Saturday night I tuned into SNL and was greeted by James Franco’s shocking announcement that he had moved to New York. And that he enrolled at Columbia. As he put it, he “got tired of Hollywood”. Wha...? This is worse than those text message break-ups. I had to find this out through a national medium, James? Couldn’t you have mentioned this the last time we saw each other?



And then I find out through facebook that the dancing boom box guy graduated. This would make my day. He was dedicated. You know those joggers that jog in place even when they’re waiting for the signal to change? Yeah, he would do that. Heavy boom box and all. He would dance all the way across the intersection not even stopping to take a breather. Sigh, you mean I won't have this to look forward to anymore?



Note: make sure you turn your sound on before watching the clip.






Is there nothing to look forward to for fall quarter?

Newly Apponted Geezer Status

I’m babysitting. Again. In order to keep them in one place I popped in Toy Story 2, the most recent movie I have in my vhs collection besides the “remastered” special edition Ariel, into my vhs/dvd player. As it was at the end, I needed to stop it and rewind.

“What are you doing? Why isn’t it playing?”

“I have to rewind it.”

“What? What are you doing? I wanna watch the movie.”

“I’m re-wind-ing...”

Then it dawned. These kids had no clue what rewind meant. Gah, I feel old.

Post-it Portraits

While baby-sitting I tried to steer my charges away from the Sesame Street website (there's only so much giggly Elmo laughter one can take) and towards artcyclopedia. I was looking for images of Picasso's portraits so I could show them that artists don't always draw things as they are in life but rather as how they envision them. While browsing through the images with the older one the younger one promptly grabbed my post-it notes and pen. Thirty seconds later she thrust this post-it note in my face declaring it was a portrait of me.



I'd like to think she learned well but I suspect she's still stuck on realism.

The dangerous effect of too much time

I hope all of you had a great long weekend. I'd like to say I had a great weekend too but it really didn't even register. In order to appreciate days off you have to be doing at least something in order to take a break from it.

I've gotten to this strange point in my vacation where I've actually thought "I'm looking forward to classes starting up again". Then I automatically place the back of my palm onto my forehead just to make sure the thought wasn't the product of some delirium. At first, I thought the hundred dollar cancellation fee for my summer class was totally worth it. An extra month without having to read Victorian literature? Fantastic! But now I'm re-thinking my thought process. I've done all the typical stuff- watch films, read, go out- but it's like I'm waiting for my life to start back up again. It's gotten to the point where I re-sorted my book shelves into periods. Pondering whether Rushdie belongs in the post-colonial or post-modern section took a good twenty minutes. And where the fuck does Borges go?

Today it reached a point of no return. I entered the kitchen. That strange gravitational pull you felt around noon? That was the universe indicating something unatural had occurred. Me, who one week ago nearly burned my eye just by boiling water for green tea, set out to make dinner for visiting family. From scratch. In case you skimmed over that, I'll reiterate. From SCRATCH.

I whipped, crushed, boiled, kneaded, reduced, seared for over six hours. I made dessert that didn't come from box much less with pictorial instructions. The fact that my mocha semifreddo with a pecan shortbread cookie crust was better than any item from Baskin Robbins should have been enough to make my family keel. But I also made homemade chicken fettuccine alfredo sauce and homemade pasta. Without the use of a pasta maker. That little old lady featured on TV living in the Italian mountains making pasta for a living? Even she makes pasta with a pasta maker. I must have rolled for three hours straight. I picked cherry tomatoes from my garden as a garnish. The only thing that didn't pass through my hands was the wine. But had I had one of those tubs from that I Love Lucy episode I would have gone grape stomping too.

A monster has been created, people. Julia Child eat your heart out.

Olympian Efforts

The Olympics are over. Even though I didn’t watch them on a regular basis, I liked tuning in when I could. My favorite parts, other than watching that Jamaican guy with the cool polarized glasses and neon tracksuit posing for the audience after winning, were those moments when they would give gold medals to a male US winner. Why? Because that meant the national anthem would be played. And it was hilarious. Not the anthem but their reactions to their moment of glory.

Here are Herculean men who trained countless hours, endured physical and mental agony, and have proved themselves the best in the world. These very men reduced to lip biting, shifty eyes, and nervous gulping. It was so funny to have to watch these men control their emotions. A single tear could wipe out all their work. Imagine the pick-up lines these medals will provide for them. And imagine after being impressed at their Olympic prowess a light will go off and the women will say, “Hey, aren’t you the guy who cried on international television?”. Pussy potential gone in the blink of a teary eye.

Emotion control was so obvious that every time my family would see these closing ceremonies we’d begin to voice what they might be thinking.

“Must. Not. Cry. On. International television” I’d squeak.

“Look away. Shift gaze. Ok, now smile serenely”.

“Smile? That looked like an eye twitch. A muscle spasm”.

“Is that one having a seizure?”

“No, he just doesn’t know where to look”.

Heres looking forward to the next Olympics.

Radioactive Criminal

New project to start off my return to driving: make a list of establishments that let me use my debit card without requiring me to show my I.D.

Since I'm going on my third driver's license it's getting pretty expensive to keep replacing it, but I finally decided to make my way to the local dmv in order to replace my lost one after almost four months. I was vainly hoping that one day I would recieve a package in the mail postmarked from Amsterdam containing at least my my driver's license. It obviously didn't happen and a trip to the dmv was inevitable. At the counter the clerk asked me if I'd like a new picture. Although I would have like a new one since in my last one I was wearing a black and white striped shirt reminiscent of prison ensemble, I declined. There was also a line for the photo cubicle and I reasoned that it wasn't that bad. Well, the kind people at dmv aren't exactly recognized for their photograpy skills but I never thought they could do such damage to an existing photograph. It was the same photograph but with UV radiation. Someone "adjusted" the colors in their photo editing program. I glow. No, that's putting mildly, I look radioactive. I look as though I have spent my life somewhere out in the desert near a bomb testing facility. Those fake orange spray tan ads have nothing compared to my license. A radioactive criminal, but I refuse to give any more money to the dmv, with my luck I'll just lose it again in a couple of months.

In complement to this list I'm also making one where I won't be able to go, and Porto's is on the top of that list. Thanks to dmv I will now be denying my self baked gauva cheese goodness. I had to show it at the counter and the poor girl working the register almost turned to stone. On top of my bright orange color, my forehead looks like it could be the solution for this country's oil problems. Argh.

Please feel free to add to the list.

Metro-less

The gods of transit have smiled upon me.

The mail carrier delivered the coveted blue envelope today! Once I saw the return address and realized it wasn't the usual orange color I squealed because I knew my dream had finally come true. I have been offered a parking permit for fall quarter! I can finally tell metro and their omnipresent tvs to suck it. This may the only time that I get to squeal over getting the opportunity to pay almost 200 dollars for a permit. I must savor it. I must have passed the god's test of fire when I didn't lose it that one day. In less than half an hour I was pelted with Lucky Charms, or Chucky Larms as the hobo so eloquently put it, and asked by (another) hobo if I was a) a midget b) a maid and c) if I spoke English. My pleas must have reached Olympian heights. Praise the heavens!

What to do with all the time I won't be spending on the bus? Perhaps I'll utilize it to stalk, I mean hang out with, my new bestie James Franco. I mean, he has been asking me when I'll have time to admire his gorgeous hair. Soon, James, soon.

Well, I must leave off now and put my parking high to a better use. Suck it metro!

Earthquake

Being an Angeleno means accepting certain facts about LA life such as, never ending traffic, the perpetual smog, and of course earthquakes. Although I've lived through a major earthquake (6.1 magnitude) I am still woefully unprepared for any earthquake let alone the Big One. Yesterday's earthquake reminded me, as well as all of LA, about this fact.

Summer in Southern California means minimal clothing. Summer in my un-air conditioned house means practically no clothing. During my vacation I'm accustomed to lounging around the house in my underwear while doing household chores. Yet yesterday's 5.4 event made me question this practice. While washing the dishes at 11:42, the first wave of the earthquake struck. At first I thought a large truck was driving by but by the time the second wave rolled around and the house began to sway back and forth I knew it was an earthquake. I ran quickly to a doorway since I remembered once being told that it was the most structurally sound part of a house. Yet the doorway's back and forth motion didn't inspire much confidence and I decided to run for it. Since my hands were wet the knob to my front door wouldn't turn. I finally opened it with my t-shirt and leaped out onto my front porch... in my underwear. In plain sight of the construction workers building my neighbor's fence. The shaking had stopped but I was too nervous to go dress so I grabbed a towel. And there I stood on my front porch wrapped in a towel. I tried to hide behind my screen door but the damage had been done. I now wear clothing at all times of the day. In. The. Heat. I even think about what pajamas I’d like to be seen in case another earthquake strikes at night. That flimsy camisole is out. Pants have now been re-prioritized to the top of the list of the usual earthquake kit requisites. I never thought earthquakes would influence my clothing choices or lack of. Of course, it doesn't help when every single channel has been describing LA as a bowl of Jello and citing all statistics that point to the Big One occuring anytime from now to the next 30 years. Still when the next earthquake does hit LA, I'll be ready. With pants.

Combis

Just back from what is turning into my annual trip to Mexico. My two weeks went by so quickly yet so slowly. I tried so hard to keep my New Year's resolution of writing each day even if it meant listing the contents of my lunch. Didn't suceed entirely but I tried. Here are some entries from my trip.

Now I consider myself a connoisseur of public transit systems and I've endured the many quirks that come with public transportation. I've been compulsively meowed at by a transvestite in Hollywood, I've been ignored by Parisians when I tried to figure out the subway system for the first time at 1 o'clock in the morning all alone, I was once on a night tram in Amsterdam where my friend and I were the only passengers and the conductor kept saying into the microphone "So you vant to party? You vant goot time?", and the scariest moment of all: being enveloped by the crowds in the Mexico City subway and consequently being dragged out at different stops. Yet nothing can equal the experience of a taking a combi.

Combis are what would be recognizable in the US as a hippie wagon. Yet here they are used as a public transit system. They abound everywhere and are way cheaper than taxis (each ride is about 45 cents) and just as fast. There's a certain art to riding one, almost like an extreme sport. First you must step out into the street and hail one in the same manner as a taxi. This is the tricky part. You have to step out just enough so that the driver sees you and then step back quickly lest it run you over. You hop in and your mission is to find a seat before the driver steps on the gas and sends you into someone's lap. Oh, and manners dictate you say hello to your fellow passengers. After all you might just have to have a stranger's loin in close proximity, it's just good manners to say hello.

Although they're quite small I've actually been in ones where there are nineteen passengers not including the driver. Everyone squezzes in even if there's only standing room (hence the loins in very close proximity). At night, they're even better. Most are decked out with interior neon lights and bad music; it's like being in a mini traveling discotheque. Since the colonial downtown area wasn't built for modern day traffic, streets are very narrow and difficult to navigate. Thus, the combi driver has to make use of every chance to accelerate, pedestrians be damned. While this may be exciting for those lucky enough to get a seat, it can be extremely tortuous for those who have to remain standing since there isn't a lot of head room. Still they're much more fun to ride than taxis; I highly recommend them. If only they had them here, I'm sure combi drivers could teach an MTA driver about something called speed.

embarassing part 2

My hip hurts. At first, I wondered if I'd bumped into something and perhaps it was bruised. Check for bruises. Nope, none visible. But my hip keeps hurting and I begin to feel an affinity with all those old people I see tottering on the bus shoving their walkers in front of them. I begin fearing that my debauchery of French fries, trans fat, and genomed food along with my non-existent calcium intake are finally catching up with me and somehow rapidly aging my bones. Before my hypochondriac panic sets in, I realize that this past week I went to all my yoga classes after a week of not attending. Yes, a few classes have put me into geriatric mode.

I chose yoga because it seemed pretty simple; stretching and breathing can't be all that hard. My body, however, doesn't seem to think so. As my hands begin to slip in my downward dog, I sneak a peek at the others, which I know I shouldn't do. It's self-esteem suicide. No one seems to be wobbling as much as I do and I know some of them are first timers like me. My instructor is always mentioning how yoga is about taking care of yourself and encourages us to take breaks and some other nonsense. If the girl next to me can reach back and grab her foot, then so can I. Well, no not really but I try hence my hip injury. Thus, last week I vowed that I would treat my body with respect even though it doesn't extend the same courtesy. So this week when I couldn't do a shoulder stand I reasoned with myself,

"Ok, I've never done a shoulder stand before. Maybe it takes awhile before someone can master that. It's cool, I'll just breathe here on my mat and think happy thoughts".

And at that moment I turned me head. The sixty-year-old woman who had just joined our class was shoulder standing with ease.

"Ok, breathe. Don't turn any more".

I turned once more and that was the clincher. The nine-month pregnant woman due at ANY moment, who had also just joined the class, remained in that position for all of relaxation time. As I desperately tried to heave my weight onto my elbows, I thought about how maybe I can get neon tennis balls to put on the feet of my walker. Along with some decals. Gotta differentiate myself from the gerrys right?

Metro Mondays

Thanks to the brilliancy of one of my friends my hate will turn into love. Making lemonade out of lemons and other such nonsense. Plus, a safe way to funnel all my anger.

My number one hate? Being car-less in LA. Joking about how in the future I will be able to use all my terrible events and turn the pithy into fuel for the fire, my friend suggested a metro journal. Yup, a metro journal complete with secret camera.

These people should be documented. No, NEED to be documented. An urban athropologist completely disconnected, an observer from the outside. A social cartographer mapping out the dysfunctional variations of the species.

No, not really, I just need something to do on the bus to make me look busy so people won't talk to me. Lately I have taken to carrying my enormous Shakespeare text in my arms due to its back-breaking weight in my tote bage (no joke, I got the shoulder bruises to prove it) and it seems that the bard is an incredible people magnet. Usually my "don't talk to me" vibe works well enough but there is just something about the bard that people cannot resist. So far, I've met some interesting people who have just felt the need to come up and ask me if I'm studying the bard. Alls fine and well in an academic setting but when people on the bus turn my book into a segue-way about how I should go over to his house for a home tatttoo that's where I draw the line.

Anyways, now I have something to do to keep me from getting bus sick.

"The map is not the territory" - Alfred Korzybski

I’m Not An English Major, I’m Pre-Law!

I don't do book plugs (which would reach infinity) but maybe I should start a book lust blog since I am loving Salvador Plascencia's People of Paper. More love since he came to my experimental fiction class to discuss his novel. His novel is like a continuum of Calvino, Borges and every crazy typesetter from the 19th century but it was his enthusiasm that elicited such love. He reminded me why I became an english major even though it's difficult to explain to mother's friends what I study and even more difficult to field their questions:

You mean you study english? But you speak english!"
"Oh, so you wanna be an english teacher? Elementary? So you like kids , right?"
"So your homework is reading books?"

He also reminded me of all the infinite possibilities of the novel form; he's breaking boundaries in his novel that haven't been fully explored (Danielewski is only the tip of the iceberg). He was very frank about the pitfalls of the novel (the percieved misogyny, the lack of political content, form over content) but you gotta admire it for what it is: a fuck you to conventional form and a breaking of conventional standards. Speaking about his rejections from every major publishing house becuase of its experimental status (and later came back begging) just made it more inspirational. It's like the little indie novel that could.

When the ethnicity questions came up he was very open about not being "enough" of a chicano which I loved. He made it very clear that he didn't want to be pigeon holed which is why lots of chicanos criticized his novel. I sat there totally nodding my head and I think that's why I've never been able to stay in a chicano organization. I still remember one of my favorite professors telling me that I had to behave a certain way because it was a reflection upon my community; that comment really bothered me and has stayed with me to this day. It must suck being a Mexican writer feeling that you have to write in a certain style but he did it and that gives me hope for the future of awesome mexican writers who don't fit the mold.

Just So You Know Whom To Blame

There is a radical faction of pro-lifers running rampant in my neighborhood. Part of their nefarious plot includes door-to-door tactics much like the beloved Jehovah's witnesses. Actually, a somewhat ordinary man knocked on our door Sunday affternoon asking my mother to sign a petition that would ban abortion and gay marriage. My mother politely declined and he immediately took up another line of defense.

"You mean you love abortions?" he accused.

Before my mother could open her mouth, I shouted, "We LOVE them!"

And I would have shouted, "We have them all the time!" had my mother not shoved me out of the way. So next week when I die a fiery death because my house has been torched you will know whom to blame.

embarassing moments

Ugh. Send me to the Midwest where I belong. I think I’d fit in perfectly with their tourists that come to LA. Or at least send me somewhere where people still fawn over the miracle of the internet. Seriously, that’s where I now belong.

I used to think I was above all that. Those people that I watch slowly drive along Sunset with their cameras sticking out the windows while I wait for my bus? I laugh at them. Imagine the tortuous slide show they’ll subject their family to. "Look y’all it’s the front of the Beverly Hills Hotel! And see that man smoking a cigarette while holding a videocamera? He was waiting for Britney Spears to exit! He’s a paparazzi! Can you believe that?"

How insanely ridiculous has this cult of celebrity gotten? C’mon do you really care what how many breakdowns they have? I know I don’t. Which only makes today’s incident supremely embarrassing.

During lecture in one of my lit. classes, my T.A. made an announcement. Naturally, I turned in the direction of her voice. What I didn’t realize was that, unknowingly, I had focused my gaze in the direction of a guy sitting in the row behind me. By the time I realized that I was staring at him, it was too late. He made a gesture with his head that indicated that he had caught me staring at him and seemed slightly annoyed. I turned away quickly, feeling embarrassed, but this happens all the time. I think about other things and don’t realize that I’m staring at someone. However, this time I had been caught. He appeared familiar but it wasn’t until I signed the attendance sheet that I glanced at the names and realized who he was. Of course, James Franco would be annoyed that I was staring at him. He probably has to deal with it all the time on campus. I felt like a country bumpkin even though the staring wasn’t intentional. The head gesture and the expression on his face now became clear. He had assumed that I was star struck instead of absentmindedly looking into space. To make things worse while trying to make a quick escape after class I almost ran into him in the aisle. Needless to say, I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I found out he wasn’t in my discussion class. I’d already made enough of a fool of myself in lecture; I didn’t need another opportunity.

Midwest here I come.