorite Brit band Aristocrats (never the Aristocrats).

One of the benefits of my six-month stint in London town was getting to make pals with their lead guitarist Neil (the one not looking at the camera in the middle). About a week before I left I got the lovely pleasure of tagging along to one of their practices and meeting the rest of the guys in Essex. From left to right they are James (drums), Danny (guitar/vocals), Neil (lead guitar), Jonny (bass) and Tommy (vocals).

I was worried when I first met Neil and he told me about the band that they would be terrible and I would forced into a friends' obligatory fan-ship. However, my lack of confidence, luckily, came back to mock me: I just happen to think they're amazing (phew!) and pretty darn good live (and by that I mean, they ain't one of those bands that sounds phenomenal on the album and suck-ass live. It just isn't so!)

See for yourself! They've just released their EP, which you can get on iTunes by the way, and you ALL should buy it! (It's only $4, and Neil tells me if enough people from one place buy the EP, their manager will arrange for the band to travel there to do a show :D)

Also, Danny and Neil were on a radio show promoting the band in the UK's Surface Unsigned Festival. So please, listen up! They've made it to the semi-finals out of thousands of bands, so if you happen to be in London around July 13th, you can go see them compete in the next round. Trust me, they're addictive.

Some parting pics (courtesy of the band) of the last show I went to of theirs, the last round of the competition at the Purple Turtle in Camden on May 13th. Enjoy!

i saw u

2008-07-06T17:33:00.001-07:00

Years before I was old enough to appreciate the brilliance of The Stranger content, I habitually turned to the back pages for the "I Saw U" section.

The "I Saw U" is this amazing personals section where people put out ads for people they saw on the street, spoke to at parties, lost numbers for or never even spoke to, but admired from afar and realized they were starstruck right then and there. They're entertaining, modernly, yet hopelessly romantic and no matter how awkward, they say something about the everyday that people often choose to ignore (probably for self preservation purposes) – a whim is nothing to shy away from!

Here are some of the ones from this week that I liked:

You Enjoy My Melodies

Cute Girl In Furniture Store

Hallava Falafel Truck Goddess

Krista. Register 12. Fred Meyer

But seriously?! How great would it be to be sought after on one of these? To have made such a great impression on someone else upon first meeting, first glance even, that they'd go to such lengths to find you knowing full-well you may never read it? Never find it? Never find them back?!! Chivalry is so not dead...yet.

what's in a genre? – truth = patchwork, authenticity = quilt

2008-07-01T18:54:00.000-07:00

Today I was flipping through (and consequently getting quite addicted to) Seattle's new (and get this, free!) enthusiastically creative City Arts Magazine. I came upon a nice column on the "vagrant" lifestyle of the freelance writer (a relate-able read)and then a nice collage of excerpts from author and UW Professor of English David Shields' new book The Thing About Life Is That One Day You'll Be Dead cut and pasted next to a series of email back-and-forths between Shields himself and his former MFA student and Associate Editor of City Arts Bond Huberman. I found myself enthralled...

Here are some quotes from the article (taken from Shields' book, words I really liked, regardless of the tone of the linked book review) I unknowingly circled, starred and triple underlined with my pen (an unconscious reaction to an increase of interest in whatever I happen to be reading):

"There is only one kind of memoir I can see to write and that's a slippery, playful, impish, exasperating one, shaped, if it could be, like a question mark."

"I write to say, 'You're not the only one.' I write with the full faith that the reader I envision is hungry for my talk, because I know how hungry I am for reports from the trenches, stories that might help me map my way."

"Everything I write, I believe instinctively, is to some extent collage. Meaning, ultimately, is a matter of adjacent information."

"An awful lot of fiction is immensely autobiographical, and a lot of nonfiction is highly imagines. We dream ourselves awake every minute of the day. 'Fiction'/'nonfiction' is an utterly useless distinction."

"Great art is clear thinking about mixed feelings."

"Writing enters into us when it gives us information about ourselves we're in need of at the time we're reading."

"You adulterate the truth as you write. There isn't any pretense that you try to arrive at the literal truth. And the only consolation when you confess to this flaw is that you are seeking to arrive at poetic truth, which can be reached only through fabrication, imagination, stylization. What I'm striving for is authenticity; none of it is real."

youtube society

2008-06-26T12:10:00.001-07:00

And here we find all our internet icons...

another reason i love 'em...

2008-06-26T01:54:00.001-07:00

Just another reason why McSweeney's is awesome – they have lists for every occasion!

A Picnic
Date Ending
in an Awkward
Sexual Encounter,
Told Chronologically
Through Board-
Game Titles.

BY JEFF RUSSELL

- - - -

Enchanted Forest
Ants in the Pants
Girl Talk
Intrigue
Risk
Go for Broke
Break the Safe
Guess Who?
Mole in the Hole
Take It Easy!
Can't Stop
Trouble
Crossfire
Sorry!
Speechless

mcsweeney's on sex

2008-06-26T01:41:00.000-07:00

sex practices of the freelance writer

Amusing. I hope far-fetched and entirely false...

... Especially the "compensation" part.

we're all kids on the inside

2008-06-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

This absolutely restores my faith in humanity in every way. Ethan is the happiest baby in the world!!! The littlest thing makes his entire day! Every time I'm feeling blue, I just YouTube this and all is good again... it may be a bit strange, but whatever works right?

i have to get all hot and sweaty in front of you?!

2008-06-18T20:32:00.000-07:00

It should be mandatory that all gym employees be ugly, or at the very least, uglier than the majority of your average, 95% sedentary gym goers.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against attractive nutritionists and physical trainers. Of course, people in these fields are statistically just more likely to be attractive, and more power to them. Everyone dreams of finally making it to the gym and falling (quite literally) into the hands of their new, extremely fit physical trainer. It's a nice story. The reality, however, is far from appealing.

I joined my neighborhood gym the other day, in an effort to fulfill one of my summer goals – to craft myself into the stereotypical gym goer (like one of the regulars they use for brochures and advertisements, one who's in such good shape it's obvious they frequent weights and cardio, one who positively exudes the aura of a well-broken-in membership card), rather than the all too familiar gym attemptress (the one who joins, whole-heartedly, and then after a few days of witnessing the gym goer in her naturally-good-looking-sweaty habitat, is discouraged and begins to wear her workout clothes at home while she digs into a newly-opened jar of peanut butter).

I joined with my mom, figuring we could bully each other into actually going. (For the record, I used to work out a lot. And then I didn't so much).

While my mom was negotiating costs with the fit and not entirely unattractive manager, I was struck up with a long and semi-flirtatious conversation with the manager's friend, fellow gym employee and entirely too attractive guy behind the counter. This lasted about 40 minutes, and in that time he managed to inform me of his dedicated work schedule – six days a week.

It was such a tragedy! I was soooo close!!! But now, every time I went to the gym, I risked running into him. This meant I had to look cute in workout gear and even worse, maintain said cuteness while panting on the treadmill, frizzing my not-so-cooperatively-straight hair and dripping buckets of sweat... Not an easy feat.

Why couldn't he just have been ugly, or even just sub-par? Blah? Psh? Meh? That I culd have dealt with. That I would have felt comfortable with. I would have gone to the gym, become exceedingly sweaty, and looked at him and seen camaraderie, understanding, just another fellow gym attemptress (or attempter in this case) on their way to physical betterment. But ohhhh no, he had to be cute.

Intent on not letting this cute-counter-guy hiccup ruin my latest attempt and re-gym-acclimation, I decided to go the next day, assuming my physically-fit-speed-bump would be there. He was. I made sure to do my hair in cute-sporty pigtails, carefully affixed with bobby pins (with extra on hand to use in an emergency). Not wanting to wear makeup, but afraid of my concealer-less appearance, I dabbed a bit of powder on my face and headed out, somewhat appeased.

I thought I might be able to sneak by without him seeing me until I was tucked away in the most discreet corner I could find. I walked in and surveyed the room. He wasn't behind the front counter. I demurely made my way to the back where the ladies changing room was. 30 feet to go. 20 feet. Almost there. I could just see it...

Something to the left caught my eye. I turned and there he was, sitting at a desk in the back, mid conversation with a coworker and waving at me. I waved back, ducked into the bathroom and re-pinned my hair.

At the end of an hour-long workout, I was sweaty and tousled. I made a b-line for the back, splashed cool water on my face, adjusted my hair, adjusted my bangs, which I had smartly pinned back in order to keep them from becoming a casualty of my workout, and went to stretch. Aware of the cute-counter-guy's whereabouts (going through some of the weight machines with another gym attemptress like myself), I slipped through to the back room, stretched out, rechecked my hair, and opened the door to leave.

I walked right into him. At the end of a few minutes of misguided talk, all the while I was slowly moving towards the exit, he asked me when I was coming in for my personal training (you get 2 for free with the membership). My mom and I had arranged to come in together, on Friday night.

"I'll be here," he said, smiling.

"Alright then," I said, waving and attempting to mask my anxiety as I made my way towards the door. Great, juuuuust great! I thought to myself. He better not be my personal trainer. I don't want to have to start spending my afternoons with a peanut butter jar and a spoon!

the pc-ness of plush diseases

2008-06-17T01:58:00.000-07:00

Okay. I have to say it. I love Giantmicrobes!!! They are absolutely genius!

They're cute. They're cuddly. They'll infect you with their cute cuddliness...

But seriously, they're adorable. My friend Steven and I spent a good 20 to 30 minutes in a tiny boutique in the newly-realized hip Ballard, picking up each and every disgusting microscopic ailment, bursting into laughter, drawing eyes and then rummaging for the next, evermore hilarious pet disease.

Here were a few or our favorites:

Varicella-Zoster Virus – aka Chickenpox:

Streptococcus pyogenes – aka Flesh Eating virus:And the one we just couldn't part with, so we bought and took home... Multiple-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus – aka MRSA (I mean common, he has a cape!):
There were a few we weren't too sure about, such as Chlamydia, Gonorrhea and Herpes (why the hell does he look so sunny and happy?! It sends a mixed message – STDs are pleasant, like sunflowers? :/)

OK. It's all in fun. But I fear they may have gone just a tad too far...That's right guys. This is a stuffified version of H.I.V. And I fear, the joke, yeah, not so funny. I mean, who laughs in the face of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus? Laugh at the common cold. Roll on the floor over a fuzzy flu stuffed animal? Hell, clutch your stomach in the throws of hilarity, and by all means, in this case even The Clap can be funny... But who laughs at AIDS, honestly?!

The store where Steven and I found these pets didn't carry the STDS, and certainly didn't have the H.I.V. stuffed decor. It did however carry a key chain that made an astonishingly realistic impersonation of the female orgasm (on a very, very good day) that was surprisingly loud and went on far longer than expected (again drawing eyes and making Steven and I bolt for opposite ends of the store). (This store is called Gifted by the way, and it's the new-trendy-Ballard version of a good ol' B-town classic, Archi McPhee's).

In any case, I'm not sure about our fuzzy ribbon-clad friend (or foe?), but there is one bright side to the pc-less-ness of Giantmicrobes, if you've got a faux-friend, coworker, professor, boss, who you secretly hate but cannot tell-off within the norms of civilized social behavior, you can always give 'em the Black Death and get away looking like the nice guy! :D

why americans are so damn fat

2008-06-17T00:38:00.000-07:00

It's true. Americans are fat – or fatter, at least, than say...the rest of the world.

I've decided, after much careful consideration, that the reason for this is the existence, or rather, lack there of, or resealable snacks. That's right kids, it's not that we're overly obsessed with television and the sedentary lifestyle of the technology savvy computer culture. It's not that our idea of exercise walking from our car to the store to pick up a Wii Fit.

It's not the our food is packed with preservatives, that we buy and eat in bulk, or that fast food is the sodium-packed solution to those who are too busy to cook, too bothered to cook and every penny-pinching student in the country. Ohh, no. We owe our blatant obesity to a tiny, adhesive strip of plastic that, until recently, was absent from every family size pack M&M's, Doritos and other assorted sweet and salties in the States.

During my semester in London, I came across the junk food revelation: when European's buy an ultra-large-king-size-jumbo bag of sugar sweets, they devour not in one sitting, but across a number of days, perhaps even weeks. This is thanks to the clever indulgence inhibiting intention of the resealable snack sticker:

[Here I tried to find a picture, but apparently Google Images is partial to the resealable zipper packaging readily available in every American store, ever.]

Like I said, we unhealthy American's have seen the resealable zipper. We are far too familiar with it. We laugh at it as it taunts us with the prospect of saving some for later. But the snack sticker is a whole other story. It involves folding and affixing an adhesive tab. It taunts us if it goes unused, and takes more skill to utilize, thus discouraging us from reopening the package once we've finally closed it. It intimidates us. It must be used, otherwise it is an entirely purposeless package appendage. It psychologically tricks us into taking our time with our snacks.

So there you go – the key to a healthy junk food attitude, sticker-latent packaging.

the hippest spot in town

2008-06-16T00:36:00.000-07:00

I just got home. Good ol' Seattle. Gray and damp one second, sunny sailing the next. Not much had changed, but after two and a half years in LA (my lung capacity diminished from the smog) and six months in London town, the air felt fresher. It was good to be home. I made a vow, determined not to re-become the slothful entity that annually takes over my body in the summer months – this year I would spend two months doing exactly what I wanted.

The phone rang.

Steven: Thea how are you? You're back! How was the flight? Listen, I'm about to go to Ballard to do some shopping...

Me: Ballard? Where is there to shop in Ballard??

Steven: What?! Are you kidding me?!!! Ballard is the trendiest place in Seattle! It's my favorite spot!!!

Me: Ballard? Ballard?! Ballard where I went to high school for four years? Ballard that I've lived by my whole life? Ballard Ballard?! Since when is that Ballard hip?

I was immediately picked up and trekked to the old cobblestone streets off Market Street, where I saw trendy boutiques where anxiety enducingly attractive (although arguably sexually ambiguous – was he gay or straight? I'm still unsure) men silk screen interesting images onto eco-friendly cotton t-shirts. I saw wine bars and Italian bistros, vegan delis and tea obsessed cafes. The old skate shops and dusty second-hand bookstores I remembered were now contemporary art galleries and alternative design spaces displaying technicolor Nike shoes against white walls, handing out Vibe magazine and Radiohead bumber stickers without ever disclosing the name, or the purpose of the store? office? art exhibit?

Steven was right... Ballard has crossed over. Goodbye land of skateboarders and indie bands, hello carbon-copied Santa Monica. (Oh OK, it's not quite that bad yet... but it could go ) Please, let's salvage as much of the Ballard culture as we can. There's room enough for tea houses and good old Archie McFee's :D

i'm not particularly gossip savvy

2008-05-28T09:03:00.009-07:00

It's true, I'm not particularly gossip savvy. I read, but with disjointed inconsistency (mainly I just pile up papers and magazines I intend to read until they are months old, with the vision of media acumen on my mind). But I am getting better...however slowly.

One site I never fail to read is Oh My God Seattle, a blog by my very close and oldest friend Steven (we've been friends since we played in the kiddy pools of our preschool days). I read Steven's blog religiously, logging in three, sometimes four times a day from my far away London flat to see if he's managed to update any posts with anecdotes of personal hilarity from home sweet home, despite the illogical time of day it is due to the time difference.

It was here on Steven's blog (which you really should check out :D) that I first read about Emily Gould, a young New York writer and former Gawker staffer. Emily, after suffering from the rising Internet epidemic of the overshare, wrote the New York Times Magazine cover story called Exposed all about her time and Gawker and what she's learned, subsequently, about herself.

I don't pretend to be a media critic, and it's true after reading the piece, that I feel for the girl – in fact, I can relate to her. In my personal life I've found myself to be a victim of the proclivity to overshare. It's not that I thrive on the attention (although everyone does enjoy a bit from time to time), I've just found myself to often too willingly give away personal experiences and thoughts of my own in an effort to weave some sort of meaningful exchange with people I meet and feel close to. Sometimes this is a wonderful thing that spawns the beginnings of a great friendship. Sometimes it's too much too soon. Luckily, I tend to keep what I post here, and in other freely accessible media, relatively removed, and when included, veiled.

But I've also come to accept that the path of most artists (and of course, writing is a form of art) is one that is almost always emotionally embedded. So how do you reconcile the two?

In her self-realizing story Emily talked about the experience of losing her willingness to blog – essentially writer's block. She lost her drive to write through the thespian means she had created. I find myself constantly not writing, not blogging, as I've intended to. If Emily took it too far, have I not taken it far enough? Is it writer's block or something else? I am exceedingly private about certain things, but of course, everything I write about is essentially personal on some level, so by that token, does all writing become an act of masked oversharing?

kitchen-side poetry

2008-05-12T13:57:00.005-07:00

My flatmate showed me this poem, and I really loved it – somehow it just made sense to me. I feel I know exactly what at means (well what it means to me I guess)...which makes me wonder, if you read this, and it seems to mean something clear to you, tell me what it means to you...

Letter by Leonard Cohen

How you murdered your family
means nothing to me
as your mouth moves across my body

And I know your dreams
of crumbling cities and galloping horses
of the sun coming too close
and the night never ending

but these mean nothing to me
beside your body

I know that outside a war is raging
that you issue orders
that babies are smothered and generals beheaded

but blood means nothing to me
it does not disturb your flesh

tasting blood on your tongue
does not shock me
as my arms grow into your hair

Do not think I do not understand
what happens
after the troops have been massacred
and the harlots put to the sword

And I write this only to rob you
that when one morning my head
hangs dripping with the other generals
from your house gate

that all this was anticipated
and so you will know that it meant nothing to me.

Go ahead...tell me what you think!

Stonehenge = magical mystery stones

2008-05-11T19:04:00.003-07:00

Here's my latest story! I totally forgot to link it until now.

"Stonehenge mystery hinges on unusual stones"

2-year-long "to do" list

2008-05-11T13:37:00.002-07:00

Two years ago a lovely boy I met gave me a list of 20 books I absolutely, 100%, MUST read the following summer. I didn't get through the list, but I did keep it (nicely tacked up on my wall for nearly 730 days now) and I keep trying to make a dent, so I thought I'd share it with you lovelies in case anyone wants to take the wise words of a lovely boy who curls up with his favorite books on a daily basis :D (There are bonus books at the bottom for you eager achievers you :P)

Andrew's 20 books that are a MUST read for this summer - good luck!
1. Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card
2. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
3. Out of the Silent Planet - C.S. Lewis
4. The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
5. The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
6. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
7. Casino Royale - Ian Fleming
8. The Diaries of Adam and Eve - Mark Twain
9. Martin and John - Dale Peck
10. Othello - William Shakespeare
11. The Wizard of Earthsea - Ursula K. LeGuin
12. Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
13. The Dubliner - James Joyce
14. The Firm - John Grisham
15. The Twits - Roald Dahl
16. Second Variety - Philip K. Dick
17. The Screwtape Letters - C.S. Lewis
18. The Hobbitt - J.R.R. Tolkien
19. Big Trouble - Dave Barry
20. The Maltese Falcon – the movie

Extra Credit:
1. The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
2. The Pillowman - Martin McDonagh
3. Travelling Companion - Hans Christian Andersen
4. The Hollow Man - T.S. Elliot
5. The Time Machine - H.G. Wells
6. The Color Purple - Alice Walker

some people shouldn't be allowed to write facebook messages past 3 am

2008-05-11T06:11:00.003-07:00

the following post is quite old, over two years in fact. I wrote it one amazingly memorable night when I was up late cramming to read and write a final paper (which i got 100% on i'll have you know, my one and only time i've received full marks since i've been in college!) when i met my dear friend andrew barton – it was serendipitous really, we stayed up all night working together, caffeine-binging and fanciful literature-talking :D then i sent him this message, and now, re-reading it two years later, i don't know why he stayed friends with me...i was crazy! (and yet, i am oh so grateful :P)

April 6, 2006 (mid essay) – facebook message to Andrew

haha! i win! (in case you missed the headline!) "win at what?" you're probably asking yourself...well i'll tell you. i win at facebook friending you first - the result of the undeniable situation that after 8+ hours of bonding over sleep-deprivation, your are simply obligated to commit your relationship to the status of friends on a college server for all the world (or at least the educated world, or at least those attempting to be part of the educated world) to see! the choice is clear - you hate them and never friend them or talk to them again, or you don't and you facebook them ( i suppose you could hate and facebook at the same time, but only the most twisted of types do so for the ego gratification that comes with adding one more number to your so-called "pals").. anyways, i beat you to it, b/c i'm taking a quick breather from my essay (after my spanish thingy, which i did end up going to) in case you're wondering! then, maybe because i'm dilussionally tired or maybe because i have some adderall (sp?) left in my system, i felt the creative urge to write you a long and complicating message that displays my sincere wit, even after (or rather, especially after) a night of unrest, recreational drug use and lots and lots of reading! i know, you're probably sitting there right now, thinking that you met this girl who's completely amazing in her ability to type nonsensical nonsense (for lack of better adjectives...twice) when she should be doing other, more important things. i know it, but hey, when you feel compelled to do something, you simply must do it. is this not a, oh how did you put it, "human truth?" was that it? i can't really remember. and now... my legs are tingling... that can't be good... but oh well, no reason to dwell on it. my body might be wearing, but my mind is still going a mile a minute with "tired talk." i like that phrase, can you believe i've just coined it? look at that, you've just witnessed a piece of linguistical history... or is it more jargon than anything else? no, not jargon... or will it end up being a colloquial that only i understand (and maybe now you, simply because i'm ranting on about it). honestly, if this were me, i would have stopped reading ages ago... i don't even know what i'm writing any more, so i don't see why you're taking an interest to it. i hope, if nothing else, that this is entertaining and that my aspirations of it being so is not just wishful thinking on my part.... i'm surprised i'm thinking coherently (at least relatively so) at all, personally. anyways. let's clear one of two things up. first off, good luck with those poems...we'll have to swap work sometime, although i must admit i am somewhat intimidated by your knowledge of english - i feel it far surpasses mine... but the hell with fears, as i think i established last night/this morning (i should make that my manifesto or something insane like that). second, i swear that i am not usually this disorganized. i don't mean to say i'm not crazy, i am... but you're a theater major, you have to be used to crazies, and i digress. you may have first found my splatter-brain-ness charming and need i say adorable (and i hope here that you sense my irrational amount of satire), however, under normal circumstances (i.e. a shower, non boy size clothes, at least 4 hours of sleep and a matcha tea latte) i can usually pass for a normal person, most mornings at least. although, who wants to be normal…normal is mediocre... and i hate the idea of mediocrity. anyways, after this entire morning i'm sure you think i'm a coke fiend - never have i been or could i be such a thing! i just don't have the patience for addictions or drugs (which bears an interesting question...why the adderall?) well... many great authors have experimented with things that bring them out of their normal mind and conceptions. this of course was not my reason, but i see it as a one-time bonus, brownie points if you will. and this... this very thing i'm typing, is the only sustainable proof - and i should probably keep it at that, b/c to you it probably isn't great (and to me, well, i'll probably be deleting this later), but in any case... there it is. now i really can't believe you're still reading this....! ha, you're a bit of a fool i guess, as much as i am for writing it. honestly, i might as well be ridiculous towards you, and since we did just meet, i'm incapable of being embarrassed by this at all... it's a beautiful situation. and there you have it. now i'm fairly certain that i've been typing this for a good 12 minutes or so.... which is far too long for a facebook message, and i must get back to my paper. good night, and good luck (journalism reference, get it? get it? ahaha). and i'm sure you already have or will sustain a headache from all the typing errors i've made due to my speed (physically typing and physically speaking in general)... and so i say, bye again (i don't want to overuse the reference thing, although i wish you both again). damn you must have patience.....look at this thing, it's the f-ing iliad of facebook messaging! i'm exhausting myself just thinking about it... ;)

what girls discuss via skype

2008-05-11T05:26:00.003-07:00

anonymous friend: so the other night, we had the best sex ever.

me: uh huh

friend: no! you don't understand! like, ever, ever, ever, EVER! best EVVVVVEERRRRR!!!

me: okay. so what's the matter then?

friend: well then, it was really weird. i started crying...

me: really? (a bit shocked)

[skype cuts out, then comes back after a few minutes of intense pixilation]

friend: i know! it was so weird. he didn't see though, thank god.

me: but...you don't...i mean...you don't right?

friend: no way! i can't stand him! i really dislike him as a person, he's soooooo irritating!

me: right.

friend: so the next day he was really bugging me. like REALLY irritating me. I couldn't hardly stand it!

me: o.k.

friend: and he took me to the train station, and when i left he was like 'i love you.'

me: wow, well that's a bit awkward i guess, but it's nothing he hasn't said before...

friend: and i cried again!!!

me: what?! that's so weird...what's going on?

friend: i have no idea because i really can't stand him at all. like, he's an infant.

me: so what are you going to do?

friend: nothing. i don't think it'll happen again, i think something weird was just going on with me, because there's no way i have feelings for him...he drives me crazy!

me: right. o.k. then.

friend: but dude, seriously, best sex EVER!

with a little help from noise canceling headphones...

2008-05-01T10:56:00.005-07:00

It's amazing what a little sound isolation will do...I was sitting in my flat yesterday, teetering on the edge that deep dark abyss of self-critical existentialism, particularly because my time in London is coming to a close (it's not really, but I'm inching closer to that day, which scares me some), when my friend came 'round and immediately picked up on my craziness. Not exactly the model of perfect mental health himself, I never understood how he could get on with everything – when I get horribly introspective, I can't concentrate on anything at all (except for maybe the root of my horrible introspectiveness, which is a useless waste of time with no results, ever).

In an effort to keep my current lameness of conversational skills, I didn't say much. My friend looked at me, told me to "cheer the fuck up," then smiling broadly as if to say 'if only it were that easy,' dropped a pair of the most gigantic headphones I'd ever seen in my lap.

I knew immediately what I was meant to do with them. My friend was in a band, and he was always sending me all sorts of clips and working pieces of songs to listen to. Of course, I could never listen to them "properly" unless I had these apparently life-changing headphones. I was skeptical.

"It will change your entire musical experience," he said. "Everything sounds different."

He began rattling off a long list of artists who's music is magically transformed through the Sennheiser HD 215s I was tossing from hand to hand, twisting the cord through the fingers in one hand, then the other, then the first again.

My friend left, and I went back to being miserable (not that I ever left). It's not that I didn't want to "cheer the fuck up" as he so ironically put it, it was just that I didn't know how. So yes, feeding the misery was pointless and I wouldn't just sit in my room with my play-list on an Elliott Smith repeat binge, plotting all the many ways to cry or anything. I just couldn't snap myself out of it.

A little while later I was attempting to do some work while listening to music, sitting on my bed with my laptop on the desk chair in front of me, my usual routine. My flatmates had people over, as they often do, and I wasn't bothered except that I kept having to get up to let them in, my room being the closest to the door and the kitchen, where they were all congregating, the farthest.

I thought I'd try the fancy headphones. I selected my song carefully, something I knew I would like anyways, regardless of supposed magical listening powers contained by what looked like very sleek black earmuffs...

Radiohead will never be the same.

I played recent regulars – four Radiohead songs I play in the same order over and over before moving on to another album, or eventually switching to British pop-rock in an effort to swing my mood into something more cheery.

Creep...
Fake Plastic Trees...
High and Dry...
Karma Police...

I forgot about the outside world entirely. My world now = one of melodramatic tunes, and that is all. And somehow, it was quite comforting.

oh buster...

2008-04-12T15:44:00.005-07:00

My latest story was published today. It's about this 101-year-old guy (supposedly) who's running the London Marathon tomorrow (26.2 miles!!! jeeeez), stopping for beer and cigarette breaks!

The print headline was "Born to run, but in which year?" I like it... :D

what am i getting myself into???

2008-03-29T15:24:00.007-07:00

When I decided to come to London for a semester, I knew (being the crazy idealistic and over-excited person that I am) that I would get myself into way too much...and I did. I was lucky enough to squirm my way into an internship (sadly unpaid, or course) at the London bureau of the Los Angeles Times, and it has been a blast so far. I've gone to press conferences and to the Royal Courts of Justice at the Strand. Most recently I interviewed the oldest worker in Britain, a 101-year-old man named Buster who's currently training to run the London marathon (26.2 miles!). (The man is a machine! I tagged along for a 3-mile training the other day, and at the end he had 2 cigarettes with a beer before going out for another 3 miles! If you offer him water, he gets insulted...)

And yet, I find myself slacking a bit in terms of motivation. I've always worked very hard to get to a certain point (for years it was college, now it's career), and now I've got this incredible opportunity and I find myself unable to take advantage of it to the fullest. This has brought on a pseudo-quarter-life-crisis (a term I'm hearing more and more among my college friends and twenty-somethings), which sounds sooo pathetic for so many reasons. One, I'm 21! I have my whole life ahead of me, under no circumstances am I entitled to freak out now! It's too soon!!! Two, I'm constantly afraid that I'm doing the wrong thing, but I can't figure out what the right thing is...and I'm not the only one! Most of my peers feel the same way, and none of us can figure out why (which makes me tend to believe it's got to do with some crazy societal pressure to be competitive and get ahead in life – know where you're going and get there!) But really all this does is make us all miserable (and subsequently useless), rendering us even more pathetic because we're whining about life when in reality we shouldn't yet have anything to whine about at all. And even though I know better, I can't stop myself! I'm trapped in a downward existential spiral (constantly feeling like I'm squandering my chances, chances I need to take).

I told myself, for example, that I wanted to go into journalism, print journalism no less, knowing full well that it's struggling (especially in the US). I saw it as a calling – a very principled, selfless thing to do, for the betterment of the world (I think big apparently). And it's a cut-throat business it seems, and yet, I jumped in (or tried – I think I ended up with one of those jumps where you dip your toes in five or six times first to test the waters, and every time they're just as icy and terrifying). But here I am, using this as a stepping stone to something else, still unsure of what or where that something is (but hoping to all hell that it's not where I'm at now).

One of the perks of my internship (and it's fun and extremely satisfying, don't get me wrong) is that I get an email address at the Times. Thea.Chard@latimes.com. (It's amazing how gratifying having an email address that no one uses but massive inter-company listserves can be). Tonight I decided to bite the bullet and go through a bunch of said all-staff emails I have received over the last few weeks. I was shocked to find most of them final farewells from colleagues who were leaving the paper, most surely for good (as they kindly said goodbye to their co-workers and very bluntly told their corporate heads exactly what they thought of them).

I couldn't believe the numbers! I must have received twenty or so of these farewells in a matter of about a week. Most of them praised those they were leaving behind, triumphantly encouraging them to "stick together" and wait for the business to take a turn. "If there's any justice left in this industry," one wrote, "it will get better."

I knew what I was doing when I decided to try my hand in this world, but here I am, just getting started, and at every turn I meet giant red flags issuing forewarning. Some of these people, whose names I know from when I sorted mail and ran errands as an editorial assistant a few months ago, have been in the company for 20 to 30 years, and now have to leave with their principles in tact but their spirits broken (or at least damaged by the "business" news has become).

I saved some of the better emails, the ones that sentimentally called for strength and perseverance in such times, the ones that abandoned caution and called out the company, the

My favorite farewell: "Note to the resident bully & business genius: why not follow the example of every ten year old who's ever run a lemonade stand, and stop trashing the product."

Here's hoping.

where oh where have i been?

2008-03-16T21:35:00.002-07:00

It's been 2 months, 19 days, 23 hours and 51 minutes since I began this blog. This is, technically speaking, my 7th post. I say technically speaking because I intend to return to the last few months and fill in the massive gaps (emphasis on the intend).

So, where the hell have I been?!?

My only answer to you, it's a mystery... somehow, somewhere, by some insane means, I got decidedly sidetracked! I should have known I would, I'm not much for this blogging business anyways, and yet I see the appeal. That said, I will now make an attempt to redeem myself (emphasis on the attempt).

:D

(On an entirely unrelated and extremely irrelevant note, I've just discovered the capital D smiley emoticon, and I can't get over how I ever lived without it...it's a sad, sad day when the most exciting thing in your life is punctuation marks jestingly paired with capital letters) ;) (always a classic choice)

numero dos

2008-03-16T19:56:00.004-07:00

My second story in the LA Times – Activists fight Heathrow expansion

possibly the greatest thing ever...

2008-03-09T12:30:00.002-07:00

i may only be 21, but i've never seen so many people stand behind one...

Yes We Can

my FIRST EVER story in the Los Angeles Times!!!

2008-02-27T01:19:00.013-08:00

YAY!

I've been interning for the London Bureau of the LA Times while I've been here in London, and today, on this lovely day, my first story was published in the paper!!!

HERE IT IS!!!

So ecstatic!!! :D

150-word shorts! the king of the piccadilly line

2008-01-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

He played a game with people, though they never knew it. He met their eyes as he walked past, stared them down on the Tube, watched them sip coffee uncomfortably with the tension of someone who can feel foreign eyes.

He always won. Only the rare contender showed any sign of defiance before shamefully recoiling. Often they shifted uncomfortably or overeagerly jumped at their stop, neglecting to look at their merciless victor.

He was proud of his defeats. He was not wealthy or successful, but from Hammersmith to Piccadilly he was king.

But today his prey did not succumb to their king's iron glare. He stood dominant, yet watchful eyes creased into the shape of laughter. Just then a little girl moved by and said, at little too loudly, "Mr. you're fly is down,” lingering on his button-down shirt peaking through his trousers.

From then on he walked to work.

freezing my flannel pajamas off

2008-01-03T21:42:00.000-08:00

5:43 am – London time

Time in the UK: 13 hours, 58 minutes
Time in my new flat: 9 hours
Time asleep: 4 hours 41 minutes
Time helplessly awake despite extraneous efforts to sleep: 1 hour, 46 minutes

Here I am. Finally! I thought I'd write on the plane ride – I had this idea that all the thoughts running though my head about my 5-month stay in London would best be tackled on a 12-hour transatlantic flight. I was wrong. My knees hit the chair in front of me, the passenger of which couldn't stand to waste any opportunity to recline his chair (even during takeoff) and it was unbearably hot. And I had always really enjoyed long flights...getting there is half the fun right?!

Everyone kept telling me how cold London would be, so I had boarded the plane in snow socks and a handful of wool and knit layers...a mistake on many levels. I popped two "Simply Sleep" and kicked back (metaphorically speaking of course. I was packed in so tight I'm relatively certain kicking was a physical impossibility).

My cab fare from Heathrow to my university ("uni" :P) was £48 or essentially, over $100. (My fault, I knew what to expect). But it didn't matter – despite my reflex to cringe up and hug the door of the car every time oncoming traffic passed us on the right or we made a right-hand turn into the far end of the street, I was thrilled to be back.

I settled into my on-campus flat and started to unpack. About six garments later I ran out of hangers and stopped. None of my flatmates were home. I surveyed the place and gathered that there was at least one girl out of the five other bedrooms in my flat and judging from the sparse condiments and flatware in the kitchen, they were all most likely UK students who hadn't returned from their winter break yet.

One big empty flat, all to myself.

I arranged as much as I could, relaxed and set to go to bed early so I could be up in time for orientation breakfast in the morning (8am). The only trouble is I hadn't bothered to pack bedding (instead I made sure I had all the essentials: shoes, sweaters, books and more shoes). Seeing as it was too late to go shopping when I arrived, I figured I'd rough it one night and buy bedding sometime the next day. (And seeing as my flight was surprisingly less comfortable than I remembered, I felt no shame at all in helping myself to one of those cheap, prepackaged airline blankets on my way out the door).

I cuddled up in my flannel, long-sleeve pajamas and wool socks (silently praising my best friend for giving me such a practical Christmas gift). I wrapped my wet post-shower hair in a towel and settled onto a travel pillow I had brought, under my "blanket" (courtesy of Virgin Atlantic).

The heat was on. I was freezing.

I lasted 10 minutes before I jumped up, put on a heavy wool coat and tucked my hair into a knit cap. I laid back down. Still freezing. It wasn't until I used my other heaving winter coat as a blanket and wrapped my legs in the airplane one that I was finally able to fall asleep.

When the heat turned off a few hours later, I woke up – 3:30 am! I made it until 4 before I burst out of bed determined to warm myself up with every sweater I piled on. Only four hours until breakfast...only 3 hours and 56 minutes until breakfast...only 3 hours 55 minutes and 24 second until breakfast!

I called my parents, checked my email, downed a cup on instant coffee made from a one-serving-size paper package I found buried at the bottom of a welcome pack the school had given me. Only 3 hours and 11 minutes until breakfast.

I word to the wise, always pack a blanket. ;)

(Only 1 hour and 32 minutes to breakfast!)

oh how far we've fallen...or have we?

2007-12-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

For years I have avoided this moment.

When everyone else updated their LiveJournals and Xangas, I resisted. In my mind, making yet another place where people could openly peruse my personal life was only asking for trouble. No, no. I would not be partaking.

And then Facebook happened. Before I knew it, news feeds were reporting my whereabouts and updates to hundreds of people without second thought. I seriously considered deleting my account, but then an event of unthinkable genius happened – a friend I hadn't seen or been in contact with in over a decade, who moved half-world away when we were 8, who I had searched for numerous times since we last spoke but to no avail, found me via the World Wide Web.

I was in awe. We were able to pick up where we left off as if 12 years of adolescence, growing up in different worlds, hadn't separated us.

It was then that I realized the benefit of online communities.

Even still, I remained adamant in my Facebooking principles: I refused to write a "note." I also refused for some time to indulge in the endless amounts of applications added for seemingly aimless entertainment (although I've slowly been slipping and making rather ridiculous exceptions such as my stint with the Oregon Trail application that I have since deleted out of hints of embarrassment).

I guess my fears were immature and unfounded. I worried that if I were to submit to the online journal world, I would become a blogging addict (and what's worse, one that wrote nothing of substance, but only narcissistic, self-centered and irrelevant nonsense).

It always seemed to me that being a writer, and better yet a published writer was not only a mark of success but also an indication of personal worth and professional significance – you had to be at least halfway descent in order to get published...right?

The idea of the "citizen journalist," although I appreciated it for all the romance of it's socio-political possibilities, always left the slight tang of fear, like a knot deep in my chest. If anyone could write, both good and bad, but no one was getting paid, it certainly marginalized the generation of aspiring writers who hoped to live off their work, a group of which I am a part of, and whose aspirations are increasingly appearing to be dauntingly unattainable. If this trend became commonplace before I even earned my degree, where would I fit – a girl with plenty to say but hesitation in the means to say it – in a world of new online "authors" who have the means whether or not they have anything real to write about.

Fear overtook me. I refused to succumb to the trend, adamantly to the point of daft inflexibility, I'm afraid.

It was only slowly that I regained hope and saw the light at the end of the tunnel, to which so many others had rushed towards forthright while I had remained stubbornly stagnant.

I realized, simply, that rubbish (a recent addition to my vocabulary that is an unavoidable and admittedly savored product of my time in London thus far) is published every day. Having your work mass produced, or equally, readily available via the Internet is not synonymous to intellectual prowess.

It was this realization that soothed my nerves in self-publishing – whether or not what follows is rubbish really doesn't matter. All that matters at this juncture, I came to realize, is that I'm doing it (and hopefully learning something along the way). I have my entire life to be my own worst critic, forcibly exhausting myself into publishing nothing less than some ridiculously high standard I will have set for myself. For now I should be content to just be.

So, to make a very long and meandering path short and direct, this blog will serve not as a day-to-day journal of the on-goings of my life. There's nothing more paralyzingly boring than a log of mundane daily events strung together to appear to be exceptionally entertaining and of the utmost importance of the lives of its readers.

Instead I will write sometimes consistently, sometimes scarcely, including anecdotes of moments – short conversations, things I witnessed or saw or felt – those of which developed particular significant at that moment.

My hope is that in writing about them, I will capture the essence of these moments, and only fully understand their importance much later on, so that they may continue to rework themselves for me and anyone else who should so choose to read them. I'm sure, many times, they will mean nothing at all, and this is also perfectly sought after.

Some will be constructed entirely of fact, others works of fiction, the rest lost somewhere in the stitches between the two. The entire point is that they are, without fixed designation.