Me: Whatever small animal you massacred in the sink while you were shaving, you need to rinse its hairs out so that I don't throw up when I brush my teeth in the morning.
Him: Those are my pubes.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, Sunny Sunday
Hmmm, she thought, what would be a good way to spend the day after a hangover almost killed you?
I know, she continued, I'll take my library lent copy of The Best American Nonrequired Reading, a gorilla-sized bottle of water, and a striped picnic blanket and escape these feelings of guilt over wasting a day of my life by my own hand.
Then she jumped in the car, drove 26.something miles north and landed at a spot made of forgiveness. Where the birds forgave the rocks and the rocks forgave the sea and the sea forgave the sand and all that was left was a beach made for reflection.
All in a Sunday's work.
I know, she continued, I'll take my library lent copy of The Best American Nonrequired Reading, a gorilla-sized bottle of water, and a striped picnic blanket and escape these feelings of guilt over wasting a day of my life by my own hand.
Then she jumped in the car, drove 26.something miles north and landed at a spot made of forgiveness. Where the birds forgave the rocks and the rocks forgave the sea and the sea forgave the sand and all that was left was a beach made for reflection.
All in a Sunday's work.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Things Outside (a series)
My neighbors have had at least two sets of jawbones on each step up to their front door for the last week. They have a pet raven, a pit bull, half a dozen snakes, an affinity for Jack Daniels, armfuls of tattoos, and just about the most down to earth presence you can expect to be around.
They're scary at first sight, but they're really not nearly as criminal as they look. In fact, I like them better than anyone I've ever lived next door to. Could bad people make a squatty little yard full of things this beautiful?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A Good, Old Fashioned Patriotism Parade
As the school year draws to a close, elementary classrooms around the world are putting second graders on center stage and requiring them to recite lines with the enthusiasm of an overworked roofer.
On Tuesday night Shahin called me to see if I wanted to go to Laila's school play on Wednesday morning, and since I didn't have anything too important until 12:30 and since Mack has wholly embraced public transportation in the face of $4.79/gallon gas, I decided to brave rush hour traffic and head to West Hollywood for what I was sure would be a morning worthy of a smirk.
Hancock Elementary School did not disappoint. Hancock, because it is situated near the oldest and most sprawling apartment township, could probably be named Park La Brea Elementary. And because Park La Brea is known for its mix of Koreans and Russians and other distinguishable accents, the elementary school committed to its residents is an ethnic rainbow. This palette of little people is one of the reasons I liked L.A. so much when I first stayed here and walked Laila to school every day.
But, it's also why the Patriotism Parade felt a little, uh, off color.
Like, there is probably one "white" girl in the whole school, and she landed the role of Harriet Tubman. And during the part about the Civil War, all the little Korean kids were digging in the air with garden spades, sporting Mammy rags on their heads and talking about Abe Lincoln without being able to make the L sound. And during the Cesar Chavez chapter, which featured a nice variety of color waving "Viva la Causa" and "Don't buy grapes" signs in protest, the namesake lobbied for farmers' rights through a thick Russian accent.
All the while there was a banner the size of my apartment hanging behind them that proclaimed, "I love America."
It was very cute, especially the little "reporters" wearing their fathers' trenchcoats and looking like cartoon characters, but after the flashes from the million digital cameras stopped blinding me, I felt a little bit like I felt the time I watched the Wal-mart morning warm-ups that go on in China. Or the time I watched Jesus Camp. It was cute, but it was also indoctrination parading around as American history.
They are seven, and like 2-year-olds, 7-year-olds repeat what you tell them (although more robotically and without pauses suggested by commas). Maybe it is better to teach them all the words to "This land is my land, this land is your land" before they really understand what that means, but maybe these kids, who are most likely the first generation born in America, have a better sense of what that means than I do.
And even if they don't now, maybe they will when they see their kids doing this play in 20 years. If they can put their cameras down long enough to see what's really going on.
On Tuesday night Shahin called me to see if I wanted to go to Laila's school play on Wednesday morning, and since I didn't have anything too important until 12:30 and since Mack has wholly embraced public transportation in the face of $4.79/gallon gas, I decided to brave rush hour traffic and head to West Hollywood for what I was sure would be a morning worthy of a smirk.
Hancock Elementary School did not disappoint. Hancock, because it is situated near the oldest and most sprawling apartment township, could probably be named Park La Brea Elementary. And because Park La Brea is known for its mix of Koreans and Russians and other distinguishable accents, the elementary school committed to its residents is an ethnic rainbow. This palette of little people is one of the reasons I liked L.A. so much when I first stayed here and walked Laila to school every day.
But, it's also why the Patriotism Parade felt a little, uh, off color.
Like, there is probably one "white" girl in the whole school, and she landed the role of Harriet Tubman. And during the part about the Civil War, all the little Korean kids were digging in the air with garden spades, sporting Mammy rags on their heads and talking about Abe Lincoln without being able to make the L sound. And during the Cesar Chavez chapter, which featured a nice variety of color waving "Viva la Causa" and "Don't buy grapes" signs in protest, the namesake lobbied for farmers' rights through a thick Russian accent.
All the while there was a banner the size of my apartment hanging behind them that proclaimed, "I love America."
It was very cute, especially the little "reporters" wearing their fathers' trenchcoats and looking like cartoon characters, but after the flashes from the million digital cameras stopped blinding me, I felt a little bit like I felt the time I watched the Wal-mart morning warm-ups that go on in China. Or the time I watched Jesus Camp. It was cute, but it was also indoctrination parading around as American history.
They are seven, and like 2-year-olds, 7-year-olds repeat what you tell them (although more robotically and without pauses suggested by commas). Maybe it is better to teach them all the words to "This land is my land, this land is your land" before they really understand what that means, but maybe these kids, who are most likely the first generation born in America, have a better sense of what that means than I do.
And even if they don't now, maybe they will when they see their kids doing this play in 20 years. If they can put their cameras down long enough to see what's really going on.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Dammit Joan, why didn't you insist harder that I watch Flight of the Conchords?
As if I needed another TV show to worship, but at least this one really deserves it.
I love Bret & Jemain and I'm sorry, Mack, but I am drafting a marriage proposal. I've only watched three episodes that were on the For Your Emmy Consideration DVD that my boss got in the mail, and already I want to be the Hiphopopotamus and I wish I had found the Tape of Love song so I could have used it at my wedding or something.
In case you're not a groupie of the Flight of the Conchords yet (because you are as lame as me or because you too can't afford internet AND HBO), here's a little number they call Business Time. In honor of Wednesday night. And 2 minutes of heaven.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Fine, I'll tell you all about my amazing weekend adventure
Getting the hell outta dodge is officially my preferred form of therapy. It costs almost as much as a session by the time you secure vegan hotdogs and the most amazing tofu veggie burgers ever made and two tanks of $4.29/gallon gas and what we'll refer to as "refreshments," but you'll get more sweet relief running away from your problems than you'll ever get sitting and stewing about them.
I'm proof.
California has long kept me in awe with its ridiculously varied topography -- deserts, rocky coastlines, docile beaches, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Joshua Tree -- and my escape to Montana de Oro this weekend just reinforced that this is the most beautiful state I've ever set foot in.
You expect most destinations in California to be breathtaking, so if they are breathtaking, it's fairly unremarkable. It's nice, but it doesn't leave you speechless. But the thing about California is that while breathtaking is ordinary there's always a little layer of "this can't be real" on top.
Here's what I mean. I expected Montana de Oro to be stunning blue ocean spilling over ridges of gray rock, and it was. I didn't expect that I'd spend 2 days hiking BAREFOOT over sand dunes that felt like baby powder. I couldn't have imagined that at one point I'd have to stop, look deep into my mind to look for words that describe how wonderfully beautiful everything around me was, and finally have it pointed out to me by a fellow writer that it's "like we're in the middle of a painting." And there was no way I would have ever suspected that I'd picnic at a tide pool I'd affectionately name Vagina Beach in honor of all the strange vagina-like sea anemones Mack discovered.
Just like on my barefoot hike, my head spinning from all the beauty enveloping me, I can't find the words to do it all justice. I want to go back, even if it means I don't shower for another three days or eat off clean dishes or get internet access ever again.
Yes, that is the ocean out there.
This is on a rock on the beach that has a beach on top of it.
The crest of the sand dune of powder soft.
Rocks that point to the sailboat I should probably be living on.
One of about a million little crabs we found.
About the time I realized how lucky I am to be alive.
Layers and layers of amazing.
Mack discovering sea vaginas.
Mr. & Mrs. T on the run.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
