"Erin, I'm not being negative. I'm not a pessimist - I'm a realist."
I like my glass half-full. Although I have the occasional bad day (or month) or a freakout, or two (or seventy), I fully subscribe to the notion that positive thinking leads to positive actions. If I honestly believe that I'm going to have a good day, I have a good day - it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Never underestimate the power of positive thinking. Or negative thinking, for that matter. I mean, you wouldn't walk down the aisle to marry the man of your dreams all the while thinking, "This is going to end in divorce," would you?
Doors get shut. People say, "No." But I have faith in my ability as a solution-oriented to utilize my time for productivity, rather than moping around, eating a melty pint of Ben and Jerry's goodness. I try to surround myself with positive thinking people in order to reinforce my philosophy of persistent positivity.. However, lately, I have been hard-pressed to find people that aren't gaping into their half-empty glasses.
In theory, Columbia should be filled with bright, young, eager minds, willing to share the positive ideas and dreams with their fellow classmates, looking forward into the horizon of opportunity (yuck). In reality, you find the most competitive, whiny, self-absorbed, negative, under-caffeinated, overcommitted people you will ever encounter in your natural life. There is no room for positive thinking. There is only room for self-doubt, self-loathing, and the oh so popular Columbia favorite, self-deprecation. But when I ask, why so negative, I get the blanket response, "Silly, naive Erin, I'm a realist."
Since when does being a pessimist make you a realist? I consider myself a realist, but not if that means I have to be negative. I find it particularly unrealistic to think that things will inevitably end badly. I'm no cock-eyed optimist (in fact, I have very little in common with Ado Annie), but I can't understand how someone can walk through life sweating the small stuff (and it's all small stuff).
So, in conclusion, if you're finding your glass less than full, have some of mine, and try to think positively. It's brighter over here.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Background Noise
I remember when academics used to be the sun to my solar system; the wind to my sails; the fuel to my engine. These hyperbolic cliches are only necessary because, in high school, academics were my reason for everything. Because my one goal in life was getting into a great college, I allowed grades and tests and workbook pages to drive my motivation vehicle. However, it never occurred to me what would happen to my relationship with academia post-high school. Would I continue to study into the night and push friends aside to cram for an AP Calc exam? Would I actually need anti-derivative skills for my goals in life? And what were those subsequent goals that would supposedly lead to the best years of my life?
School has become the background noise to my life. Sure, I gave it the first two weeks so I could figure out how to balance my workload and buy all my books and gather my "good intentions," but, honestly, school is in no way my college focus. Perplexing, no?
Don't be mistaken. I do all my work, I'm not a slacker. If you've ever met me, you know that I have a tendency to stress about the fact that even though I took AP Calc in high school, I can't really do conversions or eighth grade math and will therefore stare at my obnoxiously yellow packet for three hours while holding a protractor, doing my Environmental Science lab homework and wondering which way is up (er, for example...).
I am finally making the transition from high school. I thought I would always be just "the overachiever." I never really thought about it last year as a freshman, but all my extracurricular overcommitments, my friends, my nights out -- those are the things that keep me going. It's not about getting a 4.0 and getting into an Ivy League school. I mean, what's after this? Real life, right? These things keep me going because those are the things that bring me joy, not my TI83.
College is teaching me to the think like a grown-up. Weird.
School has become the background noise to my life. Sure, I gave it the first two weeks so I could figure out how to balance my workload and buy all my books and gather my "good intentions," but, honestly, school is in no way my college focus. Perplexing, no?
Don't be mistaken. I do all my work, I'm not a slacker. If you've ever met me, you know that I have a tendency to stress about the fact that even though I took AP Calc in high school, I can't really do conversions or eighth grade math and will therefore stare at my obnoxiously yellow packet for three hours while holding a protractor, doing my Environmental Science lab homework and wondering which way is up (er, for example...).
I am finally making the transition from high school. I thought I would always be just "the overachiever." I never really thought about it last year as a freshman, but all my extracurricular overcommitments, my friends, my nights out -- those are the things that keep me going. It's not about getting a 4.0 and getting into an Ivy League school. I mean, what's after this? Real life, right? These things keep me going because those are the things that bring me joy, not my TI83.
College is teaching me to the think like a grown-up. Weird.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Weekend Update
You may be wondering where I wandered off to. Between classes and being a first-time producer and partying (a lot) I haven't had very much time to think, much less blog. So let's see if I can make sense of the past ten days or so, and you will all see that although I may have gone crazy, I have not yet fallen off the edge of the earth.
a. I may be taking 19 credits again this semester. I'm starting to think that if I don't have an exorbitant amount of reading to do that I think I don't have any work at all. (ie, I'm a masochist).
b. We finally cast our show. I am so utterly thrilled about our team now I want to squeal with delight.
c. Auditions were the nightmare I imagined them to be. We had twenty people audition the first night and sixty the second night. Callbacks were a breeze though, the people we cast might as well have been wearing signs with their roles around their necks when they walked in. Again, I want to squeal with delight.
d. I'm thrilled that I'm producing a show. It combines everything I love about creative vision and anal retentive organization. It might be my calling.
e. Although, I could go without the nightmares where the Lerner website Event Management System turns into a fire-breathing monster and tries to eat me in my sleep and I wake up realizing that I haven't slept in the past three days, and that I've just been hallucinating.
f. I completely forgot that for the Trust Entrepreneurial Internship Program I'm in, I have to set up an independent study with a sociology/women's studies professor so I can write a thesis this semester. Crap? I have to do this by Friday. Crap? Oh, shit?
g. There is a boy situation happening right now that is so grossly complicated I can't even convey to you the stress it is bringing to my life. Why, oh God, why? Don't you know that I'm taking 19 credits and trying to fight off imaginary space request monsters?
That's pretty much it.
Oh. and h. After not having a hangover from our first cast-bonding party last night, I'm pretty sure I'm incapable of getting one. This is a good thing.
a. I may be taking 19 credits again this semester. I'm starting to think that if I don't have an exorbitant amount of reading to do that I think I don't have any work at all. (ie, I'm a masochist).
b. We finally cast our show. I am so utterly thrilled about our team now I want to squeal with delight.
c. Auditions were the nightmare I imagined them to be. We had twenty people audition the first night and sixty the second night. Callbacks were a breeze though, the people we cast might as well have been wearing signs with their roles around their necks when they walked in. Again, I want to squeal with delight.
d. I'm thrilled that I'm producing a show. It combines everything I love about creative vision and anal retentive organization. It might be my calling.
e. Although, I could go without the nightmares where the Lerner website Event Management System turns into a fire-breathing monster and tries to eat me in my sleep and I wake up realizing that I haven't slept in the past three days, and that I've just been hallucinating.
f. I completely forgot that for the Trust Entrepreneurial Internship Program I'm in, I have to set up an independent study with a sociology/women's studies professor so I can write a thesis this semester. Crap? I have to do this by Friday. Crap? Oh, shit?
g. There is a boy situation happening right now that is so grossly complicated I can't even convey to you the stress it is bringing to my life. Why, oh God, why? Don't you know that I'm taking 19 credits and trying to fight off imaginary space request monsters?
That's pretty much it.
Oh. and h. After not having a hangover from our first cast-bonding party last night, I'm pretty sure I'm incapable of getting one. This is a good thing.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Happiness is...
...sitting with eight of your favorite people at the Abbey Pub while singing Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" into bottles of Magic Hat #9 at 1:00AM.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
So, What Do You Do During The BlaZe?
No, friends, Columbia hasn't resorted to handing out free pot treats to the new first-years. It's the "new" CUnity, or the anti-CUnity, if you will. The BlaZe was probably the most fun I've had at college (sober) thus far. Hopefully I will snag some pictures from committee and the Bwog to showcase in the very near future. I was in charge of the "Make The NSOP Staffer Laugh" event, and committee members would just set up camp with me because my event was most awesome. Although, I saw way more naked freshman ass than I ever needed to see. Why do people think that by simply pulling down your pants I will fall down in stitches? Mooning is all in the delivery.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Will You Light My Candle?
I was given a truly amazing opportunity to commune with my fellow students and be a representative for my sophomore class by lighting the sophomore candle at the Barnard Convocation for the Class of 2010. For those of you who didn't go through some type of convocation during their orientation at college, it's basically an opportunity for administrators to prove that they're real people and not just a title to the students, and for all the students to be gathered together under the same roof (or in our case, gathered under a beautiful setup of lights and draped fabric that took about three hours, twenty people, and a lot of coffee to construct).
After a long day of helping first-years get moved into their doubles in the quad (in the pouring, humid rain, I might add), stuffing bags with programs and stuffed Barnard Bears for convocation, and frantically trying to memorize my lines for my College Night performance, I was ready for some meditation and communion with my fellow Barnard women that I have come to know and love, as well as the newest class to enter the iron gates at 115th and Broadway.
During bag stuffing, Danielle, who planned Convocation, asked Kate, Megan, and I to practice using the lighter we would be using to light our respective candles during the ceremony. It's the same kind I use at home to light the barbecue with, so I lit it with ease. I was so excited to be a part of this tradition - it was all really happening.
I sat through the ceremony, watched the alumni slideshow, and took it all in. I even teared up during Andi Grossman's speech, a graduate of 2006.
As Andi asked the Class of 2010, "What will your next four years mean for you?" I walked up to the candles set up on stage with Kate and Megan. Kate lit her candle as a representative for the senior class, Megan lit hers for the juniors, and after her wick was aflame, she handed me the lighter.
It was time. I lit the lighter, but nothing was happening. I tried again. As I was frantically trying to the light the green candle in front of me, my hands started to sweat, making the whole "spin and push" action required to make the lighter function all the more impossible.
Thirty seconds passed. I still could not break the genius code that guarded the key to unlocking this seemingly archaic device.
I finally caved the giggling in the audience among the freshman and peers was deafening. As was the thunderous applause I incurred when I lit the sophomore candle with the flame from the junior candle. You would think I had just won the Special Olympics.
Mortified. I can make the Dean's List, but I can't light a candle. Nice.
After a long day of helping first-years get moved into their doubles in the quad (in the pouring, humid rain, I might add), stuffing bags with programs and stuffed Barnard Bears for convocation, and frantically trying to memorize my lines for my College Night performance, I was ready for some meditation and communion with my fellow Barnard women that I have come to know and love, as well as the newest class to enter the iron gates at 115th and Broadway.
During bag stuffing, Danielle, who planned Convocation, asked Kate, Megan, and I to practice using the lighter we would be using to light our respective candles during the ceremony. It's the same kind I use at home to light the barbecue with, so I lit it with ease. I was so excited to be a part of this tradition - it was all really happening.
I sat through the ceremony, watched the alumni slideshow, and took it all in. I even teared up during Andi Grossman's speech, a graduate of 2006.
As Andi asked the Class of 2010, "What will your next four years mean for you?" I walked up to the candles set up on stage with Kate and Megan. Kate lit her candle as a representative for the senior class, Megan lit hers for the juniors, and after her wick was aflame, she handed me the lighter.
It was time. I lit the lighter, but nothing was happening. I tried again. As I was frantically trying to the light the green candle in front of me, my hands started to sweat, making the whole "spin and push" action required to make the lighter function all the more impossible.
Thirty seconds passed. I still could not break the genius code that guarded the key to unlocking this seemingly archaic device.
I finally caved the giggling in the audience among the freshman and peers was deafening. As was the thunderous applause I incurred when I lit the sophomore candle with the flame from the junior candle. You would think I had just won the Special Olympics.
Mortified. I can make the Dean's List, but I can't light a candle. Nice.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Lights Will Guide You Home
I leave for my island in two rivers in thirty short hours. And, I must say, for as much as I complained and moaned about the fact that I had to put my life on pause for three months, this was actually a completely and wholly worthwhile summer.
But, enough with that sentimental hooey. Get me the eff back to New York.
PS
...this is my nightmare...
But, enough with that sentimental hooey. Get me the eff back to New York.
...this is my nightmare...Thursday, August 17, 2006
My Hero: Kelly Clarkson
Kelly Clarkson is my hero for the following reasons:
1) Rocks out with Metal Skool
2) Drinks whiskey straight from the bottle
3) Is clearly hooking up with hot lead singer of Yellowcard
4) Sings Guns N Roses covers while plastered.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
A Good Wife Always Knows Her Place
This was sent to me by a female coworker. Let the laughter ensue. Oh, you can click it to make it bigger if you don't have super-human zoom vision.
Friday, August 11, 2006
LA Has Made Me A Cynic. Ironic?
I don't really listen to the radio. Sure, I'll listen to Kevin and Bean in the morning from time to time, but after a while, their "Bush is soooo stupid" and "Oh, look, Ralph is doing another witty impression" and their complete lack of any musical spinnage (disc jockey? hello?) gets old. At my internship, I feel like I have to listen to the radio because the silence can be numbing, and I'm afraid to wear headphones in case there is any kind of toner disaster (upon which my headphones would become the sole obstacle preventing me from hearing the cries of the printer-in-distress and saving the day). Tangents aside, we listen to KIIS FM (or for all you folk fortunate enough not to live in the 818, 323, and beyond, the crap station that Ryan Seacrest does the weekly crap forty on, or whatever) to fulfill (term used loosely) any kind of musical needs we may have between clicks of keys. After hearing the same four songs looped over and over and over so many times that I think my brain my turn to mush and/or implode, I decided to finally take a stand against the musical abortion occurring on the Sony DiscPlayer, and change it to the old stand-by, Star 98.7.
I know what you're thinking. Star is the station listened to by wanna-be-cool parents and twenty-six-year-old-male processing clerks desperately searching for the next "cool jam" to chat about with their semi-attractive-female-co-workers while they flaunt their bed-head and burly man-scruff that is so 2005. Star is like VH1 -- it tries to be as cool as MTV, but for whatever reason falls short with their target demographic of tanorexic Laguna Beach partiers and thugged out guys who listen to "I'm going to shoot you between the eyes while you go down on me" rap in their size eighty pants their mom's bought at Macy's. On sale.
I digress. The analogy I have made (Star : VH1 as KIIS : MTV) brings me to my most valid of points. Who decided that MTV was cool? I mean, okay, secretly watching MTV when you were thirteen and learning everything your parents didn't want you to know about sex is one thing. But I can't bring myself to sit and watch MTV for hours on end like I used to. When I find a pre-Back-To-New-York Real World marathon or an episode of Road Rules (or, I will admit, my latest obsession Making The Band), sure, I'll sit and waste an afternoon. But all of the "reality" on MTV (which, if I remember correctly, does stand for Music Television) is just some self-indulgent crap-o-la exploited as a gateway by slutty contestants to get their paltry fifteen minutes. PS, you are not cool if you make out with a guy you just met if you know your boyfriend is watching. It does not make you bad-ass. MTV used to be about rebellion. Music was supposed to be our way to stick it to the man!
Well, VH1 fortunately provides an ample filler for any void created by the betrayal of mainstream music media vehicles on Generation Y (et tu, MTV?). Okay, it doesn't play music videos either except for waaaay into the wee hours of the morning when we come pouring ourselves into bed (a time, funnily enough, that would be ideal for reality television). However, at least their reality television doesn't take itself seriously. Reality television isn't entertainment. I could go outside and get the same effect. Okay, maybe there wouldn't be as many people mugging for the camera, but at least there wouldn't be any commercials. What makes VH1 reality entertaining is their ability to make fun of reality television. What would a world be like without Flavor of Love? My Sundays wouldn't be complete without watching Flava Flave manage sloppily makeout with a fabulously ghetto booty without his two-foot Movado hanging from his neck distracting him. If that's not magic, I'm not sure what is.
I'm not quite sure what spurred on this sudden urge to shake my fist at the folks at MTV. Maybe I've seen the video for Boulevard of Broken Dreams one too many times (why, Green Day, WHY!?). Maybe I've heard that piece of shit Panic! At the Disco song so many times I want to cry. Or, maybe I just like the fact that Star can always brighten my day with a little Blind Melon or Gin Blossoms action (the finest of nineties rock).
Or, maybe I've just been sulking in my bedroom in LA for too long. I always expected New York to make me a cynic. I think all the sunshine did me in.
I know what you're thinking. Star is the station listened to by wanna-be-cool parents and twenty-six-year-old-male processing clerks desperately searching for the next "cool jam" to chat about with their semi-attractive-female-co-workers while they flaunt their bed-head and burly man-scruff that is so 2005. Star is like VH1 -- it tries to be as cool as MTV, but for whatever reason falls short with their target demographic of tanorexic Laguna Beach partiers and thugged out guys who listen to "I'm going to shoot you between the eyes while you go down on me" rap in their size eighty pants their mom's bought at Macy's. On sale.
I digress. The analogy I have made (Star : VH1 as KIIS : MTV) brings me to my most valid of points. Who decided that MTV was cool? I mean, okay, secretly watching MTV when you were thirteen and learning everything your parents didn't want you to know about sex is one thing. But I can't bring myself to sit and watch MTV for hours on end like I used to. When I find a pre-Back-To-New-York Real World marathon or an episode of Road Rules (or, I will admit, my latest obsession Making The Band), sure, I'll sit and waste an afternoon. But all of the "reality" on MTV (which, if I remember correctly, does stand for Music Television) is just some self-indulgent crap-o-la exploited as a gateway by slutty contestants to get their paltry fifteen minutes. PS, you are not cool if you make out with a guy you just met if you know your boyfriend is watching. It does not make you bad-ass. MTV used to be about rebellion. Music was supposed to be our way to stick it to the man!
Well, VH1 fortunately provides an ample filler for any void created by the betrayal of mainstream music media vehicles on Generation Y (et tu, MTV?). Okay, it doesn't play music videos either except for waaaay into the wee hours of the morning when we come pouring ourselves into bed (a time, funnily enough, that would be ideal for reality television). However, at least their reality television doesn't take itself seriously. Reality television isn't entertainment. I could go outside and get the same effect. Okay, maybe there wouldn't be as many people mugging for the camera, but at least there wouldn't be any commercials. What makes VH1 reality entertaining is their ability to make fun of reality television. What would a world be like without Flavor of Love? My Sundays wouldn't be complete without watching Flava Flave manage sloppily makeout with a fabulously ghetto booty without his two-foot Movado hanging from his neck distracting him. If that's not magic, I'm not sure what is.
I'm not quite sure what spurred on this sudden urge to shake my fist at the folks at MTV. Maybe I've seen the video for Boulevard of Broken Dreams one too many times (why, Green Day, WHY!?). Maybe I've heard that piece of shit Panic! At the Disco song so many times I want to cry. Or, maybe I just like the fact that Star can always brighten my day with a little Blind Melon or Gin Blossoms action (the finest of nineties rock).
Or, maybe I've just been sulking in my bedroom in LA for too long. I always expected New York to make me a cynic. I think all the sunshine did me in.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Key to Becoming a Successful Lawyer - A Kicky Voicemail
Part of my duties as an intern at Itel Media is going through the heaps (ha, right) of resumes and applications for a new hire. I came across a resume that looked perfect, but no sooner had I called to schedule an interview with him did I realize how wrong I had obviously been:
Hello, you've reached the law offices of Michael F. Schwartzberg. Since I don't have a secretary, you will have to leave a message. If I did have a secretary, she would be able to page me wherever I was and let me know that you called. ...I wish I was rich. Alright! Bye bye, now!
...
Needless to say, I didn't leave a message.
Hello, you've reached the law offices of Michael F. Schwartzberg. Since I don't have a secretary, you will have to leave a message. If I did have a secretary, she would be able to page me wherever I was and let me know that you called. ...I wish I was rich. Alright! Bye bye, now!
...
Needless to say, I didn't leave a message.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Death to ResLife
Okay, so Barnard Residential Life & Housing has officially made my "list"* of people and/or things I hate.
When my friends and I (out of sheer dumb luck) secured a beautiful eleventh floor Plimpton suite for the next year, we were beyond excited. Not only did we get to live with people we loved, we got to have some premium space to love each other in (air-conditioning? breakfast nook? views of buildings twenty feet away? is there anything it doesn't have?). One of our friends, to our deep dismay, decided not to return to Barnard next year and is transferring to Kenyon. We had known about this previous to her decision, so we contacted ResLife** to discuss this hypothetical situation in the case that it should theortically arise. Which it did.
Luckily (well not really for her) another very good friend was on the housing wait-list, and BAM all of our problems were over. Not only did we have another loveable person to live in our suite (because Phish can never be replaced), she would also know where she was living in the fall and that she would be living loveable people.***
We contacted ResLife and let them know our plan. We wrote letters/emails, made phone calls, set up meeting, etc. We did everything we could possibly do to make everyone's lives easy. And happy. And full of love.
BUT NO! ResLife clearly wants no such happiness for anyone. Not even themselves.****
Apparently, it's better for everyone to put a complete stranger in our suite and stick our wait-list friend in a double with someone she already knows she can't live with (long story). It's like they went out of their way to piss everyone off. Because that's what they do at Barnard Residential Life & Housing. They sit and plot with their clock pens and try and figure out the best plan to make everyone unhappy. In the end, I mostly feel bad for the stranger they're sticking us with. Because let's face it. My friends and I are a bunch of freaks.*****
*In high school, my friends made me keep a list of the people I was actively hating so I wouldn't hate more than five people at a time. This was to keep me from being a complete and utter bitch, and also to save my intense hatred reserves for the people who really deserved it.
**In March. We contacted them in March. Months of hoop-jumping ensued.
***And who doesn't appreciate love and security?
****Or at least they won't be happy with themselves on Monday when they recieve the onslaught of my death threat arsenal that I have been preparing in the past few hours
*****ie sexy troll themed parties, calling each other by our true medieval titles, and worshipping a stuffed purple Totoro.
When my friends and I (out of sheer dumb luck) secured a beautiful eleventh floor Plimpton suite for the next year, we were beyond excited. Not only did we get to live with people we loved, we got to have some premium space to love each other in (air-conditioning? breakfast nook? views of buildings twenty feet away? is there anything it doesn't have?). One of our friends, to our deep dismay, decided not to return to Barnard next year and is transferring to Kenyon. We had known about this previous to her decision, so we contacted ResLife** to discuss this hypothetical situation in the case that it should theortically arise. Which it did.
Luckily (well not really for her) another very good friend was on the housing wait-list, and BAM all of our problems were over. Not only did we have another loveable person to live in our suite (because Phish can never be replaced), she would also know where she was living in the fall and that she would be living loveable people.***
We contacted ResLife and let them know our plan. We wrote letters/emails, made phone calls, set up meeting, etc. We did everything we could possibly do to make everyone's lives easy. And happy. And full of love.
BUT NO! ResLife clearly wants no such happiness for anyone. Not even themselves.****
Apparently, it's better for everyone to put a complete stranger in our suite and stick our wait-list friend in a double with someone she already knows she can't live with (long story). It's like they went out of their way to piss everyone off. Because that's what they do at Barnard Residential Life & Housing. They sit and plot with their clock pens and try and figure out the best plan to make everyone unhappy. In the end, I mostly feel bad for the stranger they're sticking us with. Because let's face it. My friends and I are a bunch of freaks.*****
*In high school, my friends made me keep a list of the people I was actively hating so I wouldn't hate more than five people at a time. This was to keep me from being a complete and utter bitch, and also to save my intense hatred reserves for the people who really deserved it.
**In March. We contacted them in March. Months of hoop-jumping ensued.
***And who doesn't appreciate love and security?
****Or at least they won't be happy with themselves on Monday when they recieve the onslaught of my death threat arsenal that I have been preparing in the past few hours
*****ie sexy troll themed parties, calling each other by our true medieval titles, and worshipping a stuffed purple Totoro.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
New Obsession: David Hockney
I'm not going to lie. I didn't like my art history survey course I took last semester. No, that's a lie. I really hated it. I hated how it was disorganized, my TA was clueless, my discussion section was useless, and we skipped some of my favorite artists (um, hi, Van Gogh? Magritte? Hello?) However, despite my abhorrance (take that SAT flashcards you said would never come in handy) of that dreadful class (okay, now I'm British), I still love going to museums and seeing new art and old faves. I had never heard of Hockney before I was driving down Santa Monica Blvd on my way to the Troubadour and saw the banners erected on consecutive lamp-posts wedged between the infamous palms. I was struck by the Gogh-like strokes and the bright technicolor paint of the portrait of an older portly man in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. I made it my mission to visit the exhibit at LACMA and learn more of this man.
I went on Sunday with my mom. I was completely blown away. David Hockney represents everything I love about art (spontaneity, passion, imperfection, the intimacy of the relationship between viewer/painter/subject, the way it can encapsulate a moment perfectly), and he completely rejects everything I loathe (the installation of fear in the subject, making the viewer feel inconsequential, perfect "by the book technique). His portraits were magnificent: bright colors, clear motion, a moment brilliantly captured, but forever changing. I was drawn into every painting, curious about the subject, and also very aware of its relationship to the world and to Hockney himself. Though the paintings are so much about that painter/subject relationship, I can't help but also feel part of the equation, as I find myself relating so much to the subject. It was incredible.
I leave you with my favorite piece in the collection, an attempt to capture a moment with Polaroids, but defying the photographic convention that this medium must appear static - The Scrabble Game
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Dear (John) Summer
Dear Summer 2006,
I'm really and truly sorry that things haven't really worked out between us. I've been working forty to fifty hours a week, and I just don't have the time I used to have to dick around with you and your sandy Southern California beaches. Although, it might have been nice for you to turn down the thermostat a little bit around it. It has been hotter than Hades the past few weeks. If I wanted humidity, I would have stayed on the east coast.
I also really appreciate you taking the time and this particular summer to put close to all of my friends at a stone's throw distance. Oh no, wait. That's not right at all. Everyone's in Africa or England or Chicago or south Indiana or New York. Thank you for making it so convenient to sit down with friends and get coffee. Nope, no wait, I'm at home on a Friday night watching Ready, Set, Cook! because everyone's at least one time zone away.
And instead of filling my life with the friends I know and love, you have actually caused my loneliness to grow so great as to make me feel left out of social functions with people I don't even like. Now that's just cruel. And sad (for me).
Thank you for allowing me to wake up at 335AM nearly everyday of every weekend to go serve coffee to ungrateful-rude-undercaffeinated-people I don't even know.
And thank you, above all things, for allowing me to finally be interesting in someone three weeks before I have to leave for school again. You are truly awesome and have my best interests at heart.
Fondly,
Erin Siobhan
PS If I weren't going to see Kelly Clarkson on Tuesday with my best friend, we wouldn't even be on speaking terms.
I'm really and truly sorry that things haven't really worked out between us. I've been working forty to fifty hours a week, and I just don't have the time I used to have to dick around with you and your sandy Southern California beaches. Although, it might have been nice for you to turn down the thermostat a little bit around it. It has been hotter than Hades the past few weeks. If I wanted humidity, I would have stayed on the east coast.
I also really appreciate you taking the time and this particular summer to put close to all of my friends at a stone's throw distance. Oh no, wait. That's not right at all. Everyone's in Africa or England or Chicago or south Indiana or New York. Thank you for making it so convenient to sit down with friends and get coffee. Nope, no wait, I'm at home on a Friday night watching Ready, Set, Cook! because everyone's at least one time zone away.
And instead of filling my life with the friends I know and love, you have actually caused my loneliness to grow so great as to make me feel left out of social functions with people I don't even like. Now that's just cruel. And sad (for me).
Thank you for allowing me to wake up at 335AM nearly everyday of every weekend to go serve coffee to ungrateful-rude-undercaffeinated-people I don't even know.
And thank you, above all things, for allowing me to finally be interesting in someone three weeks before I have to leave for school again. You are truly awesome and have my best interests at heart.
Fondly,
Erin Siobhan
PS If I weren't going to see Kelly Clarkson on Tuesday with my best friend, we wouldn't even be on speaking terms.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Sex and The City Quote Of The Day
"Smart, yes, sometimes cute, but never sexy. Sexy is the thing I try to get them to see me as after I win them over with my personality." - Miranda
Yes. Story of my life.
Yes. Story of my life.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Global Warming vs. "Weather Cycle"
I'm used to triple-degree summer weather living in the San Fernando Valley. Usually, it happens a few days in August, and we all laugh about it in December, when it's 70 degrees and sunny on Christmas. After all, it's a small price to pay for mostly mild weather year round.
Yesterday, as I took a moment from making the 12 venti-extra-caramel-frappucinos-with-extra-extra-whipped-cream (nasty), I looked up and out the window at the McDonald's marquee down the block. It said it was 116 degrees. At 7:00PM.
...At least it's dry heat?
Yesterday, as I took a moment from making the 12 venti-extra-caramel-frappucinos-with-extra-extra-whipped-cream (nasty), I looked up and out the window at the McDonald's marquee down the block. It said it was 116 degrees. At 7:00PM.
...At least it's dry heat?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Mini-Road Trip to San Diego
I will tell you this: driving to Carlsbad for three hours in traffic with a car that not only does not have air-conditioning, but when you turn it on it blows ninety degree air in your sweaty face, is a very long time. Luckily, my bestest friend Kelsey, and I know how to make the most of our soaked backs and sweaty knees by completely ignoring our perfect wavy bed-head/shockingly glossy 'do's and rolling down the windows while belting "Defying Gravity" to the other air-conditioning-challenged drivers with their windows down on the I-5.
Upon our arrival in Carlsbad, which took longer than expected, for my trusty "double true" Google Map directions betrayed me, making us look for an exit, which does, in fact, not exist (damn you Parnell, I guess you were too busy macking on some Magnolia cupcakes), we searched for the nearest location that had air-conditioning.
And that location happened to be Jack-In-The-Box.
Okay, normally I would never set foot in a Jack-In-The-Box, but the promise of a heavy, constant draft of cold air made me quickly abandon any scruples I had, and I embraced the greasy goodness and sharp wit of their placemats, a genius excerpt of which I have convenient placed below:
"For millions of years, it was simple. Breakfast happened whatever time you were lucky enough to bag a wooly mammoth. Morning, noon or night. No one said "Sorry, sir. We stop serving mammoth at 10:30 AM." Now we're so 'advanced' you can put a DVD player in your wallet, but if you want eggs and sausage in the afternoon, people treat you like a caveman."
This placemat made the three hours in the car (plus my not having gotten any sleep due to working at Starbuck's before dawn) almost completely worth it.
I guess seeing Jordy Lievers after eight months in her incredible portrayal of Princess Winnefred in Once Upon A Mattress that made the rest of the trip worth while.
I guess.
Upon our arrival in Carlsbad, which took longer than expected, for my trusty "double true" Google Map directions betrayed me, making us look for an exit, which does, in fact, not exist (damn you Parnell, I guess you were too busy macking on some Magnolia cupcakes), we searched for the nearest location that had air-conditioning.
And that location happened to be Jack-In-The-Box.
Okay, normally I would never set foot in a Jack-In-The-Box, but the promise of a heavy, constant draft of cold air made me quickly abandon any scruples I had, and I embraced the greasy goodness and sharp wit of their placemats, a genius excerpt of which I have convenient placed below:
"For millions of years, it was simple. Breakfast happened whatever time you were lucky enough to bag a wooly mammoth. Morning, noon or night. No one said "Sorry, sir. We stop serving mammoth at 10:30 AM." Now we're so 'advanced' you can put a DVD player in your wallet, but if you want eggs and sausage in the afternoon, people treat you like a caveman."
This placemat made the three hours in the car (plus my not having gotten any sleep due to working at Starbuck's before dawn) almost completely worth it.
I guess seeing Jordy Lievers after eight months in her incredible portrayal of Princess Winnefred in Once Upon A Mattress that made the rest of the trip worth while.
I guess.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Post-Adolescent Pondering
I remember when I was a little kid and used to think "Wow, grown-ups are so funny, serious about the right things, cool in all the right ways, and get to wear sweater sets. I can't wait to be just like them."
Then, when I was thirteen, I was all "Fuck grown-ups. They don't know shit about shit."
Then, when I was sixteen, I thought "Wow, I can't wait to be a grown-up and not have to deal with this petty sixteen-year-old-girl drama."
And now, as I gracefully enter my twenties, I have discovered that grown-ups are the same as kids and teenagers, with all their same insecurites and drama, only with better shoes and coordinating outfits. And dishwashers. And a better chance in hell of actually getting any Social Security when they retire.
And thus ends my pseudo-intellectual drivel sermon for the day.
I'm going to go watch PeeWee's Playhouse on Adult Swim.
Then, when I was thirteen, I was all "Fuck grown-ups. They don't know shit about shit."
Then, when I was sixteen, I thought "Wow, I can't wait to be a grown-up and not have to deal with this petty sixteen-year-old-girl drama."
And now, as I gracefully enter my twenties, I have discovered that grown-ups are the same as kids and teenagers, with all their same insecurites and drama, only with better shoes and coordinating outfits. And dishwashers. And a better chance in hell of actually getting any Social Security when they retire.
And thus ends my pseudo-intellectual drivel sermon for the day.
I'm going to go watch PeeWee's Playhouse on Adult Swim.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Mother, The Mechanic, and The Epic Cell Phone Story
So, hobgoblins stole my cell phone. One minute, I am happily texting away, making ridiculous money while babysitting the cutest and most mellow seven-month-old you have ever met, and the next, my cell phone had completely disappeared. After four hours of tearing the apartment apart, we yielded no logical conclusion as to my beautiful black razr's whereabouts save 1) the baby ate it and 2) there is a 3x2 wormhole at the center of Bronwyn Keith's coffee table. I bought a new one today, if you haven't given me your cell phone number, please do.
Now I my cell phone is sure to materialize after I have dropped several hundred dollars to buy a new one. At least cutey-mc-cuterson Ryan at the Cingular store said I have thirty days to return the phone if I find it. Which I hope I do.
In other, happier news, due to the genius of Wes, we were able to secure tickets to The Early November's triple disk release show. Amazing. It was amazing. The record was worth the three-year wait. The whole band signed our CDs, and Jeff (drummer) took me on the tour bus because he couldn't find his Sharpie. It was magical.
It took us over two hours of traffic to get to Anaheim, and we barely made the show. Because we missed the openers, we found ourselves at the very back of the venue. I hate being in the back at shows because I love the energy of the band and the energy of the front of the crowd. However, as I standing in the back, I couldn't even tell if I was at a live show the way the crowd was reacting. The were just standing perfectly still, blankly staring at the stage 100 feet away. They were barely conscious. How can you not be psyched to see this band live? There is nothing better than seeing your favorite band live, supporting them, meeting fellow fans, hearing new tracks before anyone else, and above all things, dancing and singing and crashing into other fans. We finally squeezed our way to the front by the end of the show, and I got kicked in the face. Twice. It. Was. Awesome.
I mean, what's a live show if you don't get kicked in the face? Am I right, or am I right?
Now I my cell phone is sure to materialize after I have dropped several hundred dollars to buy a new one. At least cutey-mc-cuterson Ryan at the Cingular store said I have thirty days to return the phone if I find it. Which I hope I do.
In other, happier news, due to the genius of Wes, we were able to secure tickets to The Early November's triple disk release show. Amazing. It was amazing. The record was worth the three-year wait. The whole band signed our CDs, and Jeff (drummer) took me on the tour bus because he couldn't find his Sharpie. It was magical.
It took us over two hours of traffic to get to Anaheim, and we barely made the show. Because we missed the openers, we found ourselves at the very back of the venue. I hate being in the back at shows because I love the energy of the band and the energy of the front of the crowd. However, as I standing in the back, I couldn't even tell if I was at a live show the way the crowd was reacting. The were just standing perfectly still, blankly staring at the stage 100 feet away. They were barely conscious. How can you not be psyched to see this band live? There is nothing better than seeing your favorite band live, supporting them, meeting fellow fans, hearing new tracks before anyone else, and above all things, dancing and singing and crashing into other fans. We finally squeezed our way to the front by the end of the show, and I got kicked in the face. Twice. It. Was. Awesome.
I mean, what's a live show if you don't get kicked in the face? Am I right, or am I right?
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