If the best things in life are free, you can give them to the birds and bees

True story: La Jolla is so ridiculously wealthy they have iPod vending machines in their grocery stores.

Against Interpretation

"It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible."

Oscar Wilde, in a letter

By the way, that Pandora link (see right) is some gnarly shit. Check it out.

Here's hoping

Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman (sorry, Joaquin, I love you)
Supporting Actor: George Clooney
Actress: Reese Witherspoon
Supporting Actress: Rachel Weisz
Screenplay (adapted): Brokeback Mountain
Screenplay (original): Crash
Director: Ang Lee
Picture: Crash

Edit: Geez. I should've placed bets.

Notice

I'm going to be playing around with the design on this blog in the next few weeks, so if it looks weird or something isn't working, that's why. Sorry for the inconvenience.

San Diego Barbies

Recently announced the release of Limited-Edition Barbie dolls for the San Diego area market:

La Costa Barbie - This princess Barbie is only sold at the brand new La Costa Forum. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired dog named Honey, and a cookie-cutter house. Available with or without tummy tuck and face lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with "augmented" version.

Rancho Bernardo Barbie - This modern-day homemaker Barbie is available with Ford Windstar minivan and matching gym outfit. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation or secondary education. Traffic-jamming cell phone included, headset sold separately.

Escondido Barbie - This recently paroled tattooed & nose pierced Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a desert/river ready lifted Chevy truck with dark tinted windows, and a meth lab kit. This model is only available after dark and can only be paid for in cash, preferably in small, untraceable bills. Unless you are a cop, then we don't know what you're talking about!

Del Mar Barbie - This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card, and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.

Santee Barbie - This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans, two sizes too small, a NASCAR shirt, and Tweety Bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Coors Light and a Hank Williams, Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick Mullet Ken's ass when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.

La Jolla Barbie - This collagen injected, rhinoplastic Barbie wears a leopard-print bikini outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while entertaining friends at t he beach house. Percocet prescription available.

Lakeside Barbie - This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased Beer-Gut Ken out of Lemon Grove Barbie's house. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails, and a see-through halter top. Also available with a mobile home.

Leucadia Barbie - This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long, straight, brown hair, archless feet, hairy armpits, no makeup, and Birkenstocks with white socks. She smokes good sinsemilla buds and prefers that you call her "Willow". She does not want or need a Ken doll, but you if purchase two Leucadia Barbie's and the optional Volvo wagon, you get a coupon for a free wheat-grass smoothie at any Whole Food's Market.

National City Barbie - This Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a GED and bus & trolley pass. Gangsta Ken and his '79 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant.

Chula Vista Barbie - This Spanish-speaking-only Barbie comes with a 1984 Toyota with expired temporary plates and three baby Barbies in the back seat, but no car seats. The optional Ken doll comes with a pick up truck loaded 10 feet high with mattresses. Green cards are not available for Chula Vista Barbie or Ken.

Hillcrest Barbie/Ken - This versatile doll can be easily converted from Barbie to Ken by simply adding or subtracting the multiple "snap-on" parts. Bonus: free rainbow flag with proof of purchase sticker along with valuable discount coupons to all "F" Street bookstores.

PB Barbie-This Barbie is always bitching that she can't find a good man in PB

Patiently waiting

I think that my greatest passion in life is making plans. I plan parties, I plan nights out, I plan my day. I have 5 or 6 post-its hanging from the bookshelf above my desk: movies I want to see, grocery list, possible jobs, possible apartments. I'm obsessed with planning my life. I have an excel spreadsheet on my computer with every class I want to take during college planned out, along with a list of activities and clubs to do, and a list of possible graduate schools (if that's the way I end up going). I look at apartments and furniture and part-time jobs on Craigslist practically everyday. I even like to go to Target.com and pick out dinnerware sets for next year. It's a sickness.

So tonight, while Chelsea's at home for a funeral, Heather's on a date, and the women's figure skating finals were on (side note: way to fuck it up, Sasha Cohen. Add therapy to that training regimen), I tackled my excel spreadsheet some more. Actually, I have to back up, because this planning was spurred by my sudden inspiration to get back into my sports, because I'm hella lazy, as they say, in college so far. I pretty much go to class, go to the gym, and party. So I looked up the public session times at the Yerba Buena ice rink downtown (it's a 40 minute Muni ride but whatever) and after I bring my skates up here this summer I want to try to go at least twice a month, hopefully once a week. I also found a good dance studio downtown, printed out their class schedule, and put it on my wall. I'd like to take one ballet and one jazz class a week, but that's pretty ambitious, so I'm thinking maybe one of each every other week. A block of four classes a month costs $42, not too bad. And drop-ins are $13, which is a nice option. The only hitch I've found so far is the four block walk back to the Muni station after night classes, because SOMA isn't exactly Carmel Valley. Note to self: make friends with classmates.

ANYWAY. I filled in the class times I want for next semester (which I got from last fall's schedule, which is usually the same every fall) so that I only have classes Tuesdays and Thursdays, all day. Hopefully I can pull this off for the rest of college. It's sometimes nice to go to a school that caters to working people. So this would leave Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays for working, the gym, dance class, and skating. The chances of all of this happening every week is low, but at least half is fine with me.

Which brings me to the job hunt. I'm pretty set on getting a job soon and working during the summer in San Francisco and coming home for a few weeks starting right before my birthday. Hopefully this summer I can get into a skating/dance/working routine. Right now I just want to get a job at Stonestown (the mall next to campus) because I really don't want to commute. Plus the gym is at Stonestown so I have no excuse not to fit my work out in before or after my shift. There are a bunch of job openings at the mall, the most promising of which is Bath and Body Works. I'm thinking two or three shifts a week to start, more in the summer. We'll see.

Yeah. We'll see about all of it, actually. It's a nice plan, though, don't you think?

To end, I'll tell you about a strange experience I had today. There's this little old Russian man at the gym (not gonna lie, he's creepy) who keeps asking me, in Russian, if I speak Russian. Up until today I pretended that I didn't hear him, but he caught me on the elliptical. He said "stravutsya" (that is the most phoenetic spelling of "hello" in Russian I can manage), and I said "I don't speak Russian." "Oh, what do you speak?" "English." "Do you speak anything else?" "French." "Ah, tu parle francais, Madamoiselle." "Uh huh." "Do you come from France?" "No." "Well, wherever you come from, you are very beautiful." "Thank you." It sounds cute in theory but you had to be there cuz it's creepy. Anyway, I know I look like I'm from the shtetl, my mom likes to tell me all the time. I'd be a sex goddess back in Poland.

Speaking of the Eastern Bloc, I'm thinking of Eurail-ing to Vienna, Berlin, and Prague for winter break junior year. Yes, I've thought this far ahead. You should come with me.

Untitled.

Letting go has to be one of the hardest things I've ever done. I'd rather clutch whatever it is close and let it continue to boil my blood with whatever particular odors and connotations it concocts within my heart and brain.
With Mike I let go. I let go of being in control of everything in my world, I let go of the fear, and I can't even say I did it on purpose. It just happened.

Letting go has to be one of the easiest things I'll ever do. With school, it's so easy to let go, to not care, to let it sift under all of the trivial STUFF that somehow seems exponentially more important. It's the easiest thing in the world to say, "fuck it. I don't feel like it."
But the consequences are anything but. Because two weeks later I'm scared to go back to class because I don't know what I've missed, because I don't know anyone in the class. Because I'm scared of being alone, being alienated, being unsure, being OUT OF CONTROL. It's easier to watch yourself do nothing and scream it from the rooftops than it is to quietly try to piece together what you've taken for granted and what you've missed.
I'm older now. Wiser. I'm almost 19 and still...

I don't want to rant and rave about my inconsistency in school. I'm tired of that. And one of these days, trembling and proud, I'll walk back into that lab and I'll get over myself. Someday.
Whatever.


Ideas, moments are fleeting. Time passes, things change. Someone rocks your world, someone breaks your heart. And through this and that and everything else that LIFE entails...do we ever figure it all out? Do we ever STOP ASKING annoying questions? Do we ever stop stalking our friends? Do we ever stop being completely unsure? And what about the fear...does it ever go away?

I told Abbie today that I liked that there aren't answers to all the questions, because each time you ask someone new, you learn. You ask and you receive something new. A memory. A belief. An anecdote. A laugh a cry a hug a cringe. A bond. And you take one step outside the box that is inevitably YOU, that's all your thoughts and ideas within.

I personally don't have little quotes to fall back on. I wasn't raised that way. I'm pragmatic, I'm practical. When the game is over, the king and the pawn may go back into the same box, but that isn't because in the end, the maker of the game is trying to spread the message that big or small, black or white, royalty or peasant, we're all the same. That's just the way it is. It's a GAME. You need somewhere to store the pieces. Somewhere they won't get lost, where you can consistently come back and find them and use them when you need them.
And Jesus, maybe that's a huge metaphor for those sayings I don't believe in. Life isn't a fairy tale. Those always end up in happily-ever-after, and really, in this world, no one wants that. We need things to bitch about, to hate on, to gossip about, to complain... we're not nice, we're not "happy," we're HUMAN. We're not programmed to live happily-ever-after. We can't handle the lack of pain--we seek it out, we like the flaws, the challenges. It gives life depth, meaning.
"Happy" is one of those words your fourth grade English teacher told you was BAD or BORING. You were supposed to use "jubilant" or "satisfied" or "accomplished" or "content." Not happy. Never happy.

I told a couple people the other day that I thought chocolate changed the world. And I'm convinced it has. But like the proverbial butterfly who flies over Kentucky and causes a monsoon in Asia, history and the past are hard to fathom, especially their impact on our lives.
I'm in college now, I'm on my own. I now make choices that hugely and obviously and immediately change my life and my future. I made a decision to go to UCSB, to go to FSSP. That, of course was life-altering. Why wouldn't it be? Had I not gone, I wouldn't be the same person I am right now. I wouldn't know the same people, I wouldn't have been through the same drama, I wouldn't have discovered what I have about life and people and humanity.

I can't put my thoughts into words well. I can't create perfect, flowing, personality-filled paragraphs with correct grammar and syntax the way Matt does. I'm a terrible story-teller.
But the ideas in my head are valid. They're me. And as totally incompetent as I feel expressing them publicly, especially in writing, I do feel a desire to share my thoughts with the world. And in the end, I may go back a day later and be horrified at the utter SHIT that I wrote, but as a certain friend of mine likes to quote, "do one thing every day that scares you." And so I try.
I may not be able to face that lab or ask for real help when I need it, but at the end of it all at least I've written something down, taken a deep breath, and shared it.
"One step at a time," my dad has told me, all my life.

So I'm taking baby steps. Into what? Toward where? I don't know. But if I've learned anything at all in the past six months, it's from Abbie, and it's that life is HERE, and even if I don't go to class all the time and don't do my work perfectly, I can't waste my time worrying about it or being afraid I might do it again. There's too much around me I might miss. Too many new facets of someone's personality. Too many conversations, too many walks or quiet moments of clarity.

I often feel like I need to excuse my posts here for some reason.

Today I just felt like writing, and this is what came out.

Violence is not the way, kids.

[edit 2/14: the "hunting comapnion" had a heart attack today]

Cheney accidentally shoots hunting companion

By JoAnne AllenMon Feb 13, 9:46 AM ET

Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally wounded a companion with shotgun pellets on a weekend quail hunt in Texas, his office said on Sunday.

Cheney's companion, Austin lawyer Harry Whittington, 78, was listed in stable condition after being brought in on Saturday night, said Yvonne Wheeler, a spokeswoman for the Christus Spohn Hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas.

Cheney's office said Whittington had been sprayed by birdshot while hunting at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, about 200 miles south of San Antonio.

The shooting was first reported by the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. The vice president's office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened.

Katharine Armstrong, whose family owns the ranch, was a member of the hunting party and witnessed the accident.

She said Cheney, an experienced hunter, did not realize Whittington had rejoined the group without announcing himself, which is proper protocol among hunters.

"They had no idea he was there," Armstrong said.

"A bird flew up, the vice president followed it through around to his right and shot, and unfortunately, unbeknownst to anybody, Harry was there and he got peppered pretty good with a spray of 28-gauge pellets," Armstrong said in a telephone interview.

"He was turning, facing the vice president, but turning to the right, and it sprayed him across the right side of his face, his shoulder, his chest and along the rib cage area," she said.

Armstrong said Cheney's medical team attended to Whittington before he was taken to the hospital.

She described Cheney as "an excellent, conscientious shot."

"The person who is not doing the shooting at that moment in time is just as responsible and, should be, as the person actually shooting," Armstrong said.

Cheney spokeswoman Lea Anne McBride said the vice president had been with Whittington at the hospital on Sunday.

"The vice president visited with Harry Whittington at the hospital and was pleased to see he is doing fine and in good spirits," McBride said.

Cheney has been a frequent visitor to the Armstrong Ranch and in October spoke at the funeral of family patriarch Tobin Armstrong.

Armstrong's wife, Anne, served as U.S. ambassador to Britain and as an adviser to presidents Nixon, Reagan and George Bush.

The 50,000-acre ranch was settled in 1882 by his grandfather, John Armstrong III, a Texas Ranger known for capturing outlaw John Wesley Hardin.

Whittington serves on the Texas state Funeral Services Commission and the state Office of Patient Protection and is a former member of the board of the Texas Department of Corrections.

[thanks, Yahoo! news.]

Special Valentine's Unit...

click me.


Thank you, Abbie.

Two Cowboys

"A story about a forbidden and secretive relationship between two cowboys and their lives over the years"


My mother sent this to me.

The predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us!

So, you know when you read lyrics that someone's put on their AIM profile or away message? Don't deny it, you know you compulsively check everyone's profile and away message, whether you actually talk to them or know them or not. It's amazing how connotative those lyrics can be, because we judge their meaning on the basis of who put them up there. It's easy to dismiss a line or two as emo, or whiny, or trying really hard to be artsy or alternative if it's someone you easily dismiss as simple. But what if someone else had put those same sappy lines in their away message, someone you admire, someone you aspire to be like or who you just think is pretty fabulous in general? If they put the bad poetry in their information, it wouldn't be whiny or sappy or emo. It'd be sophisticated and thought-provoking.

Just something I caught myself doing. Thought I'd share.

It was Mozart's 250th birthday on Friday. I hope you celebrated.

I love craigslist

But first. Who has front row tickets to Chicago in London? Yeah. Me.

Anyway. My favorite thing to do when I'm bored at home lately is browse craigslist. It started out simply enough, just looking around for beds and couches and such for the apartment I'll be furnishing in June (hopefully here; the plan so far is to start a lease in June, then stay in San Francisco for a couple months during summer to work, either at the party planning firm or elsewhere). Then I started looking for apartments all over the city, just to see what the options are. It's great fun. I progressed to looking for apartments in New York, where I won't even be living for at least four years. Not surpsisingly, the most affordable ones are in Harlem and Washington Heights. Is it bad if half of my monthly income goes to rent? I love to plan. I love to look at target.com for dinnerware sets and bedding. My mom bought me a set of cool plates in Berkeley a year ago. My reasoning was that they'd be great for my apartment. I'm in a huge rush to be independent. I want my fabulous apartment with my canopy bed (which I found for $60 on craigslist). I cannot wait.

And so it is, the shorter story

So here it is, 4 in the morning, I just finished watching Closer, and I'm sitting here, surrounded by unsatisfaction (that's not even a word). I want sleep, I want love, I want sex, I want it all. I want to know who I am and what I want, I want to be as strong as I appear, I want to be successful in the things I do. I want to actually do the things I say I'll do.
I want the world, basically.
And this is a pretty honest post, as far as these things go, but I just have this urge to say something true, something real, something maybe I'm scared about. But at least it's the truth. Because, really...

Someone recently told me that being a good friend meant letting your friends lie to themselves, letting them get away with their own personal brand of bullshit. I really hate to think that he's right, and I denied that remark with all the strength I had, as thrown as I was by the severity of the statement. But I have to admit (while I'm being honest here) that it's at least partly true. Or true for specific people. Or something like that. But there's an element of truth to it that bothers me, and I can't pinpoint where or why.

So here I am, 4 in the morning, writing.
Does any of this actually mean anything? Does it ever make a difference?

Somehow I feel all of my posts are written around questions, the answers too elusive and perhaps too consistently changing to find.
Truth changes forms.

Okay, so not the O'Reilly Factor... but I suppose this is the next most villainous arm of FOX

Hi Matt -

I'm not sure if you're the Matt we're looking for, but I thought I'd give you a try. I'm a producer with Geraldo At Large, a nationally syndicated news magazine anchored by Geraldo Rivera. We are producing a piece on the Monterey Salka controversy, and would like to do a taped, on-camera interview with you about it.

Our program is based in NYC. If you are still in town, we can come to you and would only need about an hour and a half of your time. If you are already headed back to CA, we have a producer there who can meet you at a location convenient for you to interview you. We are scheduled to finish shooting the story Friday, 12/23.

If you are concerned about what kind of questions we would like to ask, I can provide you with a list. We simply would like to talk about a little bit about Monterey, the photo shoot, and your reaction to the Salka's lawsuit.

As usual in television, time is of the essence for us, so if you could get back to me at your earliest convenience, it'd be much appreciated.

Thanks,
Bob Higgins

Seasons of love...And it's definitely winter.

There was a lot of talk about love last night. First it was with Meghann, pertinent to the subject of marriage, and then I brought it up with another close friend of mine, Mike. What is love? I don't know what it is, and despite that, I don't know if I believe in it anymore.
When you're a little girl, an adolescent, a teenager, you watch movies, read books, hear stories...And you inevitably believe that there's some "Mr. Perfect" out there for you; you just have to go and find him. But that's bullshit, or at least I think so now. Perhaps I'm turning into a cynic. But looking at the divorce rates and the number of people who cheat...I'm not so sure humans are monogamous creatures. And if we are monogamous, then what the hell is our problem?
So now I'm still a teenager, at the tail-end of that label, I've never been in a relationship, and I feel jaded; not just because of who I am but because of what I've seen of relationships, mostly with people of my age. People who think they're in love. People who are in love. But I don't even know what that means.
There are a small handful of people on the planet that I could honestly, and with a clear conscious, say that I love. A very small population indeed. But I'm not in love with them.
I just watched my parents take my dog out for a walk, and I've noticed that ever since I've left for college they've been happier. And please don't get me wrong, this isn't a pity thing and I know I didn't ruin their lives or anything like that - three is a hard number. But I used to question so often as to whether my parents were in love or loved each other at all. When things hit rock bottom a few years ago I asked my father if he and my mom were still in love, and he said I don't know. I think that messed me up.
I know everyone's perception of what marriage is supposed to be is based, obviously, on what they saw of their parents' relationship. Obviously, Meghann is more comfortable with divorce and thinks it's much more acceptable than I do. It makes sense. But with everyone's different perceptions and experiences, do any two people really agree? I'm not even going to ask if there's a "right" and a "wrong" way of thinking because I know you can't judge things like this.
As I was frantically cramming for my Sociology final, I read an article about marriage that basically explained that in every marriage, there are really two marriages, and when asked separately, spouses disagree on about a third of the things they're asked about, such as who's in control, who does what household chores, etc. I find this unsurprising. But to me it just adds to my confusion about the subject. How do you make a marriage work when you're obviously so disjointed?
And what about the correlation between marriage and love? Is one necessary for the other?

Too many questions, no satisfying answers. And I suppose I'll figure it out for myself eventually. But it does leave one feeling kind of lonely.

"Love is a many-splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love..."
Right.

J-O-O's

There are only a few times a year when I feel Jewish. Passover, Yom Kippur, and Hanukkah. The first two are obvious. My food intake is disrupted and that causes me to complain to my gentile friends. Hanukkah's also pretty obvious, seeing as how I've been bombarded with Christmas crap since October. I actually like Christmas, though. This will be only the second year of my life that I don't have a Christmas tree. However, even though I'm in the capital of politcally correct, I have yet to see a single Hanukkah decoration. I spend a lot of time at the mall because that's where my gym is. Everywhere is red and green garland, lights, and a giant pile of present with a red throne in front, where Santa sits and talks to the kiddies. As a sidenote, I'm surprised that this Santa tradition still exists. Who wants their small children to sit on an old man's lap? Yeah I thought so.

So anyway. I have yet to see a single aknowledgement of Hanukkah. I'm sure I could go home to redneck ass San Diego and see more. True that Carmel Valley is basically Little Jerusalem, but you know. This is San Francisco.

Today Hailee's mom sent Chelsea and I a package. It contained a pair for each of us of Rudolph socks and a box of Mrs. Field cherry candy canes. Of course I'm not peeved at this at all because I think it's pretty much of the nicest things ever, but I had to chuckle at myself. I'm not gonna lie. Gelt would've been cool.

4:47 A.M.

Child molesters

So last night, Heather, Chelsea, and I decided to go out to dinner at El Toreador, our local neighborhood mexican restaurant. Our first strange encounter was an extremely drunk man in his 60's who came up to us while we were fucking around outside, waiting for a table. I assume he stumbled down from the neighboring pub, Joxer Daly's. He approached us and said, "Can I ask you a question? I'm not a bad guy or anything." He asks how old we are and we tell him, and the following 15 minutes are a blur of slurred life advice, culminating in this little nugget of wisdom,"...and have as much sex and possible, with as many people as possible. But only with me." He then stumbled off and we ran screaming into the restaurant.

You'd think we were safe. Oh, no. A group of four people walk out: two women and behind them, their husbands. We're sitting in the waiting area and the two men (clearly in their 40's) come over say, "Hey, you should come have a drink with us next door." We laugh nervously and mutter after they leave. Another group of men (also in their 40's) walk out and one comes right up to Heather and says, "Let me guess. Vicky. Hahahahaha." The only pleasant coming-on was three stoned surfers from Santa Cruz who were jealous that we were so far ahead on the waiting list.

So here's my question: Why do old men find it appropriate to hit on little girls? I'll clarify this by saying that all three of us were wearing jeans, sweaters, and big jackets with scarves, and Ugg boots because it was freezing outside. There was nothing maturely sexual about us. So what the fuck? You could be my father. For all I know that old man could've been my grandfather.

Alligator wrestlers and dead fish

My University Writing instructor wasn't lying when she said she was writing a novel about a family of alligator wrestlers in South Florida. Turns out my shy, quirky writing instructor is moonlighting as a brilliant fiction writer. Her story, and an interview. It's definitely worth the read.

o0o0o Jet-setter

So yesterday at about 7:45 am my mom calls and asks, "Want to go to Las Vegas for Christmas?" Alrighty then. My mother's manifestation of a mid-life crisis is travel. Sounds good. So I will be spending Christmas Eve and day in Las Vegas and the Paris hotel. And then of course real Paris for Spring Break, including two days in London via Chunnel. And a weekend in New York when it can be squeezed in. Bam.