The Random Babblings of a Bewildered Young Girl

Kenya Dig It?

2006-02-05T20:23:00.000-05:00

In seventh grade my science teacher assigned the first of many term papers. The topic was to chose any vertebrate that we'd like and describe their pertinence to their native region, specific characteristics, etc.

As surprising as it might be to any one who knows all about me and my slacker tendencies today, back in my youth I was a studious and active class participant.

Thus, this term paper was of the utmost importance.
Which pissed me off because I had absolutely no idea which animal to chose.
I wanted to be "original", which meant no lions or zebras, but I didn't want to be the chick researching the sloth or anteater either.
And so, one way or another after much debate, I ended up in the ape family and from there narrowed it down to mountain gorillas.

Almost immediately I became infatuated with the mountain gorilla.
I read up on Dian Fossey, watched Congo probably a few too many times, and I even sent a letter to a textbook series publishing company asking if they would send me a copy of the edition centered around apes.

I also played clarinet in the school band and sat with the Asian girls at lunch: do not judge me.

But above all while constructing the paper all I wanted to do was go to Africa, the cradle of life. Specifically the areas afflicted with civil strife where the dwindling population of mountain gorillas lived.
Now keep in mind this was my stage of development post-Spice Girl appreciation but several years before my gothic whore phase, and so I might've been a little confused at my very best.

Yet regardless of the interesting looks I got that year when I replied "A primatologist" after adults would ask me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I held fast to my wish to travel into the African midst.

Then, puberty finished off, high school came around, and the only exotic greenlands I was interested in came from Josh, the local dealer.

I pretty much forgot about my fascination with Africa and the mountain gorillas until earlier this year when my uncle, a big man in the pediatric AIDS field, said he was going to live and work in Kenya for the better part of the year. He told me that my cousins and aunt were going to join him there and, aware of my earlier interest in the African landscape, invited me to come along.

Strangely, although my mother won't let me go more than a three hour radius from home to attend college, she consented to letting me go visit my uncle in Kenya with little to no alcoholic encouragement.

I was shocked, excited, and when I heard my flight would be landing in Amsterdam before transferring to Kenya, I was interested in the best smuggling techniques.

Though for the first few weeks of travel arrangements I was almost certain something would prevent my trip, now, only a month away from my prebooked flight I can hopefully safely say that I'm going to Africa.

Now all I have to do is get inoculated for about eleven different diseases in order to avoid death and other such uncomfortable ailments on my trip.

But a few shots in exchange for getting the chance to knock out one of my lifelong dreams after less than a decade of yearning, well that isn't bad at all.

Shameless Self Promotion

2005-11-20T16:25:00.000-05:00

Have you ever searched your name on Google?
You always look around a few times to make sure no one can see you type it. And you know it's perverse and conceited, but that's pretty much the appeal of it.

Well..yeah, me neither.

But hypothetically I did something similar to that today and searched "missmojorising.blogspot.com" in blogger's database.
Yes, I am dirty.

I didn't really expect to find anything of interest from this hypothetical search but I was in the midst of a history essay and had grown tired of playing with myspace.

Strangely, though, the first item pulled up by the search was a review of my site.

At first I was shocked that someone had actually expended time on not only scanning my blog but then formulating an opinion on it and posting his conclusions.
Then I was a bit sad that this poor mislead man had actually expended said time on it.
But then I was happy again that I hadn't been entirely right about no one reading my blog. After all I'm a seventeen year old female, I need incessant amounts of attention.

And so I'm shamelessly whoring out my review because well, I need incessant amounts of attention.
Plus it's still rather cool that someone I don't even know took a few minutes to acknowledge my babblings, no matter how random.

P.S. Shut up, I'm still on hiatus.

From the Desk Of:

2005-11-01T16:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm back momentarily. I still plan on upholding this blogger recession of mine, but I was just handed something that may not completely "boring 'n stuff". And if it is, oh well. Shove it.

So today I had a melt down of sorts. This is clearly not something entirely foreign to me. But as of late my judaic anxiety has been even further amplified by continuous collegiate stress and perhaps a little too much useless sex.

Anyway I wouldn't have even thought to mention the general fog of today until my mom came home and handed me a Manila folder that has "For: Beautiful One" scripted on the front in blue sharpie.
Obviously I was all "Wtf, mom?" as this kind of address was rather peculiar. And also really fucking weird.

She told me it was from a secretary at the school she works in. A secretary who, for no particular reason, has taken a liking to me. Today she asked "So how's your daughter doing?" and my mother, who had just gotten off the phone with me and was still recovering from talking me through my moderate conniption, answered "Well, she had a little melt down today. But she'll be fine."
It seems my mom must've gone into more detail about what was bothering me because inside the nicely addressed envelope was this:

I can't remember the last time someone said I was beautiful and I don't think I've ever really believed them. But despite my mundane female insecurity this letter, which sounds like it was written by the Buddha collaborating with Oprah, was probably one of the kindest gestures anyone has ever made toward me. Sincere and uplifting, this woman added just enough happiness to my day to make it not a complete waste of time.

It just goes to show you that random acts of kindness aren't complete bullshit and maybe, when you think you've got nothing, there's still something out there. Aside from that Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul mildly nauseating sensitivity, I can now say that my day no longer sucked copious amounts of ass and Marie Williams may be my new best friend.

And so castles made of sand melt into the sea, eventually.

2005-10-18T20:00:00.000-04:00

I started this blog in an attempt to further encourage my procrastination and slacker tendencies regarding school work and whatever other daily nonsense I wanted to avoid.

Though I've got to say I have enjoyed writing much of this nonsensical babbling for the past year, I'm starting to feel that maybe my time on blogger is done.

As some rather rude yet earnest peer of mine told me today "Yo, I read your blog. It's like really well written 'n stuff but it isn't very interesting."
After recovering from this rather blunt remark, I spewed out the automatic "...Um. Excuse me?"

But I got to thinking perhaps the kid was right.

I would like to think that some other bored people out there, trying to avoid their studies might have gotten some appreciation or at least moderate amusement out of this little site of mine.

Whatever the case, the truth is, I write for me.

Even if it is just the random babblings of a bewildered young girl, I've had fun with this project. And managed to put off copious conundrums of classwork while doing so.

As they say, "Everything must come to an end."
And as usual, they seem to be right.

So even though I'll probably be back in a matter of weeks, bitching about some current event or updating my list of sexy and deceased guitarists.

For now, I'm taking a hiatus.

It's been real <3

Me, the Little Domestic, part deux

2005-10-15T23:04:00.000-04:00

My new favorite person is Bailey McGrath.
She weights roughly 15 pounds, likes to test how many surrounding objects she can fit into her mouth at once, and has a smile that would make even Adolf go gaga.
Though getting in a bit late in the game, I've started babysitting for one of my mom's coworkers. The result, a brilliant 3 year old named Victoria and her sister, a kid with gray-blue eyes that devour every nuance they pass over with utter amazement and delight (Miss B.).

Obviously there were many nonsensical phrases screamed from my x chromosomes like "Awwww" and "Ahh, bubashana, so cute".
So yes, at times, I sounded like an old Yiddish woman (or Yenta for those who have a background). But most importantly I'm in love.
And pissed off that I didn't have a digital camera with me today which would've enabled me to post a tedious and exorbitant number of maternal-pride pictures on here of my new buddy.
Because trust me it would've been fucking adorable.

On a side note, last night I attended a masquerade ball organized by my friend's Baptist church.
In case the Yenta comment above didn't hint at it, that is definitely not my preferred, or familiar, religion. Nevertheless it sounded like it'd be an interesting outing and of course I never turn down an opportunity to dress up.

In short, rather than walking into a stuffy dining hall with proper ladies and gentlemen citing scripture, I was met with a gargantuan disco ball and a smoke machine.
Basically I ended up doing the Electric Slide with the pastor who then assisted me in leading the Macarena along with a horde of middle-aged Baptist men and women who rocked my socks out on the dance floor. Good times, good times.

T.V. is passe. And what does a book look like again?

2005-10-08T14:04:00.000-04:00

The new frontier of the internet has thoroughly integrated itself into the daily routine of pretty much anything on the planet that can carry out at least 3 out of the 10 life processes.

Whether you enjoy the electric plexus because it allows you to pirate music or simply appreciate it for the numerous occasions when you can imagine you're a 10 year old girl named Kara with blonde pigtails, the world wide web caters to all.

Though on my travels I've come across quite a number of worthy sites, it seems as of late I've been sticking to the same routine of websites.

Thus, I'm asking any and all of you for a link or two that you feel is noteworthy or at the very least amusing, verging on offensive. Pretty much anything obscure and/or interesting to spice up my internet itinerary a bit.

Or no one could comment on this post and I'll look like a douche. And a lonely douche at that. Either way, I've probably already mentioned most of my favorite links or they're located to the right of this post under Brain Candy, but here are some more of my findings that have tickled my fancy in the past:

Penny Arcade
Google Earth
Milk and Cookies
Threadless
Salad Fingers, etc.
Lodger
Happy Tree Friends
Fark
The Drunk Dwarves

"Nudie Pix" for Democracy? why not.

2005-10-05T03:38:00.000-04:00

Caution, adult material follows:

Today I sent an old friend a few pictures of myself in a slightly compromising ensemble, or lack thereof, in the name of democracy. (And MySpace).

I believe the dumb ho response of "tee hee" is appropriate at this juncture.

You see, he, being a hardcore bush supporter, offered me a deal I just couldn't refuse. In exchange for allowing me to refurbish his space page with anti-bush decorations, I finally gave into letting him have a small gander at a few blurry, grainy webcamera pictures.
Oh, sure some may think stooping to such a level of perverse correspondence is no way to achieve peace. And they're probably right.

But let's be frank. I've known this person for over 4 years, and much, much less familiar people have had a peek or two at the twins.

So, for what it's worth I may be making way toward a better America, one amateur picture at time. Or more likely, at the very least, contributing to the Hun's database.

On a side note, I really hope my family members aren't privy to this blog yet.
As a post such as this is most likely not fit for the online community, not to mention my Gramps.

An Homage to Suicidal Beautiful Dead Men and their Guitars

2005-10-01T00:31:00.000-04:00

Jeff Buckley
(1966-1997)
----

Nick Drake
(1948-1974)
----

Elliot Smith
(1969-2003)
----

Kurt Cobain
(1967-1994)
----

Jim Morrison
(1943-1971)
----

Ian Curtis
(1956-1980)
----

Michael Hutchence
(1960-1997)
----

What is it about the tormented artist with a heroin kick that gets my panties in a bunch?

I'm a lesbian with tendency toward pedophilia. Apparently.

2005-09-27T15:16:00.000-04:00

Or at least this is what I've concluded from a short 5 minute prompt in Creative Writing from earlier today.

The assignment was to carefully characterize a description from the board, in order to help build our skills for later short story writing.

After debating between the "cranky, spinster, old woman" and the "young, innocent girl", I decided to go with the latter.
Little did I know that I would soon be verbally raping her via pen on paper.

Allow me to share a small, amateur excerpt to better convey the origins of my post title:

"She was at the tender age in which she was quite aware of the attention her budding body claimed but didn't yet know what to do with the strangers gazes and glances that came her way. Her countenance beamed rosy cheeks and bee-stung lips with hair the color of the forest's autumn leaves, and two almonds, swirling all the greens of it's summer beds, flashing beneath a silken brow. Her smile was timid and seemed to make more of a frown at the corners than a grin, still her blushing face glimmered upon every flash of teeth. Her torso moved as though she had just left a meadow at dusk, and it was this air that filled her white linen dress with swaying hips evocative of a grandfather clock's pendulum. Her name was Ava and never before had three letters dripped with such sweetness of breath that perfumed my lungs with glee. After a while my pulsing organ of fire slowed to the pace of her pelvis so that I was synchronized to the beat of her virgin midriff..."

----

Virgin midriff?!
Wtf, Leah. Wtf.

I wonder if this means I'll have to resign my babysitting jobs.
Though this concoction of my imagination is the obvious product of too many Lifetime movies and a long-lasting appreciation for Alice in Wonderland, you know I wanted to get on that shit.

Ah, well at least I found out before I continued down the wrong path of heterosexual ~~exploitations~~ relations. Who know, perhaps I was a Catholic priest in a past life.

Rally

2005-09-25T03:07:00.000-04:00

"That's Bullshit,
Get off it.
This war is for profit.
End foreign occupation,
it's not the way to liberation."

This little rhyme was one of the many chants I barked throughout the streets of Washington today.

After waking up at 3:30 am, with only two hours of sleep under my belt, I eventually stumbled my way to the parking lot where a bus was to take me, for six hours, down to Washington, D.C.

Declining the coach bus (because it cost more money, and I'm an unemployed slacker), I headed onto a too-familiar yellow school bus. Because it was 4 am, it was cold, and I was tired.
This in addition to the horde of people loaded onto the bus proved I was ready to embark on a true hippie adventure. Oh, we didn't need any of those state-of-the-art individual television sets or oh-so-handy reading lamps that the yuppie coach riders were provided with, just give us one gee-tar and a bus load of people, and we were good to go.
However by the fifth hour on the springy bus seats that had been abused by classes of kindergartners, my ass and lower back were not so quick to agree.

With this I set off to meet up the hundreds of others for the March on Washington, part deux. After two pit stops, one depletion of my iPod battery, and a whole lotta hummus, six hours later, I arrived in Washington.

It was amazing. Am-a-zing.
Though I am truly not a hardcore liberal, the vibe and power that surged through the crowd was awesome.
Plus, there was a myriad of hot, collegiate, grungy, laid-back men to gawk at.
But since a picture's worth a hundred words and I've been awake for about 24 straight hours, allow me to present a powerpoint presentation of sorts to better convey the day's events:

I attempted to publish some pictures on photobucket, I'm not sure that idea went over so well, but here they are anyway. www.photobucket.com/albums/mindinparadox

The photos are not the most flattering but, hey, you try waking up in the wee hours of the morning and truckin' down to D.C. and back and then we'll see how pretty your hair looks. Mmkay.

Damn Hippies, I know.

2005-09-22T21:43:00.000-04:00

This weekend I'm finally putting my big mouth to use (and in ways other than those shown on Queer as Folk) and heading off to a Rally in DC. The 60's are back in, haven't you heard?

I went to DC for a conference something-or-other last year and I am quite excited to be going back. They've got some killer Chinese food there, plus I get to do some anti-war protesting while I'm at it.

As far as attire goes I'm thinking I should go with my "The Only Bush I Trust is My Own" t-shirt. The ensemble should help get me in the right mood and I've been looking for the right occasion to wear the shirt.

So aside from the wardrobe contemplation, I'm very excited that I will finally be able to get out there and voice what I've been satirically and seriously remarking about for these past years.

For anyone who is interested the March on Washington is Saturday the 24th. (I'm leaving from Warwick around 5 am, so we should be getting there at 11 ish. I expect the event to last until late in the evening but I'm heading back home at around 6)

If you're in the area or can make the trek, please come!

As usual my cellphone has contracted syphilis and is currently displaced but if I find it by Saturday the number is 845.590.4842
If you're interested and need further directions don't hesitate to call, I'd love to see you there.

Weird. So I found this post unpublished in blogger from spring break of last year. I figured better late than never, so here's a rather belated ramble

2005-09-17T20:32:00.000-04:00

...Granted there was probably a reason I never got around to publishing it.
Like if it had absolutely no purpose or greater moral value.
But let's face it, I don't think anything I've posted here has been of the utmost importance.
Well maybe aside from that picture of the guy decorated with a dragon tattoo on his penis.
Anyway, ramble circa 2004:

I'm what you might call the "anywhere but here" kinda girl. Traveling is my passion, guide, and on occasional savior. Granted, I haven't been out of the country since I was nine. But it's all about imagination.

Spring break is one of the most popular times for people to gather round and fly to exotic locations like Cancun, Aruba, or Kuwait. Oh sure, lounging and tanning all day, getting absolutely plastered at night sounds like a good time. But I bet those kids didn't get to go to not 1, but 6 museums in one of our nations most historic cities, Philadelphia.

Pft, I didn't think so. While they were out tempting melanoma and sipping umbrellaed beverages, I got to enjoy an 2 and a half hour seminar on the significance of the crack in the Liberty Bell. This is what they call "getting cultured".

After a 23 women long bathroom line and a 62 people long entrance line I got to see one of the most remarkable exhibits ever.

Señor Salvador Dali's 18 room, over 200 work exhibit in the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Dali, though greatly recognized, is usually the stereotypical favorite artist of teenagers and new wave adults. Usually, people brought up on the classics are often confused with Dali's bizarre yet infatuating world of surrealism.

However after a two hour stretch of standing on your feet staring at a piece of paper with some paint hung on the wall, one might begin to feel differently and start to look at his works with new eyes.

Some may call the man, Dali, a megalomaniac, a fool, and quite eccentric, but standing 2 inches away from his Persistence of Memory, the only word I could think to use was genius. At first I was jaded as the piece had almost become a cliche. Afterall, I had seen in countless times on posters and websites, but after taking a step back I realized I was looking at the actual masterpiece, the same one he had stood before and painted and my appreciation for it was renewed.

Alright, now enough of this passionate artistic appreciation nonsense.

After such a long day spent standing on my feet and staring at some of the best work of the 20th century, and most likely all of history, I was a little woozy. As having to absorb so much visual stimulation in a limited amount of time always leaves me a little off-kilter. Though drinking anywhere from 5-9 shots of vodka also seems to have this affect.

So, in closing, all I can really say is Dali is the shit, Philadelphia is a fantastic place, and my feet hurt.

This quiz is cleverly entitled "Favorite Song..."

2005-09-10T16:23:00.000-04:00

Only a year on blogger and I've already succumbed to the filler lists. Ah, well.

Favorite Song...

to play air guitar to: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen
to strip to: If Lovin' You is Wrong by Faithless
about war: For What it's Worth by Buffalo Springfield
to hippie out to: Woodstock by Joni Mitchell
that makes you wish you were alive for the sixties' concerts: Freedom by Richie Havens
to have stuck in your head: Such Great Heights by The Postal Service
to sing while drunk: God Loves a Drunk by Richard Thompson
that makes you wish you're from Manchester: Love will tear us apart by Joy Division
to make out to: May This Be Love by Jimi Hendrix
to feel angsty listening to: Star Power by Sonic Youth
to perk you up: Little Dawn by Ted Leo & the Pharmacists
to blast in your headphones: Holland, 1945 by Neutral Milk Hotel
to listen to on a road trip: Roadhouse Blues by The Doors
to listen to while smoking up: Box of Rain by The Greatful Dead
for feeling in the 80's: Take on Me by Aha
for feeling in the 90's: Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
that you've overplayed: Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie
that's cliched but still meaningful: Imagine by John Lennon
to listen to while bowling: Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leopard
to relax to: Sugar Mountain by Neil Young
to keep on repeat: A.M 180 by Grandaddy
to wake up to: Spiderbait by Calypso
for girl power: Respect by Aretha Franklin
to listen to in a park: The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel
for nostalgia: Ruby Soho by Rancid
that tributes other bands: You Were Right by Built to Spill
that's not in the genre of music you usually like: The Seed 2.0 by The Roots ft. Cody Chestnut
best song to Karaoke: I Would Walk 500 Miles by The Proclaimers
to fall alseep to: Talk Show Host by Radiohead
best song to fuck to: Big Dumb Sex by Soundgarden
best song to make love to: Ai Du by Ali Farka Toure
to fall in love to: God Only Knows by The Beach Boys
to listen to after a break up: You've Got to Hide Your Love Away by The Beatles
of the last year: Inertiatic Esp by The Mars Volta
of this month: Wave of Mutilation by Pixies
that's a cover song: All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix/House of the Rising Sun by Bob Dylan
to crank while driving at high velocities: Another One Bites the Dust by Queen
to listen to alone in silence: Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven
to smile to: Three Little Birds by Bob Marley
to get dressed to for a date: Sunshine of your Love by Cream
that's a one hit wonder: In the Year 2525 Zager and Evans
that tells a story: The Origin of Love by John Cameron Mitchell (Hedwig and the Angry Inch)
to slow dance to: Ballroom of Mars by T-Rex
yesterday: Can't Stand It by Wilco
today: Wake Up by The Arcade Fire
favorite song ever: I can't really answer this question

Now anyone who may have stumbled upon here should make up your own compilation. It's actually pretty interesting.

A Little Diddy of Se7en Things, Compliments of Rebekah

2005-09-08T18:14:00.000-04:00

Seven Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1. Travel to many exotic places. (Most of which are currently afflicted with civil strife.)
2. Fall in love. (I'm a woman. It's the damn pheromones, I can't help this.)
3. Do something extraordinary. (This seems to be harder than I had originally thought)
4. Get a Shiba Inu and name it Wolfgang.
5. Maybe pop out a few kids. (I've got some time to waste and the world isn't quite enough overpopulated yet)
6. Get my Zen on. (This entails making peace with myself, the men in my life, the world, and possibly smoking a bit of the Buddha in the process.)
7. And perhaps the most important yet daunting task is to finally complete one of those damn Rubik's cubes.

Things I Can Do:
1. Collage. (It's my thing)
2. Repetitively doodle an eye on most paperwork that comes my way.
3. Cook, clean, do laundry and master many other domestic privileges.
4. Make too many hemp necklaces.
5. Batik.
6. Wear a lot of jewerly.
7. Snuggle. (Yes I blame it on the female thing. But this is one of the less tedious and much more fun things I've inherited through the x chromosome)

Things I Cannot Do:
1. Sing.
2. Control my tendency to blush when I'm in an uncomfortable situation, namely when doing an oral presentation in Spanish class.
3. Dance.
4. Comprehend what people mean when they say, "That George Bush, he sure is a good president."
5. Go for an extensive period of time without affection. (I like to hug. Be forewarned.)
6. Blow shit up with advanced psychokinesis. (Though that'd be cool)
7. Refrain from laughing at inappropriate times when inspired to do so by my particularly close and amusing friends.

Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex:
1. Intelligence.
2. Wit.
3. Eyes.
4. Manner of speaking.
5. Caring, Creativity, Cunning Charisma, and a bunch of other traits beginning with 'c' (cunnilingus not excluded).
6. Big sense of humor.
7. Nice teeth. (I'm all about good dental hygiene)

Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1. That's cute. (This is a very versatile response and can be used sincerely or sarcastically)
For example: "Look at my new dress I bought for prom." --response, "That's cute." or
"I get off watching small children play on tire swings."--response, "That's cute."
2. Yep, I'm pretty drunk.
3. I love you.
4. Fuck. (alternatives are fuck me, fuck you, fuck it, fuck this shit, holy fuck, motherfuck)
5. Hey You. (If I say this to you while deviously grinning, chances are, I want to bang you. If not, why am I saying hello to you anyway? go away)
6. Actually, I'm quite drunk.
7. What are you up to? (AIM greetings are always good conversation starters)

Celebrity Crushes:
Sadly I certainly have more than seven of these. But I'm an American, it's my obligation to support the celeb-obsessed culture that our lovely media bombards us with in hopes of taking our minds off the fact that we are all lazy, obese, STD-ridden rednecks. Plus, come on, these people are some foxy ladies and gentlemen.

and so:

Johnny Depp, Joseph Fiennes, Kate Winslet, Scarlett Johansson, Ethan Hawke, Edward Furlong, Christina Richie, Jeremy Irons, Brendan Fehr, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Johnny Whitworth, Chan Marshall, Sufjan Stevens, Gale Harold, Katherine Moenning, Jeremy Sisto, Edward Norton, Jack Nicholson, Devendra Banhart, Jeff Buckley, Asia Argento, Tim Roth, John Cusack, Gael Garcia Bernal, Guillaume Canet, James Spader, etc.

Cult-Chic

2005-08-30T12:37:00.000-04:00

I've always hoped that I was anything but normal. Though eccentric and bizarre are generally not particularly pleasing adjectives of characterization, they have always been much more appealing than plain or ordinary.

Thus, it was only a matter of time before I discovered the great "underground", as it's called. Through music and film I was able to access a labyrinthine counterculture which I connected to much more readily than the Abercrombie-50 Cent society.

Throughout history there have always been the Jackie O's and the John Waters, neither of which I find myself having a likeness to, but both immensely fascinating folk. However it's always been the Waters and Lynchs that have attracted me over the Monroes and Jackie Os.

After viewing my first Tarantino and listening to my first Neutral Milk Hotel I became even more intrigued by the cult-status culture.

Not even 30 years ago, deviating from the norm was widely rejected. Surrealist films like Dali and Bunel's Un Chien Andalou followed by Midnight Movies like Pink Flamingos, Eraserhead, Night of the Living Dead, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show were passionately and religiously followed by a specific and minute audience and abhorred by the majority. It was in this clash between culture and counterculture that the power of the neo-underground began to shine through.

But things have changed. As usual. And in this case I'm not convinced it's for the better. I've found identifying with the underground is no longer a unique effort but a posh and commericialized phenomena. It seems I've even fallen into the hypocrisy of being intrigued by giant billboards and commercials that advertise independent productions; i.e. my allegiance to IFN, the indie music scene, etcetera.
Even the style of the "in" clothing today, coming from Urban Outfitters and the like, creating thrift-storeesque garb for only ten times the price, depicts the mainstream of the "individual".

A quote that I've always liked is "Always remember you are unique, just like everyone else". It seems that in our struggles to proclaim ourselves as individuals, we are merely edging toward the same goal, once again hurling ourselves back into the Pleasantville masses.

Even this semi-rant of mine, set off by watching a documentary on "Midnight Movies" which are avant-garde films from back in the day, certainly isn't anything that hasn't been said before.

Yet another quote I'd like to bastardize is by Goethe, he says, "All truly wise thoughts have been thought already thousands of times; but to make them truly ours, we must think them over again honestly, till they take root in out personal experience."
So I guess that's all I can hope for from fulfillment. Which, overall, probably isn't such a bad deal.

Anyway, there really isn't much of a point to this post. I just didn't want to let the bottle of red wine and well-done documentary go to waste.

This may be filed under: Inebriated and generally useless babblings/ My self-indulgent take on pop culture thus far/ I'd really like another glass of wine.

Is This An Intervention?

2005-08-29T13:16:00.000-04:00

A cult is on the rise in our midst. Luring in the bored and lonely, it prays on the weak (and anyone who can afford a digital camera). Though many claim there is no harm for they are merely "keeping in touch with old friends" allegiance and addiction have blinded them.
Where is this cult you ask? Under your very nose. For it is Satan himself lurking on your webpage under the guise (and rather spiffy though not entirely creative) MySpace.

Okay. No, MySpace isn't really Lucifer's womb. But after my third time logging on in a 10 hour stretch, I am forced to wonder what aphrodisiac force impedes my mind every time I see a computer, beckoning me to check for any friends requests or new picture comments.

Sure, I first succumbed to the MySpace phenomena when I realized that it was a wonderful gateway to keep in touch with ex-campers or other pals from past programs along with a great bunch of people from my old city days.
Having the option to drop a line whenever you like (or whenever you feel like your comments are starting to look a bit low and you want them to comment back) is one of the many pleasing features of the site.

But that still does not justify the addiction. Though I've been in recovery for the past months, the old familiar taste of logging-in still haunts me. Well, not really, but I'm making with the dramatics.

True some are still fervently against creating an account, taking the opportunity to taunt the camerawhores-with-self-confidence-issues and other assorted disgruntled youth whenever possible. But they will fall soon enough.

So I say to you, watch out, be ware.
Oh, and ADD Meeee! :)

And go round and round and round in the Circle Game

2005-08-25T01:37:00.000-04:00

(click to enlarge)

Down to one more year 'till I'm legal and on my way to becoming a full-fledged human being.
Well, shit.

On the bright side, I get to make hundreds of Monty Python junkies and Broadway buffs covet me as I go to see Spamalot for some pre-birthday festivities.

And remember kids, there's no better way to show your love than buying me pretty things.

Not Matt Dillon, but pretty close

2005-08-22T23:07:00.000-04:00

So tonight I was strolling around the upper east side, taking in the sights with a few friends from my old Manhattenite crew.

After 10 pm, you know you're passing in front of a bar when you suddenly enter a cloud think with cigarette smoke and post-collegiate frat members, as opposed to the usual skyline smog.

Passing Brother Jimmy's, a local meat shack & bar, I began to peruse the mob of inebriated Bush voters and their blonde, well-endowed escorts for the evening, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a particularly dashing yet slutty dress. After I followed the dress from hem to neckline, past the hive of blonde, I instinctively moved on to the gentlemen accompanying this fine garment and it's host.

Low and behold, puffing on a cigarette, grabbing at the dress' waistline was not my old friend Matty D. but Christian Slater, a close second.

Starstruck, or at least momentarily intrigued, I continued to gaze at the former celebrity. And only did I stop this gaze when I realized that Mr. Slater was returning my glance, watching me checking out his package.

Hey, I was curious, what can I say.
But instead of averting my eyes as I usually do when I'm caught scanning a man's family jewels, I politely nodded and offered a gentle smile, which was returned with the classic smirk that only a former 90's actor like Christian Slater could have.

So that is my short and generally unnecessary synopsis of my encounter with yet another famous hunk o' man.
And though it lacked the spandex of Matt Dillon, I did get a devilish smile out of the deal.

It's not TV. It's HBO.

2005-08-21T23:26:00.000-04:00

For the past four years I've been a faithful viewer of the show Six Feet Under. Though keeping in mind it was just a televised program, the things addressed in the show were a frighteningly accurate portrayal of this thing we call life. Whether I was lusting after the deliciously disturbed Billy or identifying with the confused youth of Claire, the show has always found a way to interact with me.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the crude fat jokes and racial slurs found in Family Guy and South Park as much as the next chick, but it's been nice to have something a little heavier screened in front of me every so often.

Now, after seasons of dialogue spiced with dark humor and great actors, the show has been put on a permanent hiatus. Though a little sad, the closing is just another example of the reality that the show had set out to breathe to life. All things come to and end.

"The only thing I know is everything you love will die. The first time you meet that someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground."
However the thing most people seem to leave out is that this isn't necessarily a morbid concept. It's just the truth. Which is a whole nother set of problems all together.

But instead of writing an even more indepth account in which I sound like yet another angsty person who perhaps needs to get out more often in order to wean herself off the movie channels, I'm just going to leave this entry with something a little out of the ordinary for me. Content thoughts.

My birthday is coming up in just a few short days and I've been thinking about how I've missed out on so much already. By flooding myself with worry about squandering away my youth, my life, I seemed to have missed out on all the fun in squandering. So, whether due the series finale or my upcoming birthday, tonight I have something that I believe I pushed out of the way a long time ago. Hope.

An excerpt from the season finale of last years six feet under seems to explain this well:

Nathaniel: You're missing the point.
David: There is no point. That's the point. Isn't it?
Nathaniel: Don't give me this phony, existential bullshit. I expect better from you. The point is right in front of your face.
David: Well, I'm sorry but I don't see it.
Nathaniel: You're not even grateful are you?
David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?
Nathaniel: You hold onto your pain like it means something. Like it's worth something. Well let me tell you something. It's not worth shit. Let it go. Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.
David: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Nathaniel: What do you think? You can do anything, you lucky bastard. You're alive. What's a little pain compared to that?
David: It can't be that simple.
Nathaniel: What if it is?

Alright, now enough of this emo bullshit.
Don't you think this must've hurt?

Picture Dump, part deux

2005-08-17T00:42:00.000-04:00

I still have way too much useless albeit amusing material on my computer.
Again, I've posted some of my favorites before sending them to the infinite abyss of the trash bin.

2005-08-17T00:41:00.000-04:00

oy vey.

2005-08-17T00:40:00.000-04:00

The Adventures of the Man with No Penis

2005-08-17T00:38:00.000-04:00

This is Fabrizio. He is Italian.

2005-08-17T00:37:00.000-04:00

Cinderella or the Wicked Queen?

2005-08-17T00:36:00.001-04:00

don't mess with The Jesus

2005-08-17T00:36:00.000-04:00

upstate New York during the 80's in a nutshell

2005-08-17T00:34:00.001-04:00

This Little Piggy

2005-08-17T00:34:00.000-04:00

sound advice

On the Road Again, Eh?

2005-08-05T09:06:00.000-04:00

Though it's only been a week since my arrival home the window has already started to seem like an appealing option. Thus I'm happy to announce that this morning I'm leaving for some quality time with my Jeep Liberty past the jungle of the Northeast.

Again, I wish you all a great summer and if for some odd reason you happen to be in the Toronto area, hit me up.

Now I leave you with McSweeny's take on Reasons to fear Canada

For every animal you don't eat, I'm going to eat three.

2005-08-05T00:44:00.000-04:00

While perusing The Best Page in the Universe I came across Maddox's sardonic yet accurate account on blogging/blogs.

Though finding his rant amusing and then deciding to "blog"about it is pretty damn hypocritical, it still seems appropriate.

Blogging: If minds has anuses, blogging would be what your mind would do when it had to take a dump.

Home Sweet Home

2005-08-01T23:04:00.000-04:00

Well some may be happy to know that I'm back in the tri-state area for the next week or so.
I'm rather less than enthusiastic about my homecoming, though it should be nice to catch up with some of the townies.

After a month of gallivanting around the New England region, mainly alternating from the greater Massachusetts area to Vermont, Cape Cod, and occasionally Connecticut, I'm now awaiting my visit to the Canadian folk.

But before I head out on another adventure, I'd like to take the time and acknowledge what a wonderful time I had at Amherst this summer. Not only were the kids great, but the faculty, or rather my "mentors" were top-of-the-line entertainers. Plus, spending time on such a beautiful campus not only restored the coffee house bohemian in me, but my incentive to shop for colleges as well.

That said, I just hope my trip up North turns out equally well. And if not, oh well, I hear the Canadians have managed to keep the drinking age down.

No Woman Can Resist a Man that Looks Good in a Speedo

2005-06-23T10:32:00.000-04:00

So, yeah. If anyone's noticed I've deleted the behemoth of an excerpt from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because in retrospect, even I wouldn't bother to scroll through that.

Also, I got rid of the post flaunting my ability to kick proverbial ass because apparently more people scan this blog over than I thought.
People who are not phased by my anonymous referencing and thus would be inclined to let any referenced parties know that they are being referenced.

On a separate note, I'm leaving town. That sentence alone makes me happy and excited. Hopefully by the time I arrive at Amherst, happy and excited will have made it's way over to "fuckin' pumped".

I wish you all a great summer. And remember, don't forget to bring a towel.

Uh Oh, Here Comes the Resolve Face

2005-06-17T14:31:00.000-04:00

Alright someone needs to start talking me down from my desire to get a tattoo.
Right now.

Now I'm not what you would call a determined person. Hence my sedentary lifestyle and overall lazy outlook.

But once I get the idea in my head about something like a piercing, there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no river wide enough to keep me from getting it.
Which brings us to the sneaking out to Greenwich Village one fine day last summer to get a few piercings that my mother strongly ~~advised~~ ~~warned~~ threatened against.
Though I was luckily able to come to senses before I got the mappa tassie involved, it was a close call.

So now I've been sitting here since I got home from yet another 3 hour exam, pondering and searching for what would look pretty branded into my flesh forever and ever.

This could be a problem.

Oh well, as long as I stop before I start to look like Bif Naked a couple members of my family might be dissuaded from permanently disowning me.

Tattoo Parlors and Pop Culture and Botticelli, Oh my

2005-06-16T17:02:00.000-04:00

I have my tongue pierced.
Like so:

And no, it's not for that extra umph in the art of fellatio. But because I've wanted to have a metal bar rammed in my tongue since I was about 12 years old.
You could call me an unusual child.

But despite my friendly view of body piercing, tattoos have always been a whole 'nother ball game.

To me, piercings are far less permanent than say, branding yourself with ink for all eternity. You take out the bar, the hole closes up and worst case senario is you're stuck with a little scar.

Getting a tattoo is far more daunting. I sometimes think that people fail to realize that shit's gonna be there forever unless you're keen on the idea of sizzling off your skin until the ink isn't visible anymore.

However as of late I've been considering the prospect of a tattoo a little more seriously.
Though I've always had my eye out for something that "speaks to me" and have been a true appreciator of the body art of others, I never really thought that I'd end up getting a tattoo.

My belief is that you should find something that you want a tattoo of, rather than get something because you want a tattoo. Which is why I have a little problem with tattoos of hearts, stars, and horeshoes, clovers and blue moons.

Now I'd hate to think my increasing desire to meet my fate with the needle is due to my recent excursion into the heart of pop culture, where at a concert, nearly everyone had some kind of extravagant piece on their body.

But it seems for now I've just got to wait it out and hope this is just one of those phases. Because along with any normal apprehensions one may have, I firmly believe that I'd be one of the lucky ones to get stuck with some drunk tattoo artist named Bubba who thought that my saying "Venus" meant please draw me a "penis".
See:

Otherwise, if I can't shake this yearning, it seems I'm going to be stuck with a little bit of

Botticelli's Venus

or an

Om

discreetly located on my upper back for quite a while.
And, no, I don't know why I'm in love with the painting. Just am.

Concert Virgin No More

2005-06-15T20:16:00.000-04:00

There are few things that everyone in America can agree on:
Cancer is bad.
Johnny Depp looks better in eyeliner than any woman ever could.
And lastly, if you're in a band, be it klezmer or death metal, the ladies want you.

We don't care if you're Tiny Tim or the King. Strap a guitar on and I will personally do my best to jump your bones.

Thus, it is a pivotal time in any young woman's life when she experiences her first concert.
Now some may say start gently, ease your way in. But my opinion is if you're gonna do something, do it right. And so it was time for me to step up and embrace my womanhood with grace and a little help from the Pixies accompanied by Interpol and LCD Soundsystem.

Now of course I've seen many a-bands scream their cute little heads off at the local AOH, or a bunch of friends jam for a few too many hours. But as far as an official, arena concert, this was to be my first.

And a well deserved first I might add. After waking up at 5:O4 am and lugging myself to school to drudge through two final exams, I had but an hour and a half to convince my afro that this was not the time to be testy and slip into just the right slut apparel in order to catch a train to Long Island (or "Lon'guy'lind" to the natives).

It was then that I and my fellow travelers learned the pain that is junctioning.
After my second session of frantic scurrying to find the right train in Penn station, it was safe to say that my coolly-isolated yet sexually-charged composure that I had been planning to bring with me to the concert had been replaced with a slightly more anxious, frazzled, and pissed-off bitch.

Luckily the moment I saw the behemoth of a stage that is Jones Beach Theater, all my traveling tensions were washed away. By the end of the first couple of Interpol songs I had not a care in the world. And by the time the Pixies took the stage I had more love flowing through me than John Lennon during the Yoko years.

I must say it was superb. Superb.

Now, the more traditional response would be "It was kick ass...Man". But now that I am a full-fledged woman, I have no use for petty and unintelligible remarks.
Though those who heard me erratically giggling through the first half hour of the Pixies set may beg to differ.

Unfortunately, things become a little hazy after that because that's when I made friends with my lovely neighbors and their even more lovely Absolut refreshment.

As the fantastic musical festivities came to an end I bid farewell to several companions and trekked back to take yet another train.

After arriving at Times Square, being the foolish darlings we are, my friend and I decided "Wouldn't it be wonderful to walk to the apartment?".
The apartment being on 93rd between second and third. Us being on 34th and 7th avenue. It being 1:40 am. In an area with a reasonably good crime rate.

But we tossed back our fears with the remembrance of the previously consumed vodka and set off on our journey.
After running into some gentlemen callers who had also just consumed a helping of some ethyl nectar and forcefully persuading my companion that, "No, going home with them would not be equally as wonderful as walking to the apartment", we somehow made our way to our crash pad.

Each of us a little wiser, a little more inebriated, and whole lot more thankful that the Pixies do, in fact, kick ass.

If You're Still Not Sure Whether You Want to Have Sex with Ethan Hawke...

2005-06-04T23:03:00.000-04:00

I strongly recommend you watch Before Sunrise and/or Reality Bites.
As soon as possible.

I don't know if it's just this unpreventable chic thing or perhaps a twinge of a little late night loneliness, but let me tell you, the man's got the goods.

I would even dare to venture and say that he is perhaps even more sultry than Matty D.
And as we all know by now, that's a tough man to top.

Now, I'd like to think I grew out of the celebrity sexual appeal interest back in my youth. You know, when Nick Carter got a little too chubby, and after Titanic, when liking Leonardo DiCaprio became quite the faux pas for all us prepubescent 5th grade girls.

But I think, and this is probably just the Linklater film talking, that although I know a-many fantastic and beautiful people, I'm still kind of holding out for that possibility of the impossible. Such as making sweet love to Ethan Hawke. Among other things.

Anyway, enough of this, now I must go cleanse myself of this crap and read the Feminine Mystique or something of the like.

But seriously, watch the movies. I don't care if you're man, woman, or wild boar. You will want to have lots of steamy, pseudo-intellectual sex with Ethan Hawke. Guaranteed.

Me Talk Pretty One Day (but God forbid it'd be while I was writing an English paper)

2005-05-31T22:02:00.000-04:00

Alright, I'd like to know what is up.

Anytime I have the urge to pop on blogger and blather about Matt Dillon and his spandex, I have no problem coming up with a few generally related sentences to string together.

Yet, once it comes time to do school work: Mandatory.~~Important~~. Graded. writing, I can't even write a heading without being swallowed up by...well, utter laziness and complete disinterest.
Also see: excessive, painful boredom.

Now I'd like to write this off as the usual cause of my academic shortcomings: procrastination. That way I can say, "it's not my fault", I just have poor time management skills.

But, unfortunately, I don't see how that excuse will aid me in finishing the motherfucker of a workload I have put off to, and must complete by, this week. And by this week I mean tonight. And by tonight I mean within the next 20 minutes. And I really do mean motherfucker of a workload.

Anyway, this post can be filed under "frustrated rant". Also seen as, "wasting even more time because it feel so good".
What can I say, I'm a glutton for punishment. And chocolate.

Dusk, Central Park, Wilco, and Matt Dillon

2005-05-29T23:27:00.000-04:00

Finding the time to remove yourself from the unending number of daily misadventures to trek someplace where you can't be bogged down should be mandatory for everyone at least every 6 weeks.

Unfortunately, having the hormones of a 16 year old female, times when I am able to capture instances of such serenity are few and far between.

However this evening, to my surprise, I was able to embrace the verb "to chill" and for no less than 2 hours, I stepped back and relaxed my self-conscious, SAT fretting, Starbucks pumped, man-hunting persona to walk around the sun-dappled reservoir contemplating nothing that hasn't already been contemplated in almost absolute peace.

Now if this is staring to sound a little too emo.
I should add that my bliss is more likely attributed to the fact that I got to see the ever-so-sultry Matt Dillon jog no less than 2 feet away from me wearing spandex.

Matt Dillon. And spandex.
Neither man nor child can say that doesn't knock out at least 3 of their all-time greatest fantasies in one titillating swoop.

Anyway, after I finished my mid-walk dream about Matt turning his sweet self around and bringing me back to his Madison Avenue penthouse,(followed by rose petals, chilled Cristal, a king bed with a canopy, 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets, and cuddling), I was able to retreat back to the whimsical solace of Wilco while looking over a sunset Manhattan skyline.

It was nice.

So, I guess the point of this, aside from showing that I have yet to become desensitized to seeing hot famous men, is that: It seems that almost everyone needs a place to go where he/she can let the discomforts of reality melt away. And if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you look into making a little hajj to find out where that place might be for you asap.

I think it's safe to say, so far, that Manhattan is my personal Mecca.
After all, where else can you find characters like

the Naked Cowboy

Wigstock Drag Queens

and of course, Matty D.

thrown together on an island, for a reason other than a reality TV show kick off?

But as the saying goes, "whatever floats your boat".

Red Bull Ain't Got Nothin' on a Good Ol' Fashioned Cup of Joe

2005-05-21T09:34:00.000-04:00

Last night I had a plan. I was to stay up all night, no matter what, in order to start and finish a term paper. I know that most collegians have mastered this skill, but I lacked the experience for the task ahead. Luckily, I had heard of a most effective ritual that has been passed along the underground labyrinth of universities for decades: CofFeE.
Sure, it seems like just your average benign beverage. But beneath the murky, hazelnutty java juice lay a darker being. I didn't want to get ahead of myself, so I took it slow. One cup. Black. But before long, it had taken a hold of me and by 2 am, I was willing to lick the bottom of the canister for just a little more sumatra goodness.

Long story short, I finished my term paper. With time to spare. So I watched one of those obscure and slightly erotic Australian television programs that only play at 4:50 am on Cinemax 2. I even got to catch the end of a rather creepy circa 1952 Italian horror movie. On a separate note, my right index finger still convulses every 4-6 seconds. I haven't gotten to sleep yet. And by 7 am computer looked like:
this

I blame the above on a bad mix of my thesis and the Italian horror movie.

Yo, I be a gansta'?

2005-05-16T00:48:00.000-04:00

I grew up the lucky and loved daughter of a single working mother.
Though my mom has shown me love in my first 16 years that many people will never see in their entire lives, the question mark that hovers over my father remains a bit of a rocky subject.

One of the few things I know about my father is that he is Moroccan.

Despite any physical and/or mental detriments that I may have inherited from his gene pool, my link to this exotic ancestry has always been a source of intrigue for me.

As the "anywhere but here" girl, traveling to exotic locations such as the aformentioned is one of the things that I thrive on.

Or rather, the idea of traveling to them. As the closest I can remember to an adventure abroad is the last time I read On The Road with a cup of chai tea.

But, unfortunately, my hunger for travel is about all I picked up from my Moroccan roots.
And anyone who has ever seen me dance will tell you, without a doubt, that I am a one-hun'erd percent white American.

But who says that if one parent is from Africa and the other America that you can't slam a hyphen in the middle and get yourself a little minority status?

So, I'm in a bit of a predicament. As the time when I'm supposed to have a sketch of what the hell I plan on doing with myself nears, so comes an impressive amount of paperwork.

By this time, whenever I'm given a scantron preceding some kind of state exam, penciling in the "caucasian" bubble is an automatic reaction.
But let's face it, I'm lacking in extra-curricular activities and overall, my grades ain't that pretty.

So aside from perhaps being just a smidge unethical and not entirely accurate, maybe I ought to give myself a little boost in the college admissions department and next time I'm asked my ethnicity, try out a new bubble.

I Apologize, but this is Completely Necessary

2005-05-09T21:20:00.000-04:00

This woman plays Shane from The L Word. She is so. hot. I want to have her babies.

Picture Dump

2005-04-29T21:44:00.000-04:00

I was perusing through my desktop, deleting an array of physics labs, half-assed term papers, and a rather disturbing picture of Tim Curry when I decided to waste some perfectly good webspace and make a post before getting rid of some of the highlighted items.

By the way, I should mention that few things frighten me more than nuclear war, among them are Tim Curry. Also on that list are people who attend the Westminster dog show. But that's a separate post.

Anyway, I'm just dumping some pictures here because at some point in my life, depending on my BAC, I probably found them funny as fuck.

Now, if I were a talented woman, I would've been able to use the Photoshop application I just downloaded and create a montage of sorts.

But after about 5 minutes of attempted collaging, I decided to screw that. And so I'm just posting them individually, as follows.

Hope you enjoy them. If not, eat me.
:-)

2005-04-29T21:27:00.000-04:00

2005-04-29T21:13:00.001-04:00

hot or not

2005-04-29T21:13:00.000-04:00

2005-04-29T21:12:00.001-04:00

2005-04-29T21:12:00.000-04:00

2005-04-29T21:08:00.000-04:00

2005-04-29T21:05:00.001-04:00

2005-04-29T21:05:00.000-04:00

bringing Madonna's eternal lyrics "When you call my name its like a little prayer Im down on my knees, I wanna take you there" to life

2005-04-29T20:59:00.001-04:00

and they say romance is dead

2005-04-29T20:59:00.000-04:00

say hello to my little friend(s)

2005-04-29T20:58:00.000-04:00

gotta add some Bush bashing

2005-04-29T20:57:00.000-04:00

this must've been one of those that was affected by my BAC

2005-04-29T20:56:00.000-04:00

can you see a difference?

Obligatory Space Filler

2005-04-12T22:21:00.000-04:00

For some reason my computer has been a whore to blogger lately and hasn't allowed me to sign in.
Hopefully this won't be a permanent problem. But while I have the opportunity, I thought it'd be good to write a little paragraph about nothing.
Voilà.

Bonus: for your entertainment and pleasure

How Long Has it Been Since Your Last Confession?

2005-03-22T22:31:00.000-05:00

When meeting and greeting, it's always important to have a support system in case the person you're talking to ends up being a douche.

Whenever there's a lull in conversation it's always nice to whip something out of your backup plan to aid you in digging up some general information about the person with whom you're speaking.
This, in turn, can help you determine whether, in fact, he/she is a douche.

One of the most widely used questions that can be easily incorporated to help you get out of a verbal rut is "So, uh, what kind of music do you like?"

Occasionally in situations like the aforementioned one may be presented with some bands that he feels he SHOULD like, but really can't stand.

The typical response to artists like these are "oh, yeah, they're alright".
This may be translated to "the lead singers voice makes my ears bleed".

But I've been in the closet long enough. It's time to let it all hang out.

I actually do not like:

U2
The Beastie Boys
Pearl Jam
My Chemical Romance
Death Cab for Cutie (my dislike varies from song to song)
Audioslave
Guster
post-Nirvana Dave Grohl
Queens of the Stone Age
Le Tigre
Sleater-Kinney
Jane's Addiction
Coheed and Cambria

What are some bands that you feel you should like but don't at all?

Oh, sorry...Wait. Whoa...you got big.

2005-02-20T20:14:00.000-05:00

When I was 11 my mom hauled my ass out of my nice and comfy Upper East Side appartment and brought me here. Monroe.
If you live in Monroe, you know why this needs no further clarification.

And so the years rolled by, I aged, I matured...okay, at least I aged. And my promises to keep in touch, scrawling down e-mail addresses, telephone numbers, and screen names dwindled down until I wasn't talking to any more than 5 or 6 of my old friends. And as one would expect, within a year I had pretty much "misplaced" all of the e-mail addresses, telephone numbers, and screen names.

Now, I've gone to summer camp since I was 8 years old. And no, I am not (that) ashamed. Because of all of these random yet entertaining summers abroad, I've met many amazing and wonderful people, most of which I'll never see again.

From my experience, by the time school starts back up after the summer, thoughts of bumping into any of these glimmering friends pretty much gets swept to the back of your mind and stays there.
So, when inevitably you do happen to find someone who you met at one of these various excursions, thinking of something to say to them might get a little tricky.
For example: yesterday when I bumped into a well-kempt young man in the middle of a Manhattan block all I could manage was "Oh, sorry. Hey, don't I kn....OMG, you're Max?!". Probably followed by a "tee-hee" giggle of some sort.

It's times like these when I my feminine quintessense really shines through full-throttle.

Anyway, after his response and the initial moment of awkwardness, I found out that "OMG", he was Max.
A short history on Max: during one of my four summers at Bucks Rock I met this kid named Max, we became instant friends, then we departed, es todo.

Four hours and three Starbucks beverages later, we were still talking, catching up, laughing, etc. All of which I'd sum up as perhaps one of the better conversations I've had since I mastered constructing a sentence that can include both the word whore, the name Oprah Winfrey, and the phrase Palestinian-Israeli conflict all in one.

And so by posting this, aside from recounting a nice chat I had with an equally nice person, I am now committing to my promise that I will finally make the effort to keep in touch.
So that hopefully, a year from now, I won't have "misplaced" Max's phone number or the next time I bump into someone from years past I'll be able to muster up something that doesn't include the ever-so-suave "OMG!".

What to do When You're a New York City Girl who likes Lynyrd Skynyrd

2005-02-13T20:04:00.000-05:00

While making a mix tape this morning, I realized that I was breaking an ancient time-honored taboo. I had put Neil Young's "Southern Man" right in between Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man" and "Sweet Home Alabama". Now, I'm sure you're all aware of the beef that these two artists had against eachother. But rather than continue this feud, I decided to once and for all unite the two on CD-rom format.

But this unification made me question my music choices as of late. As a democrat in the North Eastern part of the United States there are certain codes that I must abide:

1) George Bush (junior or senior) must be mocked at least once a day
2) References to any of the five boroughs should be thrown into an assortment of no less than 4 conversations per week
3) You are obligated to love things like wheat grass and feng shui
4) Mace must be kept in every coat pocket (back pants pocket is acceptable during the warmer seasons)
and 5) You're not allowed to advocate the listening of country music (notice I say advocate, this gives a little leeway to those closet Shania Twain and Willie Nelson fans)

Love 'em, or hate 'em, these are the rules.

So, I believe that I am in a bit of a crisis. No matter how hard I try, I can't deny my desire to listen to artists like CCR and Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Let's just hope that this is a phase, and that I will continue to only wear my cowboy boots in the privacy of home. Although, those nipple tassels do give me a new appreciation for the ways of the South.

Now, just to maintain my fierce Manhattenite appeal, I show you this site:

www.fuckthesouth.com

Exercise, verb: to get off ones ass before ones ass needs a forklift

2005-02-04T19:39:00.000-05:00

I have made the decision to join the ever-growing coalition of fiends, over-worked mom's, and narcissists that I had planned on holding off for another couple of years.

Oh yes, I have joined a gym.

I figured it was best to take action before my current salacious physique morphed into the pleasantly plump stage of womanhood.
Which would then be followed by the "large lady that little children are scolded for staring and pointing at in a grocery store" stage.

Yes, this is me being productive. Cherish it while you can.

See, I live the average suburban teenage life.
Friends, family, stupidassmotherfuckingdumb high school, sleep.
You need not covet me, not matter how tempting.

Despite my current riveting routine, I thought it was time to switch it up a little bit and throw a couple 7:15 am cycling classes into the mix.

And so for all of you ladies and gentlemen that also have the honor of attending stupidassmotherfuckingdumb high school, I warn you, watch out.
'Cause there's a new girl in town. And she knows pilates.

The Result of a Snowy Morning (and too much coffee)

2005-01-22T13:38:00.000-05:00

A little while ago I started jotting down random quotes, lyrics, words and what have you, that I liked.

I figured the web could do with one more quote page, so I set one up.
The link is in my "A Little Something Extra Category."

Go there. Now. And send me a quote or three. If I like them, I'll put them in.

Me, the Little Domestic

2005-01-16T19:06:00.000-05:00

Growing up, most of us had those sweet little rhymes and rhythms that our parents used to nurse us to sleep (also known as getting us tikes to shut the hell up and go to bed).

For me, it was Jimmy Soul's "If You Wanna be Happy".
Yes. I know.

A few days ago, I had the opportunity to present another with such a lyrical gift when I babysat my cousin Mia, age three.

The evening was going swimmingly. We watched Nickelodeon, played dress-up. I even made her my renowned Sponge Bob cuisine.

Before we knew it, it was time for "biddy bye".
Her words, not mine.

I thought I had gotten away scott-free when she popped the inevitable question:
"Sing me a song, Lee Lee."

Number one, the second anyone under the age of 6 asks you a question using that adorable toddler lisp; they own you. Second of all, as soon as nicknames are thrown into the mix because they have difficulty saying your full name; they own you.

So of course, I had to comply.
Now those of you who know me. I should not sing. I don't usually get asked to sing. And most importantly, I do not sing.

But, on this occasion, I had no choice.
I figured, either my whimsical voice would whisk her away to sleep, or she would pass out from sheer misery.

After considering NIN's "Closer" a little too graphic for her, and not wanting to torchure her with Bette Midler's "The Wind Beneath my Wings", I decided on Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds".

Hesitantly I began my rendition, and by the fourth "cause every little thing gonna be alright", the kid was knocked out cold.

Even though she was mostly unconscious, I continued singin' my little heart out. And, for a change, it didn't matter that I was vocally challenged, I was enjoying myself.

By the time Mia's father came home, I had this kinda of warm and fuzzy feeling going on.
Which one may or may not attribute to the Sponge Bob Macaroni and Cheese I had for dinner.
However, I'd like to think it was a little bit of that maternal pride kicking in.

Now, this by no means hints that I want to, or plan on, getting knocked up any time in the near future. But, it does make me think, despite my attempts to act like a little hard ass that will never get hitched and do the family thing, maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Paying Homage to the Man

2004-12-28T18:26:00.000-05:00

At an early age, I found that I loved to read.

Now, I was no Matilda, but my little illiterate toddler mind thoroughly enjoyed listening to the same stories over and over and then reciting them. Of course, my mom could just be making some bullshit up on the spot, but I believed that whatever she said was on the pages. And eventually I graduated to being able to do it without help. Yay for me not needing hooked-on phonics.

But then something happened. School.

It seems to be a reoccurring pattern to mention a few reasons why I do not particularly enjoy being at school.
However, at the wee age of 5-6 I hadn’t yet discovered why school wasn’t any fun, I just knew that being forced to read things that pertain to NOTHING at all seemed to hamper my appetite for literature.

This decline in my desire to touch, let alone read a book continued steadily until sometime early last year.

Thank God for the discovery channel and Seinfeld, or I wouldn't have learned anything at all for about a 10-year block.

But anyway, the turning point, if you will, came one dismal little day when I went was dragged into Barnes & Noble by a pal and had to waste about 30 minutes while he scampered off to return a purchase.

Now this wasn't your standard, run-of-the mill bookstore, it was one of those whopper Barnes & Nobles with 4 floors that take up half a city block.

As you can imagine, I, the virgin reader, was a little intimidated. But with an escalator and a few shoves from those pushy New Yorkers, I found my way over to the fiction section.

Unfamiliar with the manner in which one explores the racks of books, I nonchalantly glanced around and tried to blend in with the natives.

Ah, picking up a book, good, okay. Looking at the blurb on the back with a furrowed brow--showing moderate interest or fervent dislike. Okay, got that down.

Aha, I looked down and saw that in my possession I had my literary salvation. Alright, maybe that's a little melodramatic, but work with me.

On the cover was a picture of a seemingly dead little yellow bird, a canary if I had to take a guess, and the name Chuck Palahniuk. (Which I later referred to as the novel Lullaby)

I did the routine, back of the book check, skimmed through the book like a natural, and thought to myself something along the lines of “…weird”.

I held on to the book and continued perusing the shelve I found it on.
And whallah, a little farther down the line, I saw a book called Fight Club by the same author.

This was very familiar, and as the wheels of my memory churned and clicked into place, I pieced together that this was also the name of a movie.
One of my favorite movies a matter of fact, which I had watched over and over. And over.

Intrigued, I plopped myself down with both books in hand to see what all the hub-bub was about this reading stuff was.

20-ish minutes later, my friend rejoined me.

He tried the standard calling-of-my-name to get my attention,
then tried it in an elevated tone hoping to provoke a response.
Resorting to physical stimulus he then “gently punched my arm” in an effort to snap me out of my little coma.
Of course my reflex kicked in and I “lightly nudged him in the shin” but aside from that, his efforts were fruitless.
I was utterly engrossed in the novel and there wasn't anyone or anything that was going to get me to budge.

Well it was about damn time.

So, I purchased the book, devoured it the next day, went back, bought another one by the same author, continued this until I had read everything by him I could get my hands on, and then tried again with other authors similar to him. Surprise, that wasn't so bad either.

And so, the main point of this whole long schpiel is to commend, and thank, Chuck Palahniuk, more affectionately referred to as "the fucking man" (not the bad kind), for shedding some light on my little book-devoid world. I haven't been the same since.

2004-12-18T20:04:00.000-05:00

flash. give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

Technologically Impaired

2004-12-18T04:07:00.000-05:00

Just for the record, I generally have No idea how to work with this template nonsense on the blog, and so if you happen to see unusual and misplaced things (like the picture above), you'd probably do well to ignore them.

The C Word

2004-12-15T18:26:00.000-05:00

College.

Whenever I hear this word I am reminded of an old Yiddish proverb;
"Oy Gevalt!".
Though I usually try to refrain from doing the standard throwing-of-the-hands-on-the-temples
and moaning routine that is usually followed by this remark, somethings can't be helped.

Back in the day, when I was an angelic and naive little creature, the word college rested on a fluffy cloud, surrounded by bubbly lettering, and the occasional rainbow, on a crystal blue sky. Now. Not so much.

Lately, after hearing this word, my blood pressure tends to elevate at an olympic speed and I find myself cursing my guidance counselor while begging for a 100 mg dose of Xanax.

Of course, I know that this kind of heightened anxiety is normal for most juniors in high school, but it still doesn't ease the pain of having to cram what the hell I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life into one intense moment when the "c" word is mentioned.
Which is usually in question form i.e. "Aw, I haven't seen you since you were this big. My how the time flies, I bet your already thinking about college, aren't you?"
Then I have to do the whole clenched smiling ordeal with a brief yet insightful update on my university search as of yet. This usually happens 5-7 times per week, more if I'm on a vacation.

And so, I am left with few options.

I can:

a) suck it up, load up on prescriptions and bad reality tv to keep me sane, and keep on truckin'
b) get sillicone breast implants to aid in impressing a college admissions officer
c) pay some over-educated foreign exchange student to double for me and take my SAT's
d) consider a career in the meat-packing and/or textiles industry
e) do exceptionally well academically for the remainder of my high school existence
or f) move to the Congo and help save the mountain gorillas from extinction

It's a tough call.

Just a Quote that I Really Liked from Waking Life

2004-12-03T00:52:00.000-05:00

By the way, Waking Life is an awesome movie, if you disagree, then we have some problems.

"Creation seems to come out of imperfection. It seems to come out of a striving and a frustration, and I think this is where language came from. It came from our desire to transcend our isolation and have some sort of connection with one another. And it had to be easy when it was just simple survival. Like the word water, we came up with a sound for that, or saber tooth tiger right behind you, we came up with a sound for that. But when it gets really interesting is when we use that same system of symbols to communicate all the abstract and intangible things that we're experiencing. What is frustration? Or love? When I say love, the sound comes out of my mouth and it hits the other person's ear, travels through this Byzantine conduit in their brain, through their memories of love, or lack of love, and they register what I'm saying and they say yes, they understand. But how do I know they understand, because words are inert, they're just symbols, they're dead, you know? And so much of our experience is intangible. So much of what we percieve cannot be expressed. It's unspeakable. And yet, you know when we communicate with one another, and we feel that we've connected and we think that we're understood, I think we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion. And that feeling might be transient, but I think it's what we live for."

A Big Star Rises

2004-11-19T00:52:00.000-05:00

Today I watched the movie Boogie Nights.
At first, I was skeptical, but my friend promised that any combination of Marky Mark, 70's porno, and gay bashing had to be at least somewhat entertaining. As usual, she was right. Although originally I would've secretly preferred Vanilla Ice to star in the movie, I've got to commend Marky on a really good performance. Although not one of my top 10, I did like watching it, certain parts were pretty intense and although I can't personally relate to the situations, seeing as I'm not a crackwhore, prostitute, pornstar, nor was I alive during the 70's, I really got into it.
Anywhoo, it had just the right mix of the gore, drama, and T&A. But, the best scene for me had to be the last shot, which is basically what inspired me to give my amateur film review. Its after all the dramatic tear-jerking crap happens when "Dirk Diggler", the main character pulls out his shlong for one last "you're a big star" mantra session. Whoa. Now, I'll say it, I've viewed enough "adult material" in my life to know what an average male sex organ is supposed to look like. From the Pam and Tommy Lee movie to even some of Ron Jeremy's stuff (before he was quite so hefty). And let me repeat, whoa. I'm sure the flash of his member was supposed to hold some higher meaning, all relevant to the theme of the film and all that bullshit, but all I could think was "Whoa...thats one hell of a stage prop". At first I thought it must have been prosthetic, all that Hollywood glamour and such, but after talking it over with my mom, she made me realize it was just probably a stunt double, or rather, dick double (not funny, I know).

So, yeah. Again, not the most captivating subject matter, but if nothing else, at least this ramble will convince you to go to the Blockbuster nearest you and dish out too much money for a not-so-great movie.

Intellectual Impotence

2004-11-17T01:18:00.000-05:00

The great Salvador Dali once said "I am in a constant state of intellectual erection."

Well, apparently, Sal never had Mrs. Hafner for period 5/6 physics.
I know every high school student either loves high school (God knows why) or considers it closely resembling that of HELL.
I'll let you guess which end of the spectrum I find myself on.

Anyway, every day I just manage to get through each period without a) falling off my chair when I happen to doze off during the lesson b) knocking all of the books off my desk and onto me in the process and c) proceed in hitting the desk next to me, causing the same book-tumbling effect.

However, today, after falling into my usual unconscious state in physics, I managed to accomplish all three of the above. Yes, I am a genius. And yes, I am an asshole.

I blame most of this on the gripping material; not many can resist paying attention to the power of vectors for 45 straight minutes, but I manage to do it. Plus, the monotone drone of the teacher doesn't really keep me that attentive if the fact that I just really couldn't give less of a shit about who Newton was and what his second law is all about.

So, yeah. All in all, physics/high school suck, my classmates probably think I'm a clumsy narcoleptic, and Dali was wrong. That's about it.

100 Things About Yours Truly

2004-10-12T05:06:00.000-04:00

1) I do not like pasta
2) or pizza (sacrilege, I know).
3) I have a tendency to fall over stationary objects.
4) I have never tried a fruit or vegetable that I haven't liked.
5) I don't like writing in blue pen.
6) I collect random quotes, quips, phrases, and what have you.
7) I am an avid film watcher and lover.
8) I have expensive taste. But, luckily, I don't have the funds to comply.
9) I suffer from the classic "daddy didn't love me syndrome" (a nuisance when trying to enter the dating circuit, but what can you do).
10) I can be a little anxious at times.
11) I feel like I have to work to be interesting.
12) I am often sarcastic with a little vulgarity to boot (and like it that way).
13) I cannot understand someone who has never been to Manhattan.
14) I couldn't survive away from Greenwich Village for more than a year.
15) I am a procrastinator (painfully so).
16) I am a vegetarian
17) and truth be told, its not because I give a damn about the cows.
18) I can enjoy a nice malt beverage from time to time (along with the four that follow).
19) I don't really think that I'll ever get married.
20) I get uncomfortable when I think I probably won't do very much with myself.
21) I like making lists.
22) I am glad I have curly hair despite my battle with frizz and bitching about my fro.
23) Music. Aah, yes, music.
24) I find road trips more relaxing that any bath or yoga class could be.
25) I wish I were more athletically inclined, or rather, got off my ass more often.
26) I love my mother more than anything
27) and I'm working on showing her that.
28) My body is very finicky with me (this means I have the metabolism of a bed-ridden elderly woman)
29) I wonder what it would be like to have a sibling.
30) I am my toughest critic (so I'm told)
31) but I'm working on a more optimistic outlook, I think.
32) It is possible that I spend too much time on the computer.
33) I obtained a true appreciation for the work of Woody Allen before my ninth birthday.
34) I have a tendency to ramble, but make a point to apologize both before and after I do.
35) However, I pride myself on being able to listen.
36) I am rarely directly rude to someone (this does not include subtly mocking them when their not paying attention)
37) I've got a pretty good sense of humor.
38) I'm a brown belt in Tae Kwon Doe.
39) Despite my whining, I do think that I am somewhat intellectual or can at least feign it pretty well.
40) I'm still waiting for that "'one special talent" that everyone’s supposed to have to kick in. But, I'm starting to think maybe my package didn't come with that feature.
41) It's impossible for me to be physically relaxed (being mentally inert isn't so much of a problem).
42) I assume the people I care about know that I love them, but I still feel the need to tell them every so often.
43) I think I was corrupted by a bad mix of Jerry Springer and the Spice channel at an early age (as most of my peers, I'm sure).
44) One particular Spice channel feature that sticks out was called "Mistress Diana's Dungeon Discipline, Part II", this seems to explain much about me (see: leather underwear and furry handcuff collection).
45) Watching television and sleeping are two of my favorite pastimes. I'm enthralling, I know.
46) I don't like the state of our country right now but lack any further political insight.
47) I'm glad technology is being put to good use but I wish things could be a little less commercialized and synthetic.
48) I am liberal but try to listen to the conservative point of view (and refrain from attacking them with foul language thereafter).
49) When things seem to be getting too complicated, I like to remember that we are just big, dumb, hairy mammals, a little step away from chimpanzees and the like.
50) I don't do enough of the things I say I should (but I'm working on it).
51) I love kissing. Yes, even more than biting and scratching.
52) I love tofu and most other products of soy. And so do you.
53) The truth is subjective but very important.
54) I like that my eyes change color in accordance to what I'm wearing, the weather, and my mood.
55) But I hate my smile.
56) I'm attracted to almost all things green (shirts, shoes, pillow covers, you name it).
57) I'm obsessed with lip lubrication. This means I have an assortment of over 100 lip-glosses ranging in colors, flavors, and scents.
58) I probably own the majority of products from the Burts Bees and Tom's Organics companies.
59) My hands are always cold.
60) I have a mild lingerie obsession as well.
61) I have a hard time respecting homophobes, xenophobes, etcetera.
62) I feel healthier when I read.
63) I can be a social recluse (but work hard on avoiding that).
64) I make obscure movie and song references
65) and immediately have a soft spot for anyone who catches on.
66) I hate reality television
67) but succumb to the HBO and Cinemax gay and lesbian melodramas.
68) I have drawn a few things that I am actually proud of (but don't expect me to say it again).
69) I'm a cuddler. And fondler, given the right circumstance.
70) I am orally fixated. This means I go through a lot of gum, mints, etc. on any given day.
71) I plan on going to Africa sometime in the near future.
72) I listen to French-African jazz when I get lonely.
73) There is no music like that of the 60's and 70's rock scene (good stuff).
74) I have to wear jewelry at all times.
75) I bite my bottom lip when I get nervous
76) and blush.
77) I have a slew of guilty pleasure songs, many of which are from the early 90's hip-hop scene.
78) I'd rather be too hot than too cold.
79) I have a little knowledge about a lot of completely useless things.
80) I consider normalcy overrated.
81) I'm not much of a holiday person, except for Halloween.
82) I want to speak French fluently
83) and Spanish and/or Hebrew
84) but I'm still working on mastering the English language, and Ebonics.
85) Little things can make me happy
86) but the "big picture" nonsense always seems to get in the way.
87) I've started taking pictures in black and white film only, that way everything I do looks pensive and emotionally gripping no matter what.
88) I hope that when I get a good thing, I don't scare it off too quickly.
89) I want to be able to play a whole variety of instruments, mainly the guitar, piano, and violin.
90) I can be a little anal about certain things. i.e. spelling, food, and who gets to be on top.
91) I want to own a snake.
92) I like the outdoors. But only if I'm looking at it from a climate-controlled environment.
93) I am somewhat aerodynamically curvaceous.
94) I never learned how to ride a bike. (don't be mean)
95) I like to help others. Or at least that’s what I put down on a practice college admissions essay.
96) The prospect of my future both excites me and scares the hell out of me.
97) The Animal Planet used to be my favorite channel (I have a thing for Jeff Corwin, what can I say).
98) There are a few people that have put up with me through all my different degrees of craze, and I love them.
99) I can be witty. I can also be an idiot.
100) My last name was the source of much mockery through my elementary school career.