In The Land of Dinosaurs

Spring Music Review!

2010-05-04T23:09:00.000-07:00

As always, i bring you music from across the pond that i think more than just my dog should have a listen to. enjoy.

1. UNDER THE SHEETS Ellie Goulding
Even though Ellie Goulding sounds like a cat and UFO had a baby and forced it to learn English, her voice is actually a nice accompaniment to the great beat “Under The Sheets” delivers in this little electronic pop ditty. The glitter in the video is also a plus. I love glitter. I’m also a sucker for songs that actually use a choir during the chorus. Which is just a CRAZY idea, a choir singing the chorus. CRAZY.
On a personal style level, this girl loves hoodies almost more than I do.
Therefore: Hoodies, Choirs, Glitter = uber cool in my book.
Click here to watch Under The Sheets

2. BE MINE Ellie Goulding & Erik Hassle
If you added the above artist to a bowl of Swedish pop soup, I doubt you’d think the combination would turn out simple… or acoustic. And yet, Ellie Goulding (yes, Alien-Cat girl)and Erik Hassle’s cover of Robyn’s “Be Mine” are devastatingly sweet and simple. Also, let’s add “Duets” to the list of things I’m a sucker for.
And Peter Gabriel. Let’s add him too.
Erik Hassle, prob the only kid from Sweden who has what can only be described as a Jerry-Curled Mohawk, does a FANTASTIC rendition of “Solsbury Hill”. Go youtube it and have a listen.
Here is, "Be Mine"
Click here to watch Be Mine

3. SKINNY GENES Eliza Doolittle
Firstly the title of this one is just silly. So is all the whistling. But what makes the whistling brilliant is that it substitutes for countless of nasty verbs that only the listener (and the degree of filth that pollutes their mind) can mentally insert. Which is always fun. I love this cheery summery song. I also appreciate that Eliza Doolittle (Oh God I hope that’s her real name) isn’t another Amy Winehouse knockoff, as are most of the UK’s artists that are putting out retro beats like this.
Click here to watch Skinny Genes

4. THE CAVE & LITTLE LION MAN Mumford and Sons
OOOOOOOh my goodness. I love Mumford and Sons. Mainly I really like the banjo. I blame this on my affinity for the Civil war. Don’t judge me. Who thought bluegrass/folk would come out of England and sound like this? I love this eccentric mix of strings, whiskey voices, F bombs, and drama. Both “The Cave” and “Little Lion Man” are uniquely genre-less and catchy. Makes me very curious to know what a Little Lion Man is, in any case.
Click here to watch The Cave
Click here to watch Little Lion Man

5. CIGARETTES Daniel Merriweather
Here's a song anyone who's woken up in a street gutter with an empty bottle of Jack in one hand, a scribbled phone number on their forearm, and hair full of their own puke can relate to! Those of you who just like bluesy man voices might like this too.
I get a kick out of the end of this song when sweet Danny Merriweather gives a great big shout of jazzy lusciousness. weeeeeee!
Sorry there wasn't a less cheese-tastic video of this gem.
Click here to watch Cigarettes

2010-03-22T12:14:00.000-07:00

Hardly anything makes sense to me. Almost everything, in fact, defies it. I cannot for the life of me understand why no one else is as constantly and continuously in awe of everything.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

The day I see the sky, a dog, a glass of water and don't see anything but the sky, a dog, and a glass of water will be the day i die, and even then, do i hope that i'll see so much more.

i am my own invention

2010-01-06T01:09:00.000-08:00

I missed being artsy

2009-11-18T15:39:00.001-08:00

Basically, i love Taylor Swift.

And Natalie Portman is just... hot.

Hello Kitty, you can retire now. Introducing: Nannette Rabbette

2009-11-18T15:36:00.000-08:00

she loves being fancy and only wears stilletos. (she didn't get the memo)

Apparently, According to Numerical Science and Facial Recognisation Technologies... Me and This Bloke Are the Same Person

2009-07-20T15:58:00.001-07:00

it's always a boy, why is it always a boy?

I miss when this was the biggest meal i could imagine having

2009-07-06T00:43:00.000-07:00

God Bless pub food

The Stuff of My Mind coming to a T-shirt near you soon!

2009-03-19T00:23:00.001-07:00

Name: Peace, Love, & Cupcakes

My Favourite Picture of All Time

2009-02-23T01:43:00.001-08:00

Daniel At Chirstmas In Response To Toy Train

This face will always make me happy.

The Facts are these: there was probablly nothing in the world i didnt love more than trains as a kid. Well, that might not be true, Legos are right up there with rocks.

i was a simple kid with little needs who enjoyed making a good mud pie and the smell of cardboard boxes.

i've always been easy. NOT in that way.

i'm also probablly the easiest person in the world to entertain and please.

even right now, at the ripe age of 22, i could be content with a glass of water and maybe a rubber band.

it's surely a gift i believe will help me rise to the top in life, i'm sure.

But anyway, trains.

they're just joyous aren't they? Probablly until i was 14 i genuinely enjoyed playing with my younger cousin and his Thomas the Tank Engine sets. This fact doesn't embarass me in the slightest.

i dont know what it is about them, but i love them. And Daniel's face. I bet he played with that thing until he was 15.

How I'd Imagine Shakespeare Had He Want Of A Y-Chromosome

2009-01-25T00:53:00.000-08:00

Sonnet IIII

My lips turn up when palsy strikes your face.
Determined, you descend upon them both.
They catch themselves and settle to that place,
Where if met with mates, forsooth they’ll break their oath.
When met again, separate they yearn to be
Between old friends, they know just what to do,
Equally adept your pair to thee,
That though familiar, still inspire as new.
Our Ivory walls, in conflict never are
Though sometimes eager message you convey
Purse my halves and let you get not far,
Brief the tease, excitement more to weigh.
And when the moment comes when eyes do meet,
Lips no longer care of my discreet.

WHY ME!?

2009-01-14T13:53:00.000-08:00

So, every now and then, weird things plague my eyes.

the most recent and slightly horrifying is this flashing rainbow coloured zig-zag line that just lingers peripherally in my right eye. I swear it thinks it's a Vegas casino job, flashing and distracting me so that i'm pretty sure i look like i'm trying to win a world record in strange facial expressions with a concentration in blinking a lot.

It doesn't hurt or anything. it's annoying and flamboyant.

it also gets in the way of when i'm reading. ish.

if i'm starring in one spot it flashes away and blocks the vision, but say i'm following a line of words, it slowly backs up so that as i move my eyes the words are unveiled. FUN

it's like a suprise. good one eyes, making my reading experience THAT much more exciting.

Sometimes i like to webMD and see how far a certain ache i may be feeling can be suddenly turned into a life-threatening problem.

For example, about a month ago, i had this terrible pain on the top part of my left foot. It just was there suddenly while i was sitting on a wobbly stool in my Props class. It felt kinda like a cramp and so i got up to stretch it out and realised that it was basically the most intense pain i'd ever felt in my life, there happily making itself known to me in my boots. It was odd because i hadn't done anything to set it off.

so i wobbled around for the rest of the day (which just happened to be a day in which i was making up a couple hours in a class that wasn't my own so the strangers in there just thought i was naturally gimpy) and slowly and probablly really awkwardly to witness, made my way on the long trek home.

Sure, my foot hurt a lot and something was probably wrong, but i think i have this really weird notion of what pain is. Rather, i've always had this problem where i can't actually tell is something hurts enough... to be serious. Or actually hurts. I get really surreal with myself i suppose. Anyway, i have a hard time recognising if something is worth medical attention because i just make myself believe that what is actually bothering me doesn't even really hurt that bad, like, oh, that's just how it feels sometimes, my spleen, enlarged like that.

Anyway, after about 3 days of limited walking ability, i webMDed top/inside top of foot pain and the tragical results i got were endless. Let's see, was i actually suffering from Peripheral Neuropathy? Sciatica? SHINGLES? Multiple Sclerosis? or poorly fitting shoes?

I ended up going to the doctor cos i could harldy get around anymore and Lord knows i couldn't live with myself if i had SHINGLES.

she looked at my foot, stabbed it with her pen, slapped it a little, made me crunch up my toes and asked if any of these hurt. i said yes.

"you have flexor tendenitis and you can't wear high heels"

oh god. OH GOD. WHAT?

this was even WORSE than what webMD had to offer.

I've strayed a little off course. My eye.

i webMDed that shit and all it told me was that i should be expecting a migrain at ANY moment, once the coloured zig-zags had had enough.

i even googled "flickering colored zig-zag line in vision" and found that there were tons of people (12) out there who totally knew what i was going through. they all said it was the migrains too.

well, fuck.

If that's what everyone's saying online, what are they going to tell me when i go get it checked out at a real Dr's?! That i have to stop wearing MASCARA?!!?!

Some Reflection On My Studies

2009-01-12T23:58:00.000-08:00

I've always preferred older English literature to the new shit that people now a days think they're clever for writing.
They, would be nowhere without the dead white guys I like to learn about.
I like foundations and the starts of things. The birth of genre, double entendre, the birth of new words, expressions, ideas.
but, it's not always fun.
Sometimes i rethink my choice of taking Elizabethan Literature simultaneously with Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales.
I let impatience get in the way. I let their now forgotten style bore me out of my mind.
but i'm easily convinced that things are important.
And my professors always know what to say to get me really interested in every word of Sir Philip Sidney, or anyone, for that matter, who for a glimpse of time thought what they had to say was legitimate.
I just fall into this state of awe. I lick it all up because I can imagine with what passion each word was jotted down, maybe hurriedly, maybe with uttmost exactness - their author anxious to express the overflow of emotion with witch inspired him to put pen to paper.
They had something to say. They wanted to be heard.
And, no matter how God awfully boring 14th century text seems, Sidney got what he wanted. Chaucer got what he wanted. The poets and bards and dead old white guys who had the balls to try to spread what they believed in, refuted, ridiculed, satired, laughed at, loved, got what they wanted.

700 and some odd years later and I’m in a class dedicated to these bastards.

Words live forever.

The Sullivan Ballou Letter: words of love from a solider of the Civil War

2008-12-31T15:07:00.000-08:00

July 14, 1861Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the first Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.

CREEPY HEAD ALERT

2008-12-27T21:34:00.000-08:00

i was bored the other day, and produced this....

i realise that a floating head is disturbing, but i got tired and didn't want to finish it.

so... i basically NEVER will.

therefore, i present: HEAD OF KEVIN WITH GAWDY ORANGE HAT

So this one time i went to Europe and took pictures

2008-12-23T14:05:00.001-08:00

AND then the roses ATTACKED the Eiffel Tower!

i work here on major holidays

Notre Dame

The Henley Street Joker at Stratford Upon Avon

Kenilworth Castle green remains

this is St. Pancrass Station.

It's about that time for another Music Review

2008-12-05T21:59:00.000-08:00

As always, i'll be bringing you some of my favourites that I truely believe are going to make it uber big here on our side of the pond (some day).

1. The Script - BreakEven & The Man Who Can't Be Moved
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2omyqxbsKw
A lovely debut from dear old Dublin.
it's nice to find a band and a singer who are actually pretty great at writing songs with clear and fluid story lines. That actually takes talent, believe it or not. I'm pretty sure that anyone, even if you're a heartless bitch, will love BreakEven after the second listen. It's raw and catchy and truthful.
And, so, even though The Man Who Can't Be Moved http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FW6F_g3upKA is a little too emotionally sappy for my tastes, it's still really really sweet.
The Script reminds me of the boy band version of Keane (which i suppose is a bad example because Keane is a boy band, but whatever.) It's also immensly cute when you can hear Danny O'Donaghue's Irish accent shine through his melodies. Plus, anyone who looks like a mixture of Orlando Bloom and Doogie Howser (suprisingly) makes a lovely lead singer.

2. The Cribs - Bovine Public
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkeUKl8Imjk
Isn't it a blast when artists get mad at other artists then write songs about it? this catchy little drama fest is The Cribs attack on fellow UK indie artists Pidgeon Detectives, and basically all the other sellouts in this world, but it's fun and i like it. the end.

3. Razorlight - Wire to Wire
http://www.razorlight.co.uk/
So, i couldn't decide after realising this song was about cheesy all encompassing love if that took away from the creeptastic drama of Johnny Borrell's voice and the nice integration of background vocals and slow rhythmic music. Then, i thought, well why not, this is way different than anything that's out right now. Basically if you go to their website you get great clear quality video that takes up the whole page while your browse through it. yay!
And obviously, I love my Sweds and with blokes named Björn Ågren, well, yeah.
P.S. Johnny is supposedly dating Emma Watson right now, see? if she likes their music... SO can you!

4. Kings of Leon - Sex on Fire & Use Somebody
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHhhcKxflMY
Ok, so these dudes aren't from the UK, but i think i may be a little obsessed, (thanks to my bandmate Klug). Hailing from Tennessee, the three brothers Followill and grand baby cousin Followill make up this sexy-rasp-of-a-who-knows-who's-mama-gave-them-soul cluster of genius. I can't even begin to tell you how i think the band's frontman, Caleb Followill makes the noises he does, but it's entirely saucy and alluring.
Use Somebody is one i am completely in love with at the moment, its bluesy to the core and i love the high notes, boy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCZfJ5ai07U I've always been a sucker for songs that get epic at the chorus. yum.
if you love scruffy boys who have brothers, and/or you just appreciate the dirty oil sounds of southern inspired rock, this band is fo you.

5. Republic Tigers - Buildings and Mountains
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6VuCl-flto
Basically if you put Pink Floyd in a blender and maybe added some cotten candy, there you go, BAHWAZZZ you get Republic Tigers.
Some easy listening without the unforgetableness that usually comes with more chill tunes.

6. (Just cos I don't want to seem sexist) Rachel Stevens - Some Girls
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXl-_pdRrII
Cos who doesn't love songs about whores! yay! whores!
It's kinda fun to make fun of while also kinda maybe simeltaneously actually possibly liking the pure cheestasticness of Miss Stevens attempt of being a solo singer. :)

7. James Morrison - You Make It Real
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU1Yau9K9YQ
Probably one of my favourites for all time cos James Morrison is musical sex. seriously, listening to him will result in the birth of children, if you don't like that, tough.
He's one of the real talents out there, vocally that is, unfortunately it's only every so often that lyric and vocal talent combine to make real magic. This is probablly his best, along with You Give Me Something.
love him, forever.

8. The Last Shadow Puppets - My Mistakes Were Made For You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23PkA3G6NL8
oooooh, these are like baby Beatles, visually anyway. Cool kids, Alex Turner of the Artic Monkeys and Miles Kane of The Rascals have teamed up to make some fun 60's ish beats that would go perfect in a really mod black and white photography art show.

Chapter 4 means there are 3 chapters you haven't read. SCROLL DOWN PLEASE FOR FUN TIME!

2008-11-25T21:03:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4
A GAY affair

“I THINK I’M GOING TO VOMIT, SHIT!” Daniel shot unexpectedly through the parlour room and stumbled loudly into the guest bathroom.
Donald looked around at the 15 plus congressmen and their wives, trying to sort out if anyone had noticed.
“SHIT! GROSS! UGH!” came muffled from behind the bathroom door.
Glen Miller suddenly boomed from the jukebox Deborah quickly turned on.
A couple wives giggled politely. Banging was now coming from the bathroom.
“I’ll just go see if he’s alright…” Donald apologetically informed his guests as he rose toward the dry heaving that was coming from the other side of the door.
“Dan, everything alright in there?”
The bathroom door flew open and Daniel jumped out from it.
“NO! Does anyone have an awl?” Mrs. Wright thoughtfully opened her purse.
“I just saw Meryl Stanfo…”
Mr. Stanford rose at the mention of his daughter’s name.
Daniel grimaced and caught himself, leaned toward his father, trying ever so calmly not to scream and whispered through his clenched teeth.
“I just saw Meryl fucking Stanford’s fucking bare snatch and now I have to go gauge my eyes out.”
This is when the Lambert’s should have questioned Daniel and his sexual preferences.

“WHAT!?” Deborah yelled at James, “Oh No, silly girl,” Don cautiously took a hold of one of Deborah’s shoulders.
“Daniel does not know your brother, would not even dare be friends with your brother, is not, will not ever talk to your brother!”
“Oh, but they don’t just talk...” James began but was cut off by Deborah’s curt, wild scream and wailing arms. Lily clapped.
Deborah suddenly sank to the floor and put her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she slurred through her snorts, “I’m not usually violent.”
Donald nestled down beside her and offered a handkerchief.
James looked at Basil who kneeled and touched her shoulder before he turned to his mother.
“Are you trying to imply that Daniel is a homosexual?” Don asked.
Deborah blew her nose loudly.
“Didn’t you already know?” James knitted her dark brows.
Quite abruptly, a memory came to Deborah.

It was December 15th, about 17 years ago. Deborah was wearing a mink coat and a black mini dress. Her mother had bought her the coat as an early Christmas present. It was entirely impractical since Louisiana was hardly the place to need a fur coat, but Debbie loved to wear it around the house. She remembered noting what an interesting brown it was, not quite as dark as chocolate but not quite as light as caramel. She loved that it was short, perfect for showing off her little bump. Her favourite thing to do in the morning was to wear the coat and admire her changing profile in the full length mirror in the upstairs closet. Danny always picked out her shoes. On this particular morning he had brought her red paten leather pumps.
“How does your mother look Danny?”
“Fabulous.”
She knew as soon as baby Dwight was born she’d wear this out to dinner.

“Oh my God,” Deborah sat up straight as a plank, “Daniel is a homosexual.”

Random Fact: i started writing this 4 years ago, good thing I remembered just now that i still haven't finished it.

2008-11-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3
A girl named James and a Boy named Basil

“Oh Sweet Baby Jesus” Deborah expelled while throwing her arms out to her side as if she were trying to balance on a rolling log. Harold frantically squinted and scanned the elevator buttons. None of them read ‘push here in case of ungodly noises and sudden stop’.
“Blasted piece of ----” (here, Rosemarie at once covered Lily’s ears).
“I think we’re stuck” the southern boy said, eyes sliding ever so briefly toward the girl in the corner.
“I cannot believe this,” Deborah shrieked pulling her face back with her hands, “After all the bad luck we’ve had since we arrived yesterday evening.”
Harold bit the inside of his right cheek. At least this cowboy hat-wearing family had placed the blame on themselves; he hardly had to work to suggest it.
“Does anyone have a cell phone?” Rosemarie asked looking at Harold. He felt almost insulted. He wasn’t lazy enough to carry around a waste of money like that.
“I didn’t think I’d need mine” replied the girl in the corner.
“Oh! How silly. There is absolutely nothing to worry about then. Basil dear,” Deborah flicked her wrist in front of her son in case he hadn’t understood his name being called meant she wanted to speak to him. “Basil, pull out that contraption of yours that we just got for you.” She turned towards everyone else in the elevator. “You know, I myself just don’t understand the new gadgets out these days, But we’ve always bought our kids everything they’ve ever needed, regardless of price, for times just like these! I’m sure once we contact the authorities we’ll be out of this wretched thing in no time.” Twelve eyes now all stared expectantly in Basil’s direction.
“Uh,” a corner of the boy’s mouth curled into a slight smile which he breathed out, “Mama, you know I never use that thing. It’s not charged.” The girl in the corner suddenly felt warm.
“Doesn’t it have a back up battery, or generator, or something?” asked Don.
“No Dad, it’s just a cell phone.”
“It’s not just a cell phone sweet pea, it takes pictures and connects to the world wide web and records…it has to…is there not some sort of…” Deborah jerked toward her son in the jumpiness of someone trying to remove a stain from the carpet before company arrived.
“Momma,” the boy said quietly through clenched teeth, “stop.”
“Calm down Deborah, I’m sure soon enough someone will realise that the elevator is not responding” Don suggested with a slight grin as if to imply it was silly no one had thought of this before.
“No one uses the elevator” replied the girl in the corner. Don scanned the company. The woman with the child nodded in apologetic agreement.
“Sweet Jesus, what kind of dumpy place is this?” Deborah retorted as she fanned herself with her long, pale hands. “I cannot believe Daniel has lied to us again. He swore that this time he had found a nice decent place to live.”
Deborah Lambert would have been a very attractive older woman had it not been for her intense facial expressions and personality. Fortunately, her husband’s appearance was not misleading at all. Both inside and out he was very bland. Therefore, knowing them as a couple balanced everything out and erased any pity one might have for either member. Deborah was as conservative as they came. In fact, the only real questionable thing she had ever done was arrive at a photo shoot misinformed. She was 19 and her naïveté was to blame, of course. By describing the setting as “Romanesque”, the director was not implying that she would be wearing a toga and shot in a classically tasteful way, but completely nude. Deborah left right away and never revealed her mistake to anyone. Of course, the manner in which her eldest son, Daniel, had been conceived in the back seat of Donald’s chauffeured car wasn’t all that classy either.
“You,” Deborah said pointing to the girl in the corner, “You seem to know you’re way around this…place. Is there anything we can do to get out of here?”
The girl shook her head.
In fact, she had only lived at 128 West Street for little over a year. However, she probably knew it best. When she was 16, James Julia Aleman lost her mother. No misplacement involved, only the sad fatality of breast cancer. Her father had died two years before in a car wreck. Jeremy, her older brother and now her guardian, decided to move to Los Angeles to pursue acting and finally become acquainted with the city their father had grown up in. James didn’t mind the move at all. London had never really brought her any happiness. People avoided her at school. More than anything they were scared, secretly jealous of her uncommon beauty. She was always tanned for one, something the people of England are never known for. Her father had been a handsome man of Mexican decent and her mother had been a half-English, half-Egyptian TV actress. James was a superlative mix of her parents’ ethnic influences. Her hair was flawless, silk that danced in the wind. But it was her eyes that gave kids her age a real reason to tease her. One was as brown as the chocolate her father used to bring back from Mexico when he visited his grandfather. The other was a blue as clear and enchanting as the rarity of pleasant skies parading over London.
When the time came to leave the house they had called home behind, only Jeremy got teary-eyed. James was excited. She saw the move as a transition. She could start over. 128 West Street might possibly provide her with the life she had always dreamed of.
Her first week living in the building, James had descended the stairs in hope of finding a suitable place to read in the lobby. Instead, she found it very occupied. A caramel-complected girl was lying on top of someone who was insisting, “Charmain, we can take it slow, I’m not pressuring you…” to which the girl-confection answered by removing her top. Well, certainly this was not the right setting to read 1603: The Death of Queen Elizabeth I, the Return of the Black Plague, the Rise of Shakespeare, Piracy, Witchcraft, and the Birth of the Stuart Era.
James quietly snuck past the couple only to find herself in front of a strange looking set of doors. After some inspection, she realised it was an elevator. It was the find of a lifetime. Soon the elevator became her sanctuary, a space that was rarely used. She could read away in peace without the fear of ever being disturbed.
“Dear Lord Donald, we can’t stand about in here all day. Daniel is expecting us.” Deborah began to pace in front of James.
“So, someone is expecting you soon?” Rosemarie asked hopefully. Basil grunted and slid down onto the floor. Deborah glared at him and nipped him with the point of her shoe.
“Well, yes. My son expects us at 6:00. But we always arrive early, He’ll realise that.”
Rosemarie deflated. It was only 12:30.
“At least I have some snacks, in case anyone gets hungry.” She pulled a backpack from her shoulder and shook it around as proof. “I’m Rosemarie Thack…um… well, actually, I suppose now it’s Jordan, Rosemarie Jordan.” More forgetful than usual, in light of her recent and messy divorce from her husband, Rosemarie stuck her hand shakily toward Deborah. After brief contact, Rosemarie gestured to Harold. “This is Harold Grimson and my daughter Lily.” Harold’s eyes looked as if they were about to leap out of his head. Now this woman even had the gall to introduce him to public enemies. Deborah stared at Harold and when he didn’t extend his hand in warm welcome, Donald took the liberty of offering his.
“Gouda meat chew?” said Donald almost sincerely. Harold didn’t have the interest to unscramble the strange babblings of cowboy hat-wearing Americans.
“Pleasure” he replied dryly.
“Oh,” piped Deborah, identifying the accent and looking from James to Harold, “are you her grandfather?” Harold’s upper lip quivered.
“No,” said James quickly, “I’ve never even spoken to this man before.”
“Then you are?”
“James Aleman.” The girl stood up for the first time and extended her hand confidently.
“James? Isn’t that a boy’s name?” Deborah expelled slow dopey giggles and looked around for approval. Only Lily joined her.
“My mum’s Dad was very ill before I was born and my parents promised to name their next child after him in his honour. I turned out to be a girl, but they kept their promise.”
“How silly. Weren’t you teased at all as a child?”
“You should talk mother,” Basil interrupted with a smile, “They would have named me Dwight if my great uncle hadn’t thought he was dying and demanded I be named after him.” Basil rose from the floor and took James’ hand gently. “Basil Walter Allen Montgomery Lambert III, imagine substitutes getting that right the first try.” James’ blue eye twinkled.
On the contrary, substitutes never slurred or confused Basil’s name. They knew the wrath of his family very well. The Lambert’s were old money. Creole by blood, powerful by inheritance, and infamous from holding office, Lambert was a name hardly brushed aside. Nonetheless, Basil and his older brother Daniel had never considered themselves different or righteously special. They found it all quite silly. Daniel was notorious in their gated community for rebelling and driving his mother crazy with his “improper antics”. He had turned down a scholarship from Harvard to instead travel the world and send scandalous pictures to his mother’s friends of himself in pubs and places like Guatemala. Basil disliked polo, sports in general, sailing, and people like his classmates who instead of bragging about good grades, were more interested in getting other trophies: cars, poker spoils, girls. Deborah was blind to her sons’ humility however, and simply lavished them with luxurious gifts trying in vain to make them realise the prosperity and rewards of money.
“Yes, Basil’s why we had trouble at the airport. They thought his name was too long to be real and so we were set aside like cattle and checked out. The nerve of those people. If my father were to find out, God, I don’t even dare tell him. He’d…well, we’re never treated like cattle.” Deborah pulled a compact out of her Louis Vuitton purse and continued to talk to no one in particular as she powdered her nose. “And then our taxi got a flat tire and we just had to walk to our hotel. Dear Lord, in these heels I felt like my toes were right about to fall off my feet. You’ll never guess what happened last night. I guess Margery, that’s the head of our hired help… I guess she forgot about the time difference and called me at 11:45 P.M telling me that one of our horses had got out. I couldn’t believe it. Now this! It’s like we’re cursed.” Deborah put her compact away and smiled absently at Rosemarie. Harold backed as far away as he could from Deborah and narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re visiting your son for Thanksgiving?” Rosemarie asked; mislead to think Deborah’s misdirected smile at her implied she wished to be conversed with.
“Oh…” Deborah’s eyebrows furrowed in a look like she’d been interrupted, “yes. My son Daniel. He says he’s finally found his soulmate. So here we are ready to get acquainted. It’s going to be a lovely dinner, He’s a fine cook.” Deborah turned toward James whose eyes had suddenly widened.
“Well there’s some good news” Rosemarie said cheerfully.
“Oh Mon Dieu,” James breathed, eyes not focusing on any particular thing. “Daniel Lambert? Dizzy Danny? Oh my God.” James suddenly sank back into her earlier mentioned position on the floor.
“How?” Deborah began, alarmed that such a girl would know her son’s private family nickname. “What are you muttering about?”
“It’s just. I…I just realised that I know Daniel. I know him…very, very well.”
“Sweet Jesus, you aren’t saying that YOU are Daniel’s love interest are you? How old are you? 13?” a vein made itself present on Deborah’s temple.
“No, no, NO.” James shook her head and bit her lip, beginning to fully realise just how small the elevator was.
“What are you trying to say then?” Deborah’s vein pulsed wildly. “Do you know who my son is in love with?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Who? Your big sister John?” Deborah laughed at her own joke (as did Lily) but stopped when James didn’t snap back in defence.
“Jeremy.” She finally let out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re sister’s name is Jeremy? You’re parents really went too far.” Deborah nudged Don in disbelief.
“Well, no. Jeremy is my brother’s name.” James said quietly.

You'll need to go back a post to understand this part. (please)

2008-11-20T01:09:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2
God’s Gift to the World: Children

The girl could not believe it. Someone other than herself (and the old women who smelled of cats and cheese) was actually attempting to use the elevator. She rubbed her ankle where the old man had accidentally stepped on her. He already started to push frantically at the buttons. No sign of apology at all, just knitted brows and a sharp escape of breath from his tight, slanted mouth. The girl scooted across the bottom of the elevator until her back touched the end of the wall. The book she had been quietly reading now lay closed at her side.
“Blasted bloody piece of Communist scrap metal” the old man slurred exasperatedly at the brass buttons which had not yet done their job of closing the elevator doors.
“Sir,” the girl tested the word, waiting for the man to at least acknowledge her presence (he didn’t), “It won’t work if you press the ‘close door’ button twice. It cancels out the first press or something.”
Harold froze with a mixture of anxiety and suspicion. The girl in the corner was speaking at him. He took his finger off the button and could not decide which was worse, waiting for the doors to close on their own or having to answer this girl if she spoke to him again.
“MOMMY!” a youthful shriek rang out from the lobby.
“MOMMY! I LEFT HENRY UPSTAIRS! WE HAVE TO GET HIM!”
Actually, it sounded more like, MOMMY I wefenrEEEE up Stay-Os! WEHABtoGAYHIM! But Harold, in his lack of affinity towards the very young, was uniquely blessed with the remarkable ability to understand every word of their jumbled applesauce phrases.
“Lily, sweetie, we just climbed down all those stairs. We won’t have enough time to stop by the bakery to get that pie you like if we go back up, honey, please.”
“MOMMY! I KNEESenREEEE!” chipped Lily.
Harold was paralyzed with terror as a pair of footsteps made a dash for the now closing doors of the elevator.
“Please, could you hold that?” MOMMY’s voice slid into the elevator like the sweet skid of car wheels on wet pavement. Harold didn’t budge. In his absolute stillness, he could feel the disbelief in the girl’s stare burning into his back. Just before the ancient doors pulled together, a worn, but elegant hand shot through the crack, sending the doors horizontally retreating open.
“Thank you” said the woman reflexively, not noticing that Harold had done nothing to deserve a thank you. He didn’t even make eye contact. Harold knew this woman very well. She lived next door with her three wild children. Her name was Rosemarie and she worked at the grocer across the street on Sundays. Monday through Friday she worked at the flower shop next to the grocer. Harold knew all this from observing her through his window. Of course, if his window hadn’t been facing the grocer he most certainly would have heard “MOMMY! Take us to work with you to the grocer across the street on Sundays and the flower shop next to the grocer on ThursdaMonday through Friday” coming from the children’s mouth at some point. The walls were so thin and the children were very loud, he’d have no choice but to over-hear everything about her. Most days, Harold was woken up from his nap by the sounds of the children’s laughter or their sing-alongs. Harold hated sing-alongs. Once, this Rosemarie woman had even dared to knock on Harold’s door and ask if he could watch the little tyrant that was now standing before his knees. “Just for half an hour” she’d said. He told her he was expecting company. She thanked him anyway.
“Oh, hey, good,” Rosemarie relieved as she recognised Harold, “we’re going up too.” Harold pushed the ‘close door’ button once and busied himself by examining the tattered hem of his tweed coat. Lily also noticed the state of Harold’s hem. She looked up at him and saw deep into his brain, via nostrils. She liked Mr. Grim. (That’s what her brothers called him). She liked to watch the way he wobbled out of his apartment. She liked how he always made the extra effort to crash into her Barbies and the houses she constructed for them in the hallway as he made his way to the stairs. She thought he was funny. Of course, being four, almost everything seemed funny to Lily. Even now, the sight of Mr. Grim staring so intently at his hem made Lily giggle.
The doors made terribly annoyed sounds of discontent at being bothered and began to ever so slowly close again. Even though he was close to losing his sight and frequently ran into things, Harold’s listening skills were as keen as a trained dog’s. He could detect tin can openers buzzing two floors below or hear people approaching fifty-two yards away. This is what made him aware that someone was approaching the front of the building. In his angst, he pushed the ‘close door’ button again.
“Sir, I told you, that deactivates the whole thing.” The girl’s voice softly began again. Harold stopped and tilted his head. The girl had an accent. British. He hadn’t even noticed it before. This new fact made him want to inspect her. He almost turned around. However, as quickly as the desire to grant this girl personal immunity or maybe even ally-status had risen, aggravation welled up in Harold’s spacious gut as the voice of another woman sang out, “Hold the elevator door please!”
The old man won’t have to hold anything, the girl in the corner thought. He’s surely jammed the doors by now. Rosemarie and Lily shifted closer to Harold as a new woman, accompanied by a man and a tall boy trailed along behind her.
“Two floors up please,” the new woman said in a smooth, assertive drawl. Harold suddenly thought of cowboy hats and grimaced.
“What’s the number again Don? B something, five? Four?” The man she was speaking to was presumably her husband for they matched quite well. She had on a white skirt and peach silk shirt and he, white linen pants, pale orange polo, which he probed and pulled a card out of.
“That’s right, B05.”
The corners of Rosemarie’s mouth made an unexpected expedition upwards.
“Actually,” the girl in the corner interrupted, “you’ll have to go six floors up if you’re wanting to get off on B.” The Southern woman turned to see whom this quiet spew of information had come from then turned back to her family. She adjusted her pearls then whispered, or thought she was whispering by simply leaning in closer to her husband, “I don’t trust these people Don, just press the 2 button.”
Everyone in the elevator suddenly felt a little bit more cramped and uncomfortable. Don awkwardly made his way toward Harold and the brass buttons, pushed 2 and walked back to his wife and son. The doors closed. The elevator began to rise. And then, accompanied by a sound none of them had heard before, it stopped and ceased to move altogether.

and now for something completely different: excerpt from ELEVATOR (a novel about people, thanksgiving, and cowboy hats)

2008-11-18T16:53:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1
A Red Couch, A Man, and A Girl

Everyone’s a turd. Harold Grimson hated Los Angeles. He especially hated anyone who appeared to have taken extra time out of their day to be well put together. Clearly, anyone preoccupied to do this was hiding something, trying desperately to cover up their imperfections. Stinking turd thought Harold as he passed by a man who smelled as if he’d just been rained on with daffodil excretions. On any other day, Harold would have made a point to show said man that he was annoyed with his scent and unusually perfect eyebrows, but today Harold had to get home and prepare and so, he increased his pace and continued on his way towards 128 West Street. Summer was Harold’s favourite time of year. He liked the limited interaction of people too concerned about not appearing sweaty. They were especially aware of their bodies and he liked not worrying about looking where he was going because, for once, they would make sure to move out of his way. Sweat. Harold loved sweat. Sweat reminded him of the war and that kept him alive, or more appropriately, aware that he was alive while many others were dead. The war had left him with a limp, nothing more, and other than the occasional stare from an unsupervised child, it gave him no real trouble.
Harold didn’t like children. They were too apt to want to touch him, probe him with their small, pointy fingers, curious about a man with so many wrinkles and stray whiskers. Babies in particular were fond of grabbing his long crooked nose, and so, Harold didn’t like babies either.
In fact, Harold Grimson didn’t like many things. He hated when people felt it was necessary to proclaim “I’ve got some Irish in me too” when they heard him speak in his deep raspy voice. Harold was not Irish, did not like potatoes, and would never learn to love either. The Irish were expressive in both extremes and Harold hated anyone who wasted energy on useless emotions. Harold was from Liverpool. Fellow Britains would know this from his dialect. Americans could hardly ever tell the difference. Harold did not like to be called ‘Harry’. He hated its implications. Being called ‘Harry’ meant you were boisterous or lively or maybe even carefree. Harold was none of these. He didn’t like cats. He hated cowboy hats and especially disliked crowds and department stores. This accounted for the reason all his sister and her children ever received from him were paid subscriptions to Outdoor Life and National Geographic as Christmas presents.
Harold stopped outside a large brick building taken over by moss and rain-stained blotches. He had lived here for eleven years and couldn’t account for any one of those years being especially memorable. As he closed the door behind him, Harold paused to take a breath. The lobby of the building was, in a word, eccentric. The walls were covered in nice Victorian looking crème wallpaper that clashed horribly with the cement floors. The red couch, where Charmain Lewis of apartment C19 coyly informed every new boyfriend she was still a virgin, the ancient looking elevator and metal winding staircase were the only other things that brought the room any life. Harold eyed the stairs. The genius who constructed 128 West Street amusingly christened the 8th floor ‘A’ and the first floor ‘H’. And so, Harold, who lived on C, had to descend and ascend 5 flights day in and day out. Usually he didn’t mind the exercise, but today his limp twinged with anxiousness and he wasn’t looking forward to the 66 steps that lay ahead of him. The elevator would have to do.
Paralyzed from mid-thigh down, old Mrs. Sales was the only one who used the elevator if and when she left her room at all. The other inhabitants avoided it altogether because they had either heard it was A) haunted- used in the 20’s by the disputed criminal Vick Maloney as victim storage B) not in service- Mrs. Sales actually started this rumour 34 years ago and earned her the endearing nickname of "shaft nazi", or C) heated like a sauna- and no one was comfortable with the idea that by using the thing they could possibly break a sweat. Harold limped toward the elevator and pushed the ancient looking buttons. Clear, clangy footsteps were quickly plummeting down the stairs. The elevator gave an epic groan and ever so slowly began to twitch and screech with renewed life. As Harold anxiously began to squeeze his body through the doors, which were not quite open yet, he shot a glance at the two figures who had just stepped into the lobby from the stairwell. His pulse quickened as he recognised the mother and child and forcefully flung himself into the elevator, fumbling over the body of someone he had not noticed before. A girl, on the floor. She looked up at him almost as surprised and disturbed as Harold immediately felt.

Self Portraits scare me, but ocassionally I give in

2008-11-15T00:03:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from my one day book about crazy people

2008-10-26T12:40:00.001-07:00

It’s swollen inside. And black. It feels very dark. And maybe bottomless. It’s tender, but not like chicken. That’s too pleasant. Chicken is warm and pink sometimes and happy.
Don’t they look happy? All tan and brown and warm?
The chickens, I mean. When you’re shopping in the market and you see them in that cart under the heat lamps (not with heads or anything, not like, freshly dead. Just the bagged ones. The ones in those plastic containers). They look like they’re relaxing, on a vacation. That’s nice. They’re tender because they’re relaxed.
This is not that kind of feeling. It’s the tenderness of anxiety. Like acid fingers pressing all over, all at once. Like having to swallow warm octopuses, at least 15, swallowing down down down, still alive. Like concentrated microwave rays directed at your abdomen. That’s where it hurts the most. And it travels up, licks around in your chest and in your throat and this heat refuses to escape.
It feels like a bad secret. A heavy one. Like a fetid foetus.
That’s a morbid thought.
I try to wrinkle my face with disgust at myself but I find it’s already doing just that.
It’s the swollenness, the blackness, the thing festering in the very pit of me that’s pulling everything down.
I am a young person, a fairly intellectual person. I am happy. I am supported. I am so happy.
And yet, I’ve never felt so lost inside myself.
That’s a big revelation. I don’t know if I should have said that just yet.
Maybe… should have given that a little more time… A few more paragraphs. More pages.
We need to build trust.
Because, I don’t know you. And,
you’re already starting to form your opinion of me. I need to think about what I say before I say it.

And the threat of crying starts …now… For something completely stupid. I won’t even tell you what.
I never cry. I don’t do it. I do not cry.
This is a lie. I cry a lot now.
Now
I don’t even know when now began. A while ago, I guess.
It gets warmer inside when the crying starts.

I just talked to him. I thought that would make it better. And we just hung up and now I want to cry. My face thinks it’s about to cry. It’s pulled in toward my nose, warmed up, ready for tears.
I don’t feel better, like I thought I would, after hearing him. I feel even more vulnerable.
You don’t know the whole story.

That’s…
That’s what makes all this so awkward. I’m here verbally vomiting words that don’t even begin to describe these feelings I’ve been physically trying to expel for years.
That’s too dramatic. I don’t mean to be dramatic. Just candid. And,
It’s hard.
I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know what to say to him to reassure him that I care. I do care.
Pain is a funny thing, you see.
Or don’t see. You can’t see it most of the time.
Some people are really good at hiding it away. Swallowing it and choking it down.
This isn’t like chicken at all. But like, an open sore. Puffy and red and angry and irritated.
That kind of tender. So tender that you’re conscious of it at all times.
He cut it so short. Our conversation. Like he was done trying to pretend to have something to say.
He was done. And I needed him.
It’s like a wave, the heat, rising up in my chest, teasing to race out my mouth in the form of a sound, out, finally out. That sound that is so primal we all know what it means. But it stays. And swells and makes my eyes water up. It teases me.
So many times, I’m teased by my own nervous system.
I hate crying.
But I’m a girl. It’s what we do.
But I hate girls.
I mean, I had already felt like crying before I talked to him. And then, when we hung up, God…
He didn’t comfort me. And I know I didn’t comfort him.
This is too big.
I can’t carry it around.
It feels like perpetual food poisoning. It feels constant.
I don’t know how to make it stop.
I feel bad for him. He has no idea that I’m practically insane. That’s not why I feel bad.
Maybe I should.
Maybe a little bit, maybe he’s caught on that I’m different. He tells me I am, but it’s playful.
His words are light and dance.
I never feel like dancing.
But he has bigger things to worry about.
Far more important things.
Issues, and resolutions, and revelations, and renunciations to deal with. To live with.
Cramps!
Hahahahahahahaha. Ha ah…. ha ha.

This feels like cramps.

Not that I’ve ever had any, but I think this is what they would feel like
I’m bloated with hot, rancid, suffocating suppression. PMS.
Pregnated with Malicious Suppressions.
I hate girls.
I would tell him… Explain to him, vomit all over him with this stuff.
But. But, but…
He’s there now. Actually living his own anxieties.
I wouldn’t dare degrade his rightful tragedy with my verbal diarrhoea.
I know better than that.
He can tell when I’m straining to think of another subject. And he won’t waste time.
“It’s late over here” he says, “I’m going to bed”.
7 minutes and 17 seconds.
7 minutes in heaven, 17 seconds in hell.
If you believe in that stuff. He doesn’t. He says he doesn’t have a soul.
My soul’s made out of sponge.
And it’s soaking! It’s heavy! That’s what it feels like.
My sponge- soul is more absorbent than it’s good for.
I ate too much.
I miss him.
I won’t always be able to think of the right things to say, the right questions to ask, or anticipate how receptive he’ll be to my humour.
It won’t always work.
I feel like a hot air balloon elephant.
I feel like a snake that’s just eaten.
I feel like a clogged drain, a shaken soda litre, an obese ghost.
I am nervous for him. Doubly nervous. Shifty to the max.
He is strong. And I am persistent.
He’s rational and I am practical.
He’s emotional and I, poised, at least.
I need balance in my life. Or I shut down.
He makes up in talking what I hold in. it works.
For now.
Now
I don’t even know when that ends. I won’t have to worry about that just yet, I guess.

The best picture i've ever taken in my life

2008-10-22T00:13:00.001-07:00

self- explanitory:

trying to draw with your finger is, quite frankly, hard

2008-07-24T01:40:00.000-07:00

i am creepy sometimes.

and when i'm bored... i study my friend's faces... and then attempt to re-create them with some sort of ridiculous medium.

i don't have a mouse (computer device) so, i use my finger to try and colour in things with photoshope cos Adobe illustrator CONFOUNDS ME.

this is all very dull information.

but, i sort of suck at stories so,

here's the latest product of my creepiness.

this is Daniel:

Introducing the Main Players:

2008-01-05T04:51:00.001-08:00

Lisa & Mitchell

2008-01-05T04:47:00.000-08:00

Lisa is the Sparkles to Camille's Oyster.
Mitchell is just a cupcake.
Mitchell has the hots for Lily, but can't build up the courage to ask her out. He goes to Lisa for love advice. Lisa thinks Mitchell is very attractive and tells him all the time he has nothing to worry about.
Once, Lisa was singing to herself at the supermarket and a music producer stopped her and signed her right on the spot. she's a big deal.
Mitchell works in publishing.

Amanda and Lolli

2008-01-05T04:44:00.000-08:00

Amanda and Lolli go WAY BACK. Lolli is a pocket bunny and introduced Amanda to Camille when they were in kintergarden. Amanda and Lolli go shopping on wednesdays. Lolli thinks that all children should be kept on leashes.
Amanda thinks Lolli is crazy sometimes.
Amanda and Camille write screenplays. One day they will win the Oscar and will automatically become the next Matt and Ben.

Kevin & Vlad

2008-01-05T04:42:00.000-08:00

Vlad is a triplet, but the only one who likes to hang out with Kevin. Vlad thinks Kevin is hysterically funny. Kevin thinks Vlad is semi-scary, but appreciates his company.
Kevin suffers from a good case of model mouth.
Vlad has turrets.

Sheryl & Phil the Bunny

2008-01-05T04:39:00.000-08:00

Sheryl loves purple pants and if they're not purple, she prefers not to wear pants at all. Phil the Bunny is a very old and wise companion. He's a retired second grade teacher and likes to play the cello in his spare time. Sheryl likes to dance to Phil's music. together they choreograph dances.

Marco & Olivia

2008-01-05T04:35:00.000-08:00

Marco is an Italian. Olivia is cherry pie.
like many famous chefs, Marco became very interested at food at a young age. Olivia was apprehensive of this when she first met Marco, she thought he was a little creepy. it's a common missconception, or fact, if you ask Camille. However, Olivia likes to cook as well so she and Marco have opened a Pastery Shoppe since and are very good at what they do.

Camille & Don Roberto Benigni

2008-01-05T04:31:00.000-08:00

Camille is an English major, Theatre, Film and Televison minor at her university. Don Roberto is her dinosaur. They met on campus and became really good friends. Camille was intrigued by Roberto's accent and Roberto really liked camille's shoes.
Camille likes to speak to Roberto in Finnish.
Robert likes bean and cheese burritos.

Gaspard & Lily

2008-01-05T04:26:00.000-08:00

Gaspard is French. Lily is an ice cream cone.
besides being Camille's fiance', Gaspard also makes movies and is also quite fond of music.
Lily once met the Queen of England, it was quite memorable.
Both like to go to clubs on Friday nights, where they like to practise thier dance routine entitled "cha cha cha ku ku ku".

best friends

2008-01-02T22:11:00.000-08:00

My dog is,actually, cuter than yours

2007-12-30T04:15:00.000-08:00

Pippin

Why yes, I do have a facination with music...

2007-12-24T01:29:00.000-08:00

End of The Year Music Review - for the expansion of your musical muscle

Here's a link to some of the songs below so you can listen while you read! Have fun, open your mind and indulge in some Grade A UK genius. http://www.playlist.com/node/22390341

1. AaRon : U-turn (Lili)

Possibly one of the finest musicians out of France in a very long time, and that's saying a lot because i love France. This track makes me feel like i'm back in the womb, carefree, but slightly melancholic due to AaRon's sweetly haunting vocals. I'd imagine this is what crawling through blue cotten candy in slow motion would sound like if it were music.

2. Elisa : Eppure Sentire

I first heard this song preformed acoustically by a friend my mates and i were visiting in Berkeley. We'd just got home from a party and at once were introduced to the pretty euphoric sounds of a pair of beautiful voices and a guitar. This song is perfectly suited for that. I love simplicity in music as much as i love the loud and the dramatic. Sweet harmonies and the purity of raw, untouched by post-production vocals = loveliness in my book.

3. Muse : Starlight

I love music that sounds like this. Like kid crayon drawings and rock and roll mixed together with long-winded vocals and a nice beat. Anyone who can think of rhyming Black holes with revelations and make it make sense gets a gold star from me.
So there is more coming out of Oxford than just worn-out academics.
i like that.

4. Thirteen Senses : Contact

OH GOD. this is an edgy comercial's dream song.
Love this band. the perfect mix of sensuality, glitter, and masculinity.

5. Into the Fire
mystical vocals and a steady lulling beat. I'm pretty sure Grey's Anatomy has used this at some point or will... as much as i roll my eyes at that show, they've nailed themselves one great musical director. so cheers to them and cheers to these dandy lads.

6. The Boy Least Likey : Apple Wagon

Honestly, i have no real clue what this song is about, but i like it that way. This is play-skool tunes on a pinch of crack and a shit load of prozac. I'm going to play this CD for my babies.
furry animal puppets, fairy dust, a bazooka, and a xylaphone = pure slightly naughty feel-happy musical harmony.

7. Be Gentle With Me
Best line: "I'm happy because i'm stupid"

8. The Futerheads : Hounds of Love

a wonderfully playful cover of Kate Bush's original, this one is modern and like evil pixie vomit. (for any of you who don't know, Kate Bush was fun stuff in the 80's across the pond). I don't exactly know where Sutherland is, but the accent is brash and crispy and nice to listen to.

9. Decent Days and Nights
LOVE this one. remeniscent of Queen and rock-musicals. drama drama

10. Guillemots : Trains to Brazil

Don't let Fyfe Dangerfield's all over vocal's fool you, this bloke's got PERFECT pitch. but, like really. i'm a fan of his incredible range and unique sound. i like how this song has tumpets. who used trumpets anymore? i don't know.

11. Annie Let's Not Wait
This band is all about combining strange sounds together in a sort of hodgepodge of noise and rhythm.
Also great: Made-up Lovesong #43

12. Kaiser Chiefs : Oh My God

Any band that scraps their US tour coz they're just TOO EXCITED to reocord a third album is bad-arse.
very 70's new wave/punk rock/i'm on drugs sounding.

I'm pretty sure Mark Ronson thought he was uber cool getting Lily Allen to cover this one, pompous wanker. (If you don't know who Mark Ronson is either, don't worry yourself).

13. Kate Havenvik : Grace

i bet she wrote this knowing it would instantly be used in every melodramatic hospital TV show on the planet.
it's like if Imogen Heap and Emiliana Torrini had a love child.

If you're really down and want to imagine yourself in a poignant movie scene listen to this one.

14. Koop : Come To Me

This electronic jazz duo hails from, one of my favourites, Sweden. The band consists of Magnus Zingmark and Oscar Simonsson...yes that's right MEN, who apparently like to dress as women and sound like them too.
all the power to them, for like, 10 years i though some old more ethinc jazz woman was behind this one. just goes to show me.

15. Leona Lewis : Bleeding Love

YAY! Leona. you can't not like her, even if she did spring from X Factor. she's GOOD and doesn't realise it and that's what makes her special. I'm going to admit this once, i was pretty sure that she was saying "Camille" the whole time and i was like, wow...that's pretty cool. And now i've figured that she isn't just pleasing me, but is in fact, saying something else completely initelligable to me.

16. Run (Snow Patrol Cover)
God, she's good.

17. Maximo Park : Apply Some Pressure

The way they sound recored and live are exactly the same and that's quite a feat.
Messy, loud and like pop rocks.
All fun and games listening to Maximo Park, a band that was formed when singer Paul Smith was discovered by the then-girlfriend of drummer Tom English in a pub while he was singing along to Stevie Wonder's "Superstition". Stories like that always make me smile.

18. Mystery Jets : You Can't Fool Me Dennis

:) Father and son and mates = Mystery Jets.
When you Dad can jam to music like this, he's pretty much the coolest Y-chromosome around.
Love this band too.
my personal favourite is The Boy Who Ran Away.
great great great vocal control!

19. Giorgia : Parlo Con Te

The Italian Kate Havenvik, but edgier and about a 1/6 happier.
another example of great control.
i like when people really know how to sing.

very simple, even if you don't know what she's saying, you can feel it, and that's what music is all about anyway.

20. Take That : Rule the World

I know you know this band.
let me refresh some memories: "Blah bleh bleh bleh bleh, la bleh blah bleh blah, WANT YOU BACK, WANT YOU BACK, WANT CHU back for good"
yep.
well they've made a pretty nice mini comback.
have a listen and judge for yourselves.

It's Sonnet Time!

2007-12-21T03:38:00.000-08:00

He has never called me beautiful
Or held me longer than is concerning.
Accustomed to what might to some seem cruel,
His familiar distance keeps me yearning.
Speak at once my torn and battered friend;
It’s quite unnatural keeping you from song.
Those dewy suns speak truth while you defend
Flooding words your Keeper thinks are wrong.
In every touch with hands that cannot lie,
Or anxious leg that knows each step of mine;
Even ignored lips wish to reply
My call, and so I ask that you resign.
Dear Heart your loyal task has been in vain,
Know I his love, though it be not in name.

Apparently, I'm an arse

2007-12-17T02:27:00.000-08:00

Your personality analysis based on this drawing:You are a suspicious person and have some paranoid tendencies.You think you are very intelligent.You have an evasive attitude in social relations.You frequently get anxious and have antisocial tendencies.

Attempt 1 to describe my friend

2007-12-12T01:18:00.000-08:00

insanely artistic...

not the type of artistic that insinuates ‘bizarre’ or ‘special’ but the kind that only come around once in a while. The kind that makes you step back in awe. Kevin is an artist. Not like OCD me who must duplicate every insignificant detail of a photo onto paper, Kevin sees beauty and colour and light in his mind and transfers that onto any surface. That’s a true artist. It’s a talent I’ve always envied him for, seeing the world interperpectively and having the acute ability to express it to others however he wants. I realise I just made up the word ‘interperspectively’ and that it might be a slightly redundant compound, but I want to use it none the less.
Kevin and I have already decided that we’re going to have children. And they’re going to be hot.
I love names. And so does Kevin. And that’s probably why we’re friends.

Months can pass and Kevin and I can still function as if we’ve just seen each other without any second thought to why it took so long in the first place. I like that. Not that I like being apart, but knowing that nothing will falter or fade or weaken or break because of time.
Witty.
Kevin is witty.
I like witty. And that’s probably why we’re friends.
I’ve known Kevin since the first grade and I remember everything that made him who he was then and like to contrast it to everything he is now.
We lived on the same straight, opposite sides from each other. I think that’s fate.
And I think fate is why we’re friends.

Non m'importa niente

2007-12-10T03:18:00.000-08:00

i just read through about 17 centuries of English Literature.
Well, with the exception of the 15th century ( apparently nothing of remote importance occured because Norton completely decides to not include it).
But, bloody ovaries on a biscuit, England has some mad history, yo.
too many Mary's and blokes naming their sons after themselves for my taste, but very entertaining lineage i must say.
God, i am such a nerd. William Shakespeare, bless him, was a cheeky bastard.
love Donne. a freak, a freak. eye balls on a necklace, love as an autopsy...clever monkey.
Sir Philip Sidney, poor cabbage. Love sick.

ugh. i'm full to the brim with English literature. there's hardly anything else i have room to talk about.
good thing i'm not socially obliged to make friends right now, i'd be screwed.
God bless finals week.
and God save the Queen.

Barbara and I - a short story based on true facts

2007-11-19T01:21:00.000-08:00

My brother used to pretend he was Barbara Streisand. He was very good at it too, nailed her body language, accent, everything. He also had a girlfriend, liked contact sports and had a hidden stash of Playboy’s tucked between the wall and his bed. It was all very confusing growing up and trying to place him in a category. People would ask me how he was doing and I could never figure out if I had the right to say that his rendition of “Woman in Love” was coming along nicely. So, I would tell them that he had a girlfriend, liked contact sports and secretly enjoyed graphic novels. He used to ask me to call him Barbara when we were home. So I did. Barbara and I never really had all that much in common besides that we both liked Funny Girl and chocolate doughnuts. My mother thought he was just being funny when he would parade around using Barbara’s voice. My father never had the occasion of witnessing his son’s talent as he was never around. At school Barbara was MIKE! His name was never just said, but always shouted. Everyone was always so excited when they were around him. I never really understood why. Sure he could imitate Barbara Streisand better that she even could, but they didn’t know that. He wasn’t all that exceptional. He was an OK student, mediocre athlete, corny, and looked like anyone who stood next to him. And still, MIKE! was everyone’s favourite guy. MIKE! Was never date-less and always had places to be and people to hang out with. And still, he occasionally elected to stay home and put on sold-out concerts just for me and Grant (the dog). He’d go find one of Mum’s sequenced jumpers from the 80’s and grab a large spoon from the kitchen cabinet and turn up the stereo all the way till the sliding glass doors would vibrate from the noise. And then he would sing. He was captivating. I don’t know if ‘amazingly good’ is the best way to describe his talent. He sounded exactly like Barbara Streisand which is great if you’re a middle-aged woman, but not so attractive if you’re a teenage boy. ‘Odd and slightly disturbing’ might be a better choice. Nonetheless I would applaud like my life depended on it each and every time. He would thank me, undress (in his room), and then make me a grilled cheese. It was a good routine which lasted until my sophomore year of high school. Then he went off to New York for school. Accounting. Minor in business economics. I never understood that.
Well, I never understood why he chose to secretly imitate Barbara Streisand either. But numbers just seemed like a queer choice. My mother would phone him every week and I’d listen to her side of the conversation from the bar in the kitchen.
“When are you going to get married and give me some grandchildren? Huh?”
I was 18 by then and I’d considered that Barbara might be a closeted homosexual. I wanted to introduce this possibility to Mother and see what she thought about it, but couldn’t really figure out a stealth way to go about doing this.
“That George Michael, aye? MIKE! Really seems to like numbers”, seemed like the best way to incorporate my brother’s semi-ambiguous sexuality into our normal after school conversation.
“What’s that dear? George Michael? That poor chap. Always getting himself caught and embarrassed”.
“Yeah. MIKE! Really likes numbers and stuff right? With the whole accounting business. You think George Michael likes numbers?”
“I’d say George Michael likes trouble”.
“So, George Michael is a homosexual right?”
“Yes, that’s right dear. The poor chap”.
“And MIKE! Really likes numbers because he’s using that as an excuse to cover for the fact that he likes trouble just as much as George Michael does?”
She cried for four hours before the 10’o clock news came on. Then she cried for two more after. Barbara would have probably sung Don’t Rain on My Parade, but MIKE!, now keen on numbers, would have remarked that 6 hours of crying was all he was wroth to her?
During the first and last hours, in between her sobs, I tried to convince Mother that having a gay son wouldn’t be all that bad. He’d be great for asking about decorating advice, and he’d know all the gossip, and probably use his amazing impersonating skills to get famous and buy us a bigger house and all kinds of material crap with all the money he’d surely make. She cheered up then but lost it when I admitted that he’d always looked strangely good in her 80’s party frocks.
Their relationship from then on was strained. Though she never confronted him directly, she just assumed from what I had revealed to her that he was a flaming, sex-crazed, cross-dressing, man lover. When he came home for Thanksgiving she smiled nervously at him and excused herself to go cry in the loo when he mentioned that the landscaping was looking good. I pitied him with my eyes. Grant licked his leg. My brother always managed to look put-together. However, his black turtleneck, violet scarf and linen trousers hadn’t exactly comforted my mother. She would have been more pleased if he’d come home wearing a T-shirt that read I LOVE PUSSY. He’d always been an unusually clean boy. He liked tucking in his shirt and ironing his khakis. That should have told us something then.
“What’s up with Saggy Knickers?” he asked me, concerned.
“She’s just mourning the loss of her perfectly wasted child-bearing son” I replied.
“What? Why? What’s in this tea? You lot haven’t sterilised me by way of poison chamomile have you?”
“No”.
“Well then, I don’t understand. Doesn’t she know that people find men in the business world the most attractive? I’m not wasting anything”.
“Fine”.
MIKE! Went back to school and I continued my senior year in his shadow. Mrs. Bancroft and Mr. Wilkins and Miss Duffy all wanted to know what MIKE! was up to. I said he still liked contact sports, but had grown fond of numbers and trouble. They told me that’s what University was all about.
By Christmas my father had left us and MIKE! was back home for winter break.
He said he had something important to tell us. My mother and I looked at each other with knowing eyes and tried to insist that he needn’t bother. He said it was life changing.
He sat us down in the living room and stood in front of us, just like the old days during one of his concerts.
“I’ve met someone” he said.
Mother whimpered next to me.
“The One, I think. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I’ve never met anyone else who appreciates the simpler things in life and doesn’t take it all too seriously”. He smiled and waited for our reactions.
“And what does this person do exactly? Where did you met?”
“Hair stylist. We met at the salon. I had an appointment and we just clicked. We talked about music and Wall Street and bad reality television”.
“That’s all a tad cliché’ isn’t it? Apart from the Wall Street bit” I added.
“I’d say it’s quite unconventional” (mother burst into tears) “it’s not every day you fall in love with your hair stylist”. MIKE! got down on his knees and tilted up our Mother’s face with his hand.
“Oh mother, no need to worry. You’ll get your wedding and grandkids soon enough”. He kissed her forehead and pinched my cheek.
“And!” he added before returning to his bedroom, “You’ll both have great hair from now on!”
Needless to say, it was quite a shock when MIKE! brought home Sheila, a tall blue-eyed blond with tiny hands. The first chance she got, Mother whispered in my ear that maybe Sheila was one of those tranny-types. He’s really gone all the way with this one, hasn’t he? Look at her breasts! They look more real than mine. Sheila was talkative. MIKE! was enamoured. Grant was gassy.
We never confronted MIKE! about his transvestite fiancé and Mother didn’t bother to brag about their engagement to any of her gossip-happy friends. We lived life as normally as we could. I got into school nearby and Dad got into weather forecasting over in Arizona, he’d sent a post-card saying so. Mother sent one back saying everything was going so well. Then the wedding date was announced and MIKE! asked if we’d be willing to fly up to New York to meet Sheila’s folks.

“THE ENGLISH ARE COMING!” came cascading down the stairs of the very posh townhouse.
Mother and I looked at each other with dread before the door flew open and a miniaturised version of Theodore Roosevelt accompanied by an Amazonian woman with legs that went up to my shoulders greeted us.
“Hello my pets” said Legs.
“Em, er, good afternoon” said my mother.
At dinner, I sat next to someone named Hendrick, who wasn’t quite related to the family but somehow lived with them. MIKE! and Sheila sat across from us and Legs had squeezed in a chair next to her side of the table so my mother could join her there.
“This is just lovely” Legs began, “We knew Sheila would pick a winner”.
Mother nodded and avoided eye contact.
Well, it turned out that Sheila was a real girl, had always liked styling her dolls and had a thing for us English. They were married in March and had two little girls within their first two years of being together, Fanny and Barbie.
God just works in mysterious ways sometimes and likes to joke around. Why he endowed my apparently completely heterosexual brother with the ability to imitate Barbara Streisand, I do not know. How my brother discovered he could do this, I do not know. But, on occasion I will get a late night phone call from Barbara and we’ll chat like we did in the old days about upcoming gigs and signings. Then Fanny or Barbie will often times be heard screaming in the background and MIKE! will resume order and say,
“Oh, right, well I have to go now”.
I suppose if they ever find themselves fallen on hard times, MIKE! could start a night gig being a Barbara Streisand impersonator and keep the family afloat so that Sheila doesn’t have to degrade herself into prostitution. God not only has a sense of humour, but he’s also quite practical.

La Vie Est Une Chienne

2007-06-28T02:53:00.000-07:00

i think i've figured out what my biggest pet peeve in life is: Bragging, Over confidence, and ridiculously apparent self-love.
I just think that humility is the sexiest thing in the world. Actually, i'm only saying that because i'd like it to be true. (and because i don't think i'll ever learn to brag properly sooo might as well campaign for humility and all that good stuff).
I have this young girl in my life (actually, she's my younger cousin but I tried to cover up that there was any familial relation because 1) people might realise who i'm talking about and judge me for scorning my own blood and 2) because it means i'm related to her..... and i just thought about it and "young girl in my life" sounds slightly dodgy).
anyway.... my younger cousin is a big fan of herself and the idea of 'popularity' and materialistic impressiveness. She thinks being blonde is uber cool! and brand names mean the world to her. Not to long ago she said "I'm the prettiest girl at school and all the boys have crushes on me...look at my new shoes's, they're coach". i didn't know what bothered me more, the fact that she felt it was ok to tell me how fabulous she was, or that she's 9 and has coach shoes. One of my seceret (oh ho! not so secret anymore...) passions in life is the satisfacion of not allowing people who think they're so cool to recieve the reactions they anticipated...which may theoretically make me a bitch...but it's just so gratifying...to see their vain little faces scrunch up in confusement. and so... i was torn... is it morally wrong to respond with my usual "oh...that's nice" to a 9 year old who i should be courteous to because we're practically from the same womb? i think i may have twitched with nervousness then walked away feigning dehydration.
This other girl i know is always throwing around phrases like "OMG...don't i look so cute?" and i want to vomit then ask "do you really think people will find it charming that you get a kick out of how adorable you are? NO". but you cant really say things like that out loud either....there are limits.
This is all very ironic because all my passions in life require one to have a shitload of self-confidence. I want to win an Oscar someday. but i've only admitted to about 4 people. In order to become a writer, you have to believe you're actually good at it. In order to win an Oscar you have to be a great actor, and in order to be a great actor, you got to believe you are one. therein, lies the problem. i'm terrible at admitting that i'm good at anything. I just don't want to be like all those people i critise for loving themselves so much. i don't want to be a hypocrite. and yet, i dont want to settle and continue being pre-homeless (aka and English/Theatre major) because i didn't have enough guts to submit a screenplay, or audition for my dream role.
i want to be in a musical... but i've only ever been confident enough to sing in the shower.
i want to publish a book...but i freak out and decide not to ask anyone to edit my first draft because i dont want them to think i actually think my book is good.
clearly... i'm crazy, but who isn't.
what more can i say? la vie...is, in fact, une GRAND chienne. oui.

Camille Esparza makes a mean tuna sandwitch

2007-06-12T05:12:00.000-07:00

so it's 5:12 in the AM and i've done nothing remotely serious all day.
i talked to 3 out of my 9.6 friends. One of them took me grocery shopping via cell phone. Another exposed me to the glory that is French male figure skating. And the last one made my night, with stories about men in white vans trying to kidnap young boys, etc.
i am so shifty right now i could power Gotham City, if Gotham City ran on un-used energy.
i worked out today. hard core. i re-introduced my ex-physical therapy routine into my life and it was, in a word...PAINFUL. my bum muscles ache like Dakota Fanning in her new movie... too far?
i'm watching my roomate study for her final.
i think i have carpel, carpool? carpo tunnel syndrome. no matter, Kevin says my children will be beautiful. that makes me smile. and then laugh nervously. and then cry because...really? i'm thinking of children? maybe i should focus on meeting some nice boy first. i hear you need one of those to make children. who knew.
oh yeah... i make a mean tuna sandwitch. trust.

So Everyone's A Little Bit Autistic

2007-05-19T04:00:00.000-07:00

My art teacher once asked me if I was autistic.
Clearly I had never realised she was from Brooklyn. Where had this accent of hers sprung up from? Of course I was artistic, I was in an art class wasn’t I?
“I mean, I used to work with autistic kids. I know what kind of work they do.”
No…she definitely meant autistic.
“I have never seen so much insignificant, insightful, OCDish detail like this done by anyone who wasn’t an idiot savant”
O.K. someone was definitely not good with compliments. I smiled slightly and wondered how to reply to this. This was not the first time someone had noted to me that I had a fix for details.
So I thought about it. I do have very sensitive eyes. I love watching balls bounce and fish swim. I don’t like to be touched if I’m not doing the touching. I kind of have this thing about not understanding large numbers and I hate dolphins. Wow. Could I be an autistic savant?
No. I’m just an only child. I was pretty much forded to be creative and find strange ways to entertain myself.
In his book, “The Essential Difference”, Cambridge University psychologist Simon Baron-Cohen lays out the exact definition of autism: a disparity between the intelligence of empathizing and the intelligence of systemizing- a basic imbalance between understanding people and understanding things. Autism is just a higher intelligence of understanding things.
Well this makes practical sense. Understanding people is hard. They hide their feelings and say the opposite of what they mean. They lie and paint themselves façades to hide behind. Autism is obviously the logical way to go.
Studies have shown that in general, females are better empathizers than males and males are just better at understanding things.
This is why girls are so intricately complex and un-understandable. Why they look into everything that is said, why there will always be hidden meaning behind a simple ‘hello’.
Men will never think this way. They don’t deconstruct and analyze phrases like ‘see you later’ in cultish groups with their bestest guy friends.
- Oh my god Mark, she said ‘See you later’. Was she trying to cut the conversation short? Giving me false hope that I will actually see her later today? Does she not want to pursue the relationship because she obviously doesn’t want to see me NOW, but only LATER, like, am I a booty call now?
Men don’t do that. (Well the ones I’m trying to find anyway)
But, when my calculator says 4 x 2 is 8, I believe it. I know that it’s not just saying 8 because it thinks that’s what I want it to say. It’s not saying 8 to deceive me into trusting it. 4 x 2 is 8, it’s that simple. I trust inanimate things.
I like systemizing. It’s clear cut and truthful and won’t care if you’re not wearing Prada.
Understanding and noticing all the parts of something makes me appreciate the whole so much more.
I stare at glasses of water far longer than is socially acceptable, but its properties amaze me. It’s clear and liquid and can be solid and can be cold and tastes like nothing but like the most amazing nothing I’ve ever had.
And so what if I see the shadows people cast before I actually see the people. Shadow and light and dark are intoxicating. Next time you have an opportunity to speak to someone, notice where the shadow falls on their face. How perfectly spaced their features are. How a family of complimentary colours dance in their eyes. Details make life beautiful. Details define us and make us individual.
“Thank you” I finally decided to reply to my art teacher. Autism isn’t a setback in any sense, just another perspective.

How to Treat Pseudo-Celebrities

2007-05-19T03:55:00.000-07:00

So, I think I was born with some inability to process hierarchy. Numbers, no way. Numbers are some incomprehensible scribble-language that I can only grasp up to about 101. 101 I can visualize (thank you Disney). Anything above that just doesn’t register. There are no soft spots in my heart for 5,234. It doesn’t conjure up anything special.
I’ve learned to ask, “Well, how many cars could I get for that much money?”
I measure values in Hondas.

I guess I evaluate people with the same logic. Not that I compare their qualities and determine the level on which I should respect them based on the commonalities they share with cars, it’s just, I don’t think I have the ability to distinguish how to treat people according to their status. Well, it’s not even that either. I wouldn’t go up to the Queen Mum – if by some chance I was near her at a cocktail party or wherever it is the Queen Mum disappears to for fun- and just slap her on the back with a “Yo, Biatch”. I know when to be appropriate. My pre-frontal cortex is working just fine, thanks. But, what I don’t understand is the phenomenon that is celebrity and people who think they should be treated like celebrities because they have the money or vanity to match.

It’s not something I choose to do. I don’t purposely treat debutants like shit to make a point. I just, don’t get the hint to change my personality to please those of “elevated esteem”. Why change who I am just to keep Michael Jackson happy? It’s not my fault I don’t regularly give Jesus Juice to my pre-teen male groupies – not that I have any. If we don’t have much in common and don’t click, fine. If it turns out that we’re both civil war fanatics and can name all the generals on both sides alphabetically, then hey, that’s what makes friendships genuine- connecting mentally and not artificially through sycophantism.

I work for the WNBA and it’s not unusual for celebs to stop by and wander about backstage around the locker rooms. Once I was getting some clean towels for the visiting team and was stopped by my co-worker who informed me that I was being “checked out”. I put my towels down and followed the direction of her index finger towards a posse of boys who hardly looked like they’d experienced puberty. I noticed they were all in pastel button-up shirts and had horrible huge necklaces, diamonds dripping everywhere. I was reminded of my childhood days when I dressed up my Ken in Barbie’s hand-me-down sweaters and gaudy accessories (Ken was a proud metrosexual). I received a wave and pouty lips from the minor in the middle, winks from the other Sesame Streeters.

I turned back to Erica and made a classic “I don’t need a reason to be fired” face and went back to the locker room to get some water bottles. Before I was within an inch of the locker room door, I was pounced on by the other girls.
“Camille! Please invite us to your wedding!”
“Camille, did you go talk to him?”
“Are you going to go out after the game?”

I was completely lost. They noticed my upraised eyebrows and all stared at each other in utter shock.
“HOW ARE YOU NOT DYING FROM EXCITEMENT THAT LIL’ROMEO WANTS TO MARRY YOU?”
“Who?!?” I asked and was severely beaten with dirty towels and a couple of basketballs.
I gave my reasons for not wanting to meet the advances of a twelve year old, i.e. jail time and lack of intellectual stimulation, but nothing seemed to be valid enough.
“Lil’ Romeo is checking you out, asking to meet you and you’re thinking about how old he is? He’s famous! You can’t say no to Lil’ Romeo. His dad is Master P. He’ll probably get you your own car!”
When I asked who Master P was, they didn’t bother to buffer their hits.
“He’s famous, you don’t disappoint celebrities, you give them what they want!”
They got real quiet and pinched me, pointing towards a man walking toward us.

“Wuss up Cam, you showing these girls how to get it done?” the man asked me.
“Yeah, just doing my job.”
He laughed and led the six men behind him dressed like Mafia bosses, but with fun man-necklaces, toward the Family Room. My co-workers all exploded around me.
“You talked to him! You just talked to Master P!”
“He talked to you!”
“Why didn’t you ask for an autograph?”
“Why didn’t you freak out?”
“Now will you marry Lil’ Romeo?"
I scratched my head and started to raise my arms, already anticipating the oncoming hits. “That was Master P? I was talking to him earlier. I just thought he was someone’s dad.”
“He is someone’s dad you bitch! Lil’ Romeo’s dad!”

After that night I earned myself a nickname, Future Backup Dancer and Mistress of Rap Legend’s Sons, and developed a reputation as the girl who associated with celebrities because she did not recognize who they were or simply didn’t realize that they weren’t supposed to be treated like ordinary people.
People are people. Frankly, it doesn’t impress me if you own a small nation or drive a nice car. I only comprehend Hondas so it really makes no difference. Americans are obsessed with celebrity and I’m still trying to figure out why. So what if David Beckham has a pretty wife and is good at football and is getting paid a ridiculous amount of money, that doesn’t mean I should worship him. Is he funny? Does he like Disneyland? Could we talk about dinosaurs? Falsifying yourself just to get others to like you makes no sense. Me, I just have some weird brain abnormality and can’t detect when to turn on the flattery…or numbers over 101. What’s your excuse?

(By the way, I’ve been informed that Lil’ Romeo is capable of buying a mighty large amount of Hondas these days- too bad he’s still twelve and dresses like my Ken dolls).