due to my proclivity towards transferring colleges every year and some other technicalities, i somehow ended up taking an "understanding movies" class this semester. the professor of which looks eerily similar to my film history professor from five years ago. and, as i glanced down at the syllabus for the class, i realized that my life has either 1) come full circle, or 2) been sucked into some strange time-warp wherein i will forever be subjected to discussions of mise-en-scene, motif, allusion and allegory.
i got to watch (with weeping joy, for the third time) the clever-if-not-bizarre double-billing of Night Mail and Nuit et Brouillard (which translates to, in English, the most depressing movie ever).
if one frame of Birth of a Nation sneaks its way onto the syllabus, i'm staging a walk-out.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
even apples are fattening
um. New York is trying to ban trans fat from all restaurants. (i can't wait to see the thrilled look on my Nutrition professor's face tomorrow) everything has just fallen apart since my departure. if they ban pizza, i'm never moving back.
(and don't ask me what the hell i'm doing up at 8am; i really don't want to talk about it.)
(and don't ask me what the hell i'm doing up at 8am; i really don't want to talk about it.)
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
capitalizing on JRR Tolkien
i don't know if this will be any good, but i love me some evil John Malkovich.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
people like us
I sleep mostly with a pen and a notebook. I am, indeed, a notebook slut (but that'’s between you and me). When I can'’t sleep I watch infomercials on mute and write middling little villanelles built upon one person, a line and complete obscurity. It's like math with words, and the only math I'll do willingly. Like most things in my life, this one's a work-in-progress.
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
Drop words like crumbs so that we may be found
We try, as much as people like us can
What two upon meeting achieve unplanned
There is no you or I, save vowel sounds
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
Affecting silence when all this began
Too taken, ill at ease with the profound
We try, as much as people like us can
Where once you stood, when you were just one man
We build upon, where accord can abound
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
To see what comes before us over land
Is acute, coaction gaining ground
We try, as much as people like us can
We walk our path, supply what we demand
It's life my dear, existing to confound
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
We try, as much as people like us can.
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
Drop words like crumbs so that we may be found
We try, as much as people like us can
What two upon meeting achieve unplanned
There is no you or I, save vowel sounds
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
Affecting silence when all this began
Too taken, ill at ease with the profound
We try, as much as people like us can
Where once you stood, when you were just one man
We build upon, where accord can abound
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
To see what comes before us over land
Is acute, coaction gaining ground
We try, as much as people like us can
We walk our path, supply what we demand
It's life my dear, existing to confound
We cast our thoughts so we may understand
We try, as much as people like us can.
Friday, September 22, 2006
once you take your pants off d’accord isn’t really O.K. anymore.
i'm working on something really meaningful, i promise.
in the meantime, here's some David Sedaris. because you probably don't read the New Yorker. even though you should.
in the meantime, here's some David Sedaris. because you probably don't read the New Yorker. even though you should.
Monday, September 18, 2006
"I'm on a little Vicodin and some Percocet and a steroid called Nortisone, the side effect of which is mania. I swear it said so right on the bottle."
If you missed Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, I feel really sorry for you.
ADDENDUM:
so...as a rule, i try not to write about people i know. or employers. or former employers. or former co-workers. but this is too easy.
one of my former co-interns (now apparently an editorial assistant) at Nerve wrote this scathing review of Studio 60.
now, go read the New Yorker review.
that's all i have to say.
ADDENDUM:
so...as a rule, i try not to write about people i know. or employers. or former employers. or former co-workers. but this is too easy.
one of my former co-interns (now apparently an editorial assistant) at Nerve wrote this scathing review of Studio 60.
now, go read the New Yorker review.
that's all i have to say.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
"it's really so much better if you take it up the ass."
In case you can’t tell from my lack of posting, I’m on vacation. Sort of.
Far be it for me to barrage you with the banalities of my moderate hibernation, but frankly, I’m bored. And I haven’t actually left my apartment today. Why, you may ask? Because, like Paris Hilton releasing an album, I had no good reason to.
A few things.
The already anorexic iPod Nano has lost weight. Why? Because thin is in, sweetie dahling. It now comes in a plethora of Easter-egg colors no self-respecting techno-gadget ever should.
In an effort to leave my apartment, I joined an athletic club. Because, really, who’s going to stare at my ass at home? Seriously though, athletic clubs bother me. I weigh less than 120 pounds, I’m fairly good at hiding any cellulite I may have and I own all the right curve-hugging-i-look-hot-when-i-sweat work-out clothes, but there’s just a vibe about chain fitness establishments that makes me feel like I’m thirteen years old and the last girl picked for dodgeball. It’s as if they bottle that vain you're-not-pretty-or-tan-enough vibe that Los Angeles emanates and filter it through the air conditioning vents.
Also:
Back on the topic of men’s magazines, I found a heartening copy of FHM in my mailbox last week bearing a mostly naked Janet Jackson on the cover next to the eminent pull-quote “I’ve never worn so little.” I always wonder how it is in an interview that women work in the phrase “I really like to garden naked. I enjoy being dirty,” when they’re promoting a movie or album. I’ll state here for the record that it is now my lifelong goal to get the pull-quote “The only thing I love more than Camus is some good old-fashioned anal” published on the cover of a men’s magazine, next to a picture of me in a thong with my breasts covered only by a cleverly placed inanimate object.
Far be it for me to barrage you with the banalities of my moderate hibernation, but frankly, I’m bored. And I haven’t actually left my apartment today. Why, you may ask? Because, like Paris Hilton releasing an album, I had no good reason to.
A few things.
The already anorexic iPod Nano has lost weight. Why? Because thin is in, sweetie dahling. It now comes in a plethora of Easter-egg colors no self-respecting techno-gadget ever should.
In an effort to leave my apartment, I joined an athletic club. Because, really, who’s going to stare at my ass at home? Seriously though, athletic clubs bother me. I weigh less than 120 pounds, I’m fairly good at hiding any cellulite I may have and I own all the right curve-hugging-i-look-hot-when-i-sweat work-out clothes, but there’s just a vibe about chain fitness establishments that makes me feel like I’m thirteen years old and the last girl picked for dodgeball. It’s as if they bottle that vain you're-not-pretty-or-tan-enough vibe that Los Angeles emanates and filter it through the air conditioning vents.
Also:
Back on the topic of men’s magazines, I found a heartening copy of FHM in my mailbox last week bearing a mostly naked Janet Jackson on the cover next to the eminent pull-quote “I’ve never worn so little.” I always wonder how it is in an interview that women work in the phrase “I really like to garden naked. I enjoy being dirty,” when they’re promoting a movie or album. I’ll state here for the record that it is now my lifelong goal to get the pull-quote “The only thing I love more than Camus is some good old-fashioned anal” published on the cover of a men’s magazine, next to a picture of me in a thong with my breasts covered only by a cleverly placed inanimate object.
Monday, September 04, 2006
I lost my memory in Hollywood. I've had a million visions, bad and good.
Los Angeles.
Where do I begin.
My father once said to me as I drove him to LAX at 7:30am, my most unheard of hour, “you might never forgive me for saying this, but you fit in here.” It wasn’t until this last week, three years later, that I became truly offended.
A few highlights.
I got a parking ticket within 24 hours of my arrival. I witnessed a car crash while sitting at the intersection of Wilshire and Sepulveda. And a white pick-up truck with the peripheral vision of Polyphemus nearly sideswiped me on Sunset Boulevard; so bland was my nondescript Chevy Cobalt rental that it rendered me invisible to other drivers.
I marveled at the shiny new abundance of American Apparels. I gasped at the moderate attempts to bring “class” to Hollywood Boulevard (read: the pretty pink façades of Geisha House and Hillview Hollywood.) And while strolling past memory lane (read: Whitley Ave. at Hollywood), encountered this fantastic sight (courtesy of Virginia's camera phone).
In case you can’t make it out, this is my old street blocked off by an exciting assortment of emergency response vehicles.
Some things never change.
Where do I begin.
My father once said to me as I drove him to LAX at 7:30am, my most unheard of hour, “you might never forgive me for saying this, but you fit in here.” It wasn’t until this last week, three years later, that I became truly offended.
A few highlights.
I got a parking ticket within 24 hours of my arrival. I witnessed a car crash while sitting at the intersection of Wilshire and Sepulveda. And a white pick-up truck with the peripheral vision of Polyphemus nearly sideswiped me on Sunset Boulevard; so bland was my nondescript Chevy Cobalt rental that it rendered me invisible to other drivers.
I marveled at the shiny new abundance of American Apparels. I gasped at the moderate attempts to bring “class” to Hollywood Boulevard (read: the pretty pink façades of Geisha House and Hillview Hollywood.) And while strolling past memory lane (read: Whitley Ave. at Hollywood), encountered this fantastic sight (courtesy of Virginia's camera phone).
In case you can’t make it out, this is my old street blocked off by an exciting assortment of emergency response vehicles.
Some things never change.
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