Dog Day
Every dog has its day. I've been having my week. The great outpouring of giddy feedback about my fifteen minutes (quite literally) of fame, so precious for my childish vanity. I'm sure Tuesday night will be full of me screaming and covering my face with my hands.
The days are now reduced to the trial of whether or not I can make it through a whole day without needlessly spending money. That day hasn't happened yet, but I may be getting closer. I always manage to convince myself that the extravagant is the exigent, such as desperately needing gourmet coffee beans from Graffeo or real buttermilk because I can't make pancakes with anything else. These might be incidental expenditures now, but when true penury knocks on the door, freeze-dried and white bread will have to be just fine.
Nothing remarkable to report. Freezing cold. Painted my face when I could study no longer. Ate one too many of those buttermilk pancakes. Danced around my bedroom pretending to be Britney Spears. You know, the usual.
Watch Me If You Can!
It's here! My "Distraction" episode! They played the promo last night, and then a clip appeared on the site today. It's a little embarrassing to see myself like this, but of course, it's also totally fun and exciting.
My episode will air on
Tuesday, February 1, at 10:30pm on Comedy Central. And here's a little
preview.
Looking back, I do seem awfully serious on the show, but it was motivated by the fear that I would get kicked out at any round. And now that the show has revealed itself to be a bit low-brow (did anybody catch last night's dialogue about braiding pubic hair?), I was driven by the fear of humiliation if I
didn't squeak past. The Chinese "saving face" thing, always kicking in... Well, I may have abandoned that consideration very early on. (As it is, though, my parents will be presented with a redacted version of the broadcast.)
Alright, enough self-promotion.
"So don't mind if I fall apart,
There's more room in a broken heart."
- C. Simon
I finally got to check out the Brig. Reyna had said before that it may not be my crowd, but the place was an unexpected fit. And I'm too pretentious to really have a crowd.
It was Marketa's last night. Nobody is good at goodbyes. Everybody stands around looking at each other plaintively, and then somebody makes the hopeful promise that we'll all see each other soon. I have found that I just do not say goodbye to people. I always try to leave things open-ended, trying to convey that the world is a small place and very easily traversable. I could say so much, like, "You know, it's a very small world, and a very long life, and physically spending time with one another is a less meaningful manifestation of what I think of you than the memory that you have already imparted in my head." But those are a lot of words for what should be a brief and painless moment.
And as the hours crept into early morning, Ramon's antics got crazier and crazier. The loopier he gets, the more he talks in computer verse. I asked him why I hadn't been invited to previous get-togethers, even though I already knew why -- that as a judgmental prude, I wouldn't be able to participate in or even condone the centerpiece of those parties. The proverbial wet blanket. But his reply was, "It's not that you weren't included in the original template. You were, but as filters were placed, you were left out." Life as a computer programming language.
He checked out my blog for the first time and approved of the "clean" look. I checked out his bedsheets, and approved because they were the same as Carrie Bradshaw's. Aside from those Calvin Klein Blue Bamboo sheets being the "it" purchase of last year, so apparently was the
Garden State soundtrack, which played during his Prague vacation slideshow, presented courtesy of his picture iPod. And then the cork pulled on another bottle of wine, so it was time for me to make my exit before things got too hairy.
Jean and I tried out Nizam on Pico, which is across the street from Jaipur. The winner of the Indian face-off? Nizam for their tandoori skillet, Jaipur for their chicken tikka masala. "Can you believe that this is made of chickpeas? I'm going to get a dog, and name him Papadam." He laughed.
And lastly... Happy Birthday, Van! Will you have a bubble bath to treat yourself?
Twelve Years, and Two Acts
More than ten years ago, my ninth-grade English teacher arranged for our class to see a performance of
Der Rosenkavalier. The story was complicated and mature, the music was unfamiliar, and at that time I understood half the languages I do now, German certainly not being one of them. I was not in any capacity to appreciate the fine qualities presented to me. Under these circumstances, I fell in love with the opera.
Jose asked me about this last night. How does a person get to like, or get to know, the opera? I think we were discussing this with the presumption that the opera, realistically, is not really an accessible activity either because of what it costs or the language barrier alone. Or because it's boring and really requires a lot of patience to sit through. Whether one thinks of it as high-brow or not, the reason I provided was this: "If others go, then I go."
Well, I really was too mentally dead to give a more analytical reply. (He did, after all, ask me during the intermission after Act III, which was particularly hard to sit through.) We like things simply because we know we like them. I do know the moment when I loved the opera and wanted to see a bunch more. It was sometime in the middle of
Der Rosenkavalier, when the light was streaming across the stage so artfully it seemed that the sun was indoors, and I heard a mezzo soprano aria as sung by Frederica von Stade. That was it.
So then I got a Frederico von Stade CD, which had her recording of
Voi che sapete. I was fourteen and would listen to it while doing my Algebra II homework. Then, it seemed too improbable that I would ever get to see a whole production
The Marriage of Figaro someday.
That much anticipated someday was last night. After nearly twelve years, what I have to report is that Mozart was one crazy bastard. He probably should have consulted a script editor before bringing
Figaro to final. Our general reactions were, "More antics?" "This is getting out of hand..." and "Why can't they just stop lying?" We were weary to read the synopsis past the first act lest our confusion cause a worse headache, and yet, not reading ahead was akin to not being prepared for class. Four acts of foibles -- I have had less trying nights of entertainment.
But it was worth it. Cherubino, Act II, the last few bars sung by the page asking the Countess and Susanna if they would explain love. I waited a long time for those two minutes -- twelve years, and two acts.
Sunday brunch was at Hugo's. I was a lucky beneficiary of Southern hospitality. Made me want to move to Texas, for a second there. A friend of mine will be gearing up to take another state Bar, which really got me thinking. Sometimes, it really is that simple.
Voi che sapete che cos'e' amor,
Donne, vedete si l'ho nel cor.
You ladies who know what love is,
See if it is what I have in my heart.
- Cherubino
Stories from the Kabbalah Center
We're caught in an era where everything is replaceable -- people, relationships, objects, memories. When loss happens, restoring contentment is merely a click or a credit card transaction away. People are fearful of making connections that last or to becoming attached to anything in the remotest way. It is far easier to find something new -- or rely on the idea that something better will come along -- than to accept the idea that something is unique, and then suffer its loss.
While I believe in the hackneyed, go-to mantras that help us "move on," my nature is usually to be stubborn about things. I like the originals. I like my first loves. I hold on firmly to memories, and bemoan about them relentlessly to the exasperation of others. I'm a keeper as much as I can be without approaching the ranks of Chinese packrat clutter.
Anyway, it is just a difficult concept for me to grasp. How long do you hold on before it becomes unhealthy? How much do you hold on to before you are just closing yourself off? Letting go, even when you have to, is overrated.
On the bright side of things, I received so many things in the mail this week. All told, packages came from Fresno, New York, Texas, and Massachusetts. Admittedly, two of those packages contained the stupid ponies I ordered. But the other things really were like Christmas in January. To be fair, the ponies do look fantastic on my windowsill.
On This Hot Winter's Day
My studying world tour took me to three different Westside coffee houses today. With this kind of weather, burying your head in a book with a little java on a patio or near a large window is pure heaven. I know that I sang the praises of the rainy day, but I may just have to recant now that we are being handed this warm winter.
It's pretty damn near intolerable to watch Fox News Channel, especially when they have scraped rock bottom bringing Stephen Baldwin up as a guest correspondent on Greta van Susteren's coverage of the inaugural balls. They hit all the key topics near and dear to every American heart, like faith, seeing that "The Passion of the Christ" wins an Oscar, prayer, and how it was a no-brainer for Baldwin to vote for Bush because of, well, faith. ("No-brainer" does indeed carry a couple of meanings in that sentence.) Also, is Greta's plastic surgery the pink elephant in the room that we are all ignoring? There is something curiously gimpy about her bottom lip that, in this day and age of photogenic broadcast journalism, would have struck me as being totally unacceptable. It's not even quirky like Barbara Walter's lisp, or arresting like Oprah's ever-changing coif. It just bugs. I do remember all the fuss that was made when Greta had her face lift some years back; how viewership for FNC went up, how even Greta's own husband was thrilled with the results. I tuned in to see the good news -- and decided that better plastic surgery could be found on Joan Rivers's drum-tight face. Maybe it
is better to look like the Grinch than a librarian on steroids.
This week, I'm into scones and barm brack. I'm determined to make some barm brack to have with a pot of Irish tea. Maybe around 4:00 in the afternoon, served on good Irish linen, with the instrumental of "Danny Boy" playing in the background, as I chit-chat with my guest about Sinead O'Connor and uh... leprechauns and Lucky Charms. I don't know.
It seems that the key difference between barm brack and scones is that barm brack is more like a bread than a biscuit. Well, as long as it has plenty of butter, I'm in. Oh, but scones. How much do you love scones? Did you know that it is mainly butter and cream? In heaven, they serve strawberry scones, very dry cappuccinos, and everyone has their own TiVo.
Get Right (With the Help of a Team of Stylists)
I feel like the statement that J.Lo is trying to make in her new video is that, hey, I can have a bazillion different hairstyles and makeup looks, and they can range from mousy librarian girl to hoodrat hoodrat hoochie mama to barrio chola to La Lopez, but I'll still rock the look, proving that my natural blank canvas is inhumanly gorgeous, reaffirming yet again my superiority over most of the world, especially since I came from the Block ("the BRONX!") and rode the 6 everyday, and fought large animatronic python snakes before I started headlining my own plotless romantic comedies, and can date whoever the hell I want, be it a heavy-hitting rap supermogul or a bald backup dancer or an overexposed Southside hunk-type or a wet rat, and you're still going to want to be me.
So yeah, I think that's the story concept behind "Get Right".
Note: This was meant to be a "sarcastic aside" within the meaning described in this inspired "Onion" article.
And Speaking of Uncanny
I've never had a reason in my life to mention Laura Linney's name before last night. Sure, I took acute notice of her in
Love Actually because she got to get her paws all over the godly Rodrigo Santoro. (One of the rare moments in moviegoing history where I became visibly, distressingly uncomfortable in the theater.) So anyway, I write her name for the first time last night and today in comes my
Los Angeles Magazine with her on the cover. Alright, this isn't a great coincidence, but I thought it built slightly on uncanny.
I accelerated the studying, taking breaks only for my beloved "Lucy" shows. She was my first media obsession and, I think in many ways, how I quickly learned so much about American pop culture and lifestyle. After all this time, I still watch every episode religiously. This morning it hit me that I am beginning to read new meaning -- or truly "get" -- some of the jokes. Twenty years after setting foot on American soil, I am still learning English.
Today, I continued to be enormously pleased with the weather, had some labored moments before the stove pan-frying Chinese meat buns, bilked The Coffee Bean out of another large mocha latte, completed the Times puzzle in satisfying time, and made many a vicious comment while watching "American Idol" with the girls.
Closing the night with a bit of Saint-Saens, a bit of Khachuturian. Not bad.
And On Virginia Mayo
I liked her. I had a Danny Kaye phase and enjoyed her as his leading lady. If they ever do a biopic of her, Laura Linney looks uncannily like her.
Spring Cleaning
I know, it's not even fully winter yet. But the weather today was peculiarly unseasonable, so gloriously temperate. Emily and I were out and about around 7:00 p.m. and were surprised that it was actually 74 degrees. I don't know if it's just me finally taking notice of the climate, but today felt like a turnaround in so many ways. And it took over me, as I felt a lightness in everything, and was in the best spirits than I have been in a long time. I've said this before, but it's just so odd that one day you'll just wake up, and everything's peachy.
Weather must be determinative of a good many things we are often unaware of. I credit most of today's positivity to being able to connect the environment around me to something I felt keenly in the spring of 1992. That was a time when everything was green and when my imagination was terribly alive. Whenever the weather now falls in sync with the spring of 1992, it feels like I've been whisked back in time. They were warm afternoons, when walking home was hell but the cool leather couch at home, heaven; when I read voraciously after school with a huge glass of Ovaltine malted chocolate milk; when piano lessons weren't that bad, and homework was easy-peasy; and when I had a crush on a boy, and girlfriends to giggle about that to. You're only thirteen once, after all.
So the weather energized me, and possesed me with a demonic will to clean. Dusty surfaces wiped clean and bags of clothes packed for Goodwill. Everything airing out, like my soul. I guess I should add that my run-around fervor may also have been the result of drinking a large iced mocha latte from The Coffee Bean around dinnertime.
I don't know how it came up this past weekend, but on a lark I checked up on EBay the My Little Pony that I had when I was a kid. Her name was Medley, she was a pegasus, she had glittery music notes on her rump, and a beautiful silky mane. We were the kind of little girls that had just one each of the compulsory toys, like one Barbie, one Cabbage Patch Kid, one pony, etc. OK, actually, those were the only three toys we had. They were huge luxuries anyway, because my dad didn't really like the sight of girly toys lying around. I remember how incredibly envious I was of my more "American" friends (and I don't mean as a race or nationality, but a culturally felt mindset), who could have a Barbie
and a Ken, collateral dolls to create scenarios with, or a My Little Pony stable. I remember how my cousin Beulah had an adoption center's worth of Cabbage Patch Kids, and how the neighborhood brat Jenny had so many Barbies that they all just laid forlornly in a haphazard heap of frizzy synthetic hair in the corner of her playroom. Vicky and I cared for our dolls (that's plural for TWO), lovingly combing their hair and fashioning accessories for them ourselves. We had to get really damn creative, like the time we fashioned a Barbie convertible out of a McDonald's four-drink caddy.
Well, all this pent-up nostalgia and living without bred a deep, unaddressed sense of deprivation in me. It reared its ugly head when by Sunday's end I had bid and bought four My Little Ponies off of EBay. I obviously got a little carried away, with the bidding and indignation anytime someone outbid me, with the ponies being so pretty and the dumb sense that one or two ponies really couldn't stand alone on the shelf. I won't say what sort of investment I put in, but that in 1986 I probably could have bought forty ponies for that price. I would bid for sport, and then eventually the e-mails kept coming in. "Congratulations!..." Tracy said, "Well, now you know what this means! We gotta get a
stable!"
I guess I'll be looking for those damn ponies in the mail this week.
... And Definitely Not Least
Happy Birthday, Po! I hope you enjoyed the travails of Ms. Frey, courtesy of Amazon.
Bisous.
On Cloud Nine
The headline for
USA Today's story on Michelle's record-making ninth victory at Nationals was, "Same Old Story." Cute, isn't it? It seems to say that consistent excellence isn't news, it's just the status quo. I'm sure all of us would gladly trade the novelty of erstwhile failure for being predictably fabulous. As an armchair athlete, I'm bewildered that Michelle can still captivate me the same way she did 10 years ago.
Bingo tonight was so damn fun. I'm sure we (or just I) annoyed the geriatrics who consider Bingo their kingdom. One cantankerous old bag hissed, "Just what is so funny over there?" Bingo is serious, serious shit. Players are intense, from their good-luck multi-colored daubers to their elaborate dauber-caddies, from the total silence while numbers are solemnly called, to the "comfort breaks" where octogenarians get smokes and caffeine between Bingo rounds. The initial rounds were stressful for me -- so many numbers swirling around, chasing me like a bad Fantasia dream sequence. Trying to keep up as my friends snickered when I explained that I might be dyslexic. And the other patrons probably peering oddly at our personalized headgear -- Jose's vato bandana, my Pucci scarf, Peter's and Vicky's Disney hats. Proof that you don't have to be as old as the hills to enjoy Bingo.
I want to be as skinny as Terri on "Three's Company". Well, also as blonde, white, and leggy, but that would be altogether another issue.
MK in PDX
Despite the infamous UCLA Store snub of 1999, I am as excited as a leetle girl to watch Michelle in Nationals tomorrow. It will all have to be TiVoed since I'll be at senior citizen bingo... all... night... long. Bad idea skipping out on Forty Deuce tonight, good idea staying in to do MBEs. Thrilled about the skating spoilers on AP and Michelle's good work. Thank goodness, because everything else pretty much sucked today. God, I sound like Trina now.
Mucho amor.
Distracted
The word on the street is that a recent teaser for "Distraction" may contain a snippet of my deer-in-headlights stint in game show history. I was on the second-to-last episode, so it may be awhile before any of it comes to light. In that vein, here is a nod to Guy Smiley -- personality, panache, and cuts a sharp figure in a suit. I have been vulnerable to all three. And that fantastic corded 80's mike.
I've been distracted by all kinds of things lately, none of them being zany game show stunts. Yesterday was my
first NBA game, Clippers and Sonics at the Staples Center. As if to make up for being inexcusably sheltered, I at least had some great seats just rows off of the floor. It was more like watching a ping pong match close-up than the usual aerial observation crap. But it may have been wasted on me, as I spent more time looking around with slackened eyes, sometimes clapping for Seattle by accident. I became totally alert, though, whenever the Clipper Spirit girls took the floor shaking their tailfeathers. The geometric dance routines, the energy and abandon -- is it too late to abandon law? Well, the Clippers capably won without my ADD-affected partisanship.
Today was the Vietnamese daily double with lunch at Red Moon Cafe and dinner at Hanoi Cafe. Pho-king good, actually. (Yeah, sorry.)
Happy Birthday, Debbie! Eireann go brach! (Apparently, "Ireland forever.")
Simple Things
I had In-N-Out today. There is something exquisite about the simplicity of that burger. I thought about all the things I had prepared and eaten over the past few days -- homemade ragout, a balsamic and Dijon marinated London broil, vanilla-honey mascarpone with fruit. None of it really compared with this burger. I tasted the special sauce, American cheese, and ground beef as if I were studying it. I tried to puzzle out the secrets of this burger -- or its seeming
lack of secrets, as it were -- such as, what cut of beef do they use to get this level of flavor? They don't seem to salt the patty too much. What do they use to dilute the special sauce, because it is too thin to be just the ordinary ketchup-mayonnaise-relish concoction? Is this true American cheese, because it seems more flavorful? And then as the blood rushed from my head to my stomach to digest, I lost interest in the whole train of thought and just ate lazily like a trucker.
While chowing down, I was watching
Since You Went Away, though not very intently. Mostly, I wanted to envision how it came to be that David O. Selznick fell in love with Jennifer Jones while directing her in the film. How he then dumped Irene Selznick (nee Mayer, as in Louis B.'s daughter) quicker than yesterday's trash for Ms. Jones. Is it just Hollywood marriage that so frequently combusts, or is it just marriage in general? Marriage is clearly one of those things for which, after a period of time, people lose focus from and become distracted. It could be so simple. I think that we spend so much time being preoccupied and affected by nonsense, as an excuse to divert your focus from that actual non-problem we call boring stability. Maybe I'm not making any sense anymore. That burger really got the best of me.
Today, I made my peace with LA.
A little overdue, but once again, I very much appreciated the previous comments to my post from two days ago.
" ... the pelting of this pitiless storm!" 
Burns put it quite well. The rain patters on, and tonight it was all misty like the Loch Ness. 'Course, heaven forbid I should be driving along the 405 and spot a pleiosaur anywhere.
I would have the rain continue indefinitely. There is something so soothing about it trickling in the background, and then there is also my lifelong fascination with the movement of windshield wipers. Conversely, LA is starting to experience its own mini-tsunami with wrecked houses, mudslides, and a few fatalities in Ventura. OK, so I won't vouch for that, but I can look at the bright side: how uncharacteristically green everything will be when this weather spell passes!
As further proof that the calm order of the world has been unsettled, celebrity gossip-mongers collectively gasp that Brad and Jen are kaput. What I love is the inane press release that they will remain "caring and committed" friends. Tracy put it best: "For once, I'd like to see a press release that says, 'It ended horribly, as all relationships do, and they hate each other!'"
Tonight's mention of those things Scottish is dedicated to Dozer, in honor of his heritage.
Seoul Food
A Tums tablet, quick. Just throw the whole roll at me and let it ricochet off my heavy and lifeless head. The weekend was one of epic eating, including an early AM (as in just past PM) visit to the BCD Tofu House on Wilshire. I was laughing for most of the meal with my seven companions, but usually at unintentional humor. We were with some Germans and a few of them were unaccustomed to true Korean cuisine. One guy sat sullenly with his arms folded for the entire meal. His friend, acting as spokesperson, explained, "Chris does not like Asian food, but that is his problem. We are not in Germany." It was hard to find schnitzel and bratwurst at that hour.
And then a fight broke out at the opposite end of the restaurant. All patrons, with their stone bowls of steaming tofu soup and hot plates of kalbi, fell silent and nervous, openly watching the waiter try to mollify the screaming (and drunk) customer. I had forgotten that male voices could actually hit such octaves. This angry gentleman probably had to use a vocal technique from the back of his throat to achieve that strange yodel-shriek -- not unlike what Jewel used often on her first album. I didn't understand a word of Korean and asked our Korean hook-up to interpret. "What are the substantive portions?" I kept pressing. "It's just motherfucker, fuck you, that type of stuff," he explained, garden variety cussing.
Not much to say about Highlands except that it really felt like we were either in Tehran or Azerbaijan. Now, more power to ethnic diversity, and yes, Beijing had a strong showing, as well. But I think now we are heading more towards the
lack of ethnic diversity as I probably would have more likely bumped into Jesus at the bar than a good old-fashioned whitey. Of course, if I did bump into Jesus, that takes care of both.
Am I stupid for almost wanting to buy the Magic Bullet? Infomercials mesmerize me, with their slick, prestidigitating demos and overdone discount dealing. I've watched the Magic Bullet one many times over, desperate late at night for tongue-in-cheek comic relief. I remembered Mick and Mindy well from their Red Devil-peddling days. I could go on forever about the formulaic elements of the infomercial -- the befuddled housewife/girl Friday who asks all the right questions, the studio audience member picked at random surprised by how good it is, the grandma with seven grandkids who can really use this, etc. But this zippy little machine does seem to be good for making smoothies. (And, incidentally, chocolate mousse, omelettes, muffins, Margaritas, ground coffee, guacamole, salsa, and fruit sorbet.)
Well, I am still going to hold out for my adorable pink Kitchenaid blender.
City Slickers
It's very dangerous out there. As much as my New Year's resolutions called for being less neurotic and paranoid (remember my catchy, oft-repeated mantra of, "The only two things that happen when you go out is that you get into a car accident or get murdered"), I still see all the tortious liability that come with slick roads and torrential sheets of rain. All I saw out there were cars nearly hydroplaning and slippery turns in the underground parking garage by Gelson's.
OK, but the likelihood of personal injury by negligence aside, I
love rain! I may love it even more than streaming sunshine, if only for the promise of lazy days indoors with warm lighting and warmer tea. How much cozier is a Starbucks when droplets tap the wide windows? About the only weather I truly dislike is non-weather -- the white, cloudless and sunless sky in which lighting
nobody looks good in. You know what I'm talking about -- totally unflattering.
And for your fashion edification:
The world's third largest multi-brand luxury multinational, Gucci Group also owns Sergio Rossi, Boucheron, Roger & Gallet, Bottega Veneta and Bedat & Co. Gucci Group is owned by Pinault-Printemps-Redoute, a leading European retail and luxury group controlled by French billionaire Francois Pinault.
It's no different from knowing that when you buy Pizza Hut you're also giving a chunk to Taco Bell. Not that any of us need to feed the machine, but isn't it interesting to know that when you purchase cheap French pleather shoes from La Redoute, you are actually buying under the house of Gucci? And that its head honcho isn't even Italian, but French?
Matthieu was once asserting the superiority of French fashion, and I pointed out that American Tom Ford was at that time, the world's leading designer (circa 2002). I remember his Gallic shrug. "Then why does he work for Yves Saint Laurent?"
I was very pleased by the comments for the last post. It got me thinking a little bit more. Oddly, they're both male, which is further evidence of the reticence of men, how much they're not really saying. Women tell all kinds of stories. Yours truly included.
The Stories You Don't Tell
How you felt really badly that one time.
How you didn't mean what you said.
How much that song moved you.
How much you really do love your parents.
How you didn't want to give that much tip.
How shitty you felt for not tipping more.
How good you looked that one time, I mean, really good.
How you secretly do believe what they say in love songs.
How you weren't quite done with that conversation.
How well you actually do sing, though nobody hears it.
How relieved you were that nobody brought it up.
How it took a little longer than expected to mend that broken heart.
How grateful you really were.
Also:
Magazine Names Seattle Fittest U.S. City
What? Really?
Shot-Caller, Petite Baller
I get mad. It happens more often than I'd like. And I've spent a good deal of my life concealing such emotions for fear of offending anybody. I believe the label I have relied on to describe myself is, "anti-confrontational." It's a rare occasion when I really, truly speak honestly about what is inside.
And usually after such emotional purging, I am again awash in guilt that I should not have shed the cool armor of indifference. I guess we all feel this way. But I'm pretty sure that on any given day, I'm a bigger wuss than you are.
I responded weakly today to a confrontation. Afterward, I felt prematurely defeated that I had not been more aggressive. And then my mind fell into its usual habit of decrying the unfairness of the world for those people who are nice and get trampled upon and have nothing to show for it. But surprisingly, I got a positive response, and it seemed that my kindness won my adversary over. So I was pleased and was left with a grim sense of satisfaction.
Now, I am still morally lost. Is the high road really the better road? There is no guarantee that everytime you act the bigger person and restrain yourself, that you will yield a happy ending. I have a few friends who reliably tell others off and blow up when they damn well please. They seem to lead very clear, unambiguous lives. I'd love to have such firm direction, instead of always cowering behind a rock and them emerging slowly when my adversary comes around and says, "OK, yeah, I see it your way." There is no answer to this age-old quandary. In fact, isn't
Put up with people's shit one of the Ten Commandments?
In other news, I woke up this morning to all kinds of friends directing my attention to Ashlee Simpson's most recent snafu. Ironically, she has a healthy publicity blitz leading up to her second season show premiere. One perceptive commentator noted, "So the Simpson sisters make their careers from being laughingstocks. It's aight." Well, yes. Don't hate the player, people, hate the game!
Uber-cool
The girl who lives below us is a law student at UCLA. On my way up just past midnight, I saw her working diligently at her dining room table. "That should be me," I sighed.
But one of my 2005 resolutions was to make a conscious effort to be more social. To stop having that fatalistic outlook that so dominated 2004 as a result of watching too much "Forensic Files." Tonight was true to that determination, as I found myself at Falcon. After
Finding Neverland, I asked Reyna what kind of flake I would be if I canceled on meeting another friend for drinks. Marie pointed out, "He's meeting up with friends, and if it's gay night there's nothing in it for you." But Jose's simple appraisal was, "If I promise I'll go, I go." So I went.
Who knew? Everything there was sleek and chi-chi, including the sea of men there for Beige on Tuesdays (read: gay night). I kept asking, "Is there a chance in hell that there is just one straight guy here?" "Well," my friend replied, "Yes, there is a chance in hell." Reminded me of the dialogue in
Dumb and Dumber.
But we were on earth and the chances were slim. And what ensued was a night more lively and enjoyable than many in a long while. It was all the fanciful attention I am so vulnerable against, and I didn't remember such spirited socializing since my San Diego days. Or maybe that one night in Portland. Anyway, I felt strangely in my element, chatting about brasserie and patisserie and why Michel Richard may not be what you think it is. And I was complimented very nicely, however inflated, by a stylist who had also worked on Catherine Zeta-Jones. So I was tickled.
It is oddly gratifying to feel that you are somehow living your destiny.
When It Rains, It Pours
I was sitting with Chad the other night. "I'm going to get some more highlights in my hair tomorrow," I announced.
"But you already have some," he pointed out.
"Oh, you noticed. How do you like the color overall?"
"It's nice," he smirked, "How do you get it so dark on top?"
OK, so then I knew a visit to Carlos was definitely in order. For any of my girlfriends reading this, I must emphatically recommend Carlos from Jordan's Enchanted Cottage on Robertson. I haven't been this happy with the results for awhile. The thing is, Carlos has a great eye and as a stylist, he is incredibly diplomatic. I think he prefaces almost every statement with, "Should you choose to..." But I would never doubt his advice, anyway.
I have also found that I am not as annoyed with Star Jones as I used to be. I think it was just that, when she was a bit heavier, I got the impression that she was over-the-top and trying a bit too hard to be recognized, swathed in some decadent persona. I always thought it would have been a fantastic joke to run by St. Bartholomew's Church during her lavish nuptials screaming, "Got BOGO on the brain?" Did anybody check if she picked up her Swarovski-encrusted Manolos at Payless? But I'm seeing her in these E! promos now and she seems so much more confident and palatable. Relaxed, funny, and so much more your homegirl rather than an overdone peacock hogging up the shrimp at the Bellagio buffet. It could be the calming effect of marriage.
I got a long-awaited offer today. Funny, because it was the second such offer in as many weeks. But circumstances changed over the last few months and I had to politely decline something that I wanted very badly some months ago. You never do know about opportunities. They do present themselves in the oddest moments, reminding me again of the many virtues of patience.
And Now, the Tsunami Single
I was watching "E! THS: Lionel Richie" yesterday -- um, by accident -- and was reminded that he was one of the key forces behind "We Are the World." It struck me that it was only a matter of time before a team of artists collaborated to record the tsunami disaster single.
It's an interesting phenomenon in modern society, where a group of recording artists will always get together to create a big feel-good from feel-bad moneymaker chart-topper in the name of poverty, war, terrorist attacks, and now, natural disaster. This is one of the job responsibilities of the pop star. Besides appearing in US Magazine and the occasional drug habit, you also have to enlist with your fellow celebrity to sing one line on a song that will change the world.
And lo and behold, this morning one of the headlines on my Yahoo! News
was that Cliff Richard will spearhead the tsunami disaster single featuring the UK's favorite stars. Well, the order of the world is restored. Now I can relax.
In other announcements, coffee must always, always be enjoyed with half and half.
Old Acquaintances
I feel very positive about the coming year. If omens mean anything in my life, I received a perfect one today. And I am wrapped in the comfort of knowing that a lot of things will change in your life, a lot of things will swirl about you and circumstances constantly change. But there are those cornerstones you can trust and rely on. There are unwavering truths. There is a source of happiness in you that you will be able to touch. I now believe in the idea of the unforgettable, even if in the past months so much has come up to challenge it.
All this, and having tried to take down the Dalai Lama in a conversation yesterday. I'll bite my tongue!
