You are no ordinary fish. When I picked you from amongst all the other bettas in their little cups at the pet store, I knew it was the beginning of a glorious friendship. I painstakingly arranged your little glass stones; delicately I measured out the exact amount of PH balancing drops to add to your water. I delighted in shaking the little betta pellets into your bowl and watching you sneak up on them before you gulped them down in hasty ambush. I watched you blow happy bubbles which rose to the surface and popped, like a cheerful hello. You have moved from house to house, and city to city with me. You have watched roommates, friends, and boyfriends come and go. You have been with me for a very long time, through many stages and changes, and you have seen, quite literally, much of my life through (as Jeff pointed out) what amounts to a magnifying glass.
That is why, when I woke up early Saturday morning, went to feed you breakfast and saw that you were dead, I dropped back down to the bed and started to cry.
That's right. You are a fish and I cried over you. Jeff came and took you into the bathroom, said a few words for you, and sent you on your way. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize that there isn't a more dignified and socially acceptable way to bury a fish. I'm pretty sure your disembodied spirit is a little outraged about the flushing business.
We have had some good times, haven't we, Gust? Like that time I went on a vacation and left you in the capable hands of my roommate - explaining to her your minimal needs, which consisted only of feeding you between 6 and 10 pellets a day and otherwise leaving you to your devices. You repaid her by playing dead so convincingly that when I got home, she met me at the door in tears apologizing for killing you. I rushed to the room to find you drifting innocently and quite alive, and my roommate sputtering in confusion and swearing that mere moments before you were bobbing belly-up and lifeless. We all got a good laugh out of that one, didn't we, buddy!
Or how about the time about a year ago when you attempted suicide? That was a knee-slapper! I was changing your water and you were in your little cup on the bathroom counter, as usual, while the PH balancing drops were dissolving in the fresh water in your bowl. I had gone to do laundry, and got sidetracked talking to my roommate in the living room. When I eventually came back into the bathroom about 45 minutes later, you were nowhere to be found. Not in the cup, not in your bowl, not in the sink, the toilet, the bathtub, or any of the surrounding floors or countertops. That was a hilarious stunt, let me tell you! It wasn't until, after at least 3 minutes of searching, that I thought to look BETWEEN THE PAGES OF A MAGAZINE in a magazine holder next to the toilet - how silly of me not to realize you would be in there! But there you were, frozen solid and motionless, having been deprived of water for several minutes at the absolute minimum. I was resigning myself to the fact that somehow my neglect had killed you. I was coping with the instant wave of guilt I felt as I wished fervently I had put the lid on the cup. How was I to know you were so unhappy as to warrant taking your own life? You never told me. How am I supposed to know how you feel, Gustav, if you don't tell me?!
But then - miracle of miracles - you twitched. A post-mortem twitch, I was sure, but still, I couldn't be sure. Could you really be that resilient? Could your attempt on your own life have failed?
I tipped the magazine and let you slide back into the water in your bowl, where you promptly started swimming around in circles as if nothing had happened!
You know, now that I look back, you were really kind of an asshole. All you did was scare the shit out of me for your own amusement. After your near-death experience, your pretty tail fell off and your scales started to rot, but I'm sure it was worth it for you. Ending up a Fishenstein was a small price to pay for those hilarious moments of gut-wrenching panic you caused me, eh, Gust?
Either way, I'm sad you're gone. I keep looking over in what used to be your direction to see what you're up to, and I see only an empty shelf.
Goodbye, you prankster of the sea. I miss you and your bastard ways very, very much.
Okay, I know this is kinda lame, but when I read it SO many of them made me smile that I felt like a hypocrite for reading and enjoying, and then turning around and not re-posting just because I felt dumb doing it.
Plus, I'm feeling a little homesick.
You know you are from San Diego when:
Every street name is either in Spanish or Spanish related, and you're surprised when other areas don't have this.
You routinely go or have gone to Pat & Oscar's solely to get breadsticks.
You've ever gone to Downtown San Diego and marveled at the homeless people mingling with the rich young urbanities.
You've gone to Mt. Helix in July and known you still need a jacket.
You've tailgated at Qualcomm Stadium, and for bonus points, also tailgated when it was Jack Murphy Stadium.
You've ever been on a field trip to see an Imax movie at the Reuben H. Fleet Science Center.
You still call it the Del Mar Fair. (Uh....is it called something else now?!) A famous skateboarder/surfer lives in your town. (Oh, you could say that all right.) There's a North County, a South County, and an East County but no Central County.
You know what it means when two guys are walking in Hillcrest.
You know what it means when a girl in a short skirt is walking on El Cajon Blvd.
You've gotten stuck in the Horton Plaza parking structure traffic after a Padres game. (Come on people, Park It on Market!)
You've ever been to Belmont Park and rode the Big Dipper.
You can correctly pronounce Tierrasanta, La Jolla, Rancho Penasquitos, San Ysidro, Otay Mesa, El Cajon, Jamacha, and Cuyamaca
You've ever gone to Sea World on a warm day and sat in the first few rows at the Shamu Show to get cooled off.
You've ever been delayed at the Border Checkpoints on the 5 and the 15.
You know it's San Diegan, not San Diegoan, or San Diegoite.
Everyone has their favorite beach.
No matter what the weather is, there is always someone walking around in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops.
You live on, near or are surrounded by hills.
You have family and or friends that have moved to Arizona. (Or moved FROM there - also known as "Zonies") There are four distinct seasons: Summer, Not Quite Summer, Almost Summer, and Oh Hey Look Its Summer Again
You know what MB, OB, and PB stand for.
You used to, and sometimes still do ride the carousel at Seaport Village.
You know someone who doesn't own pants, and have a neighbor who doesn't seem to own a shirt.
Your high school had a surf team.
You know what Santa Anas are, and that they have literally nothing to do with the city of Santa Ana.
You know what a California burrito is.
You never, under any circumstances call it anything other than "the Gaslamp."
Hello friends. I hope this finds all of you well, and I also hope it finds you in a good mood - because I have a request. The show I just finished costume designing, Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean's "Mr. Punch", has only three weekends left, and I have to say, I am more proud of this show than almost any I've ever worked on. Please, if you are able and willing and enjoy theater, come and see it!
You can read some of our wonderful reviews here. The show has gotten a fantastic response, but there are still tickets available and I want as many people as possible to see this show.
Tickets can be bought through the website, or discount tickets can be obtained directly from me - just let me know if you'd like some!
Click on the poster below for more info about the show, plus new production photos, trailers, tickets, and more:
Please come! Don't miss the biggest, best, and most exciting Rogue project yet. Just think, you will be supporting the arts, L.A. theater, and me, all at the same time! Fabulous!
Okay. So, originally I wasn't going to write about this because it's A) so not a big deal and B) kind of embarrassing. Or, as my best friend Chris put it when I told him, it's "so gay". Also, "what a fool" I was, and I "must have looked so dumb". Actual quotes, people. Best friend. Chriiiiis Kelly.
So anyway, I wasn't going to write about it, then this lady said I should, and when a mermaid tells you to do something, you do it. Come to think of it, she also said you should all come and see Mr. Punch, too!
Like how I did that? I reeled you in with the promise of a blog about Coachella, and I flipped it around and made it about my show! Haha! Suckers. Fear not - this is, ultimately, a blog about Coachella. That was just a tangent which I callously forced upon you! You gotta watch me, I'm tricksy like that!
Coachella!
It was fun. Jeff and I got to see everyone we planned to see and more. For those that are interested, we were there on Saturday and saw Regina Spektor, Travis, The Decemberists, Arcade Fire - all amazing - and The Red Hot Chili Peppers - who in my opinion kinda phoned it in. I know, I know, people think it makes them cool to say they saw a really big band and then blow everyone's mind by saying they sucked. I'm not doing that right now. They didn't suck, we all agreed they just lacked energy, and if you're going to directly follow Arcade Fire, the one thing you cannot do is lack energy. It takes a helluva band to outdo THAT veritable army of excellent performers, musicians, and instruments, let me tell you.
But let's get serious. Everyone who's ever been to Coachella knows that the music is secondary to one thing: the heat. Me? I didn't find it to be unbearable-can't-handle-it-want-to-kill-yourself hot. Not consciously, anyway. But my body had other thoughts. Around 3 in the afternoon, Jeff and I made our way over to the Virgin Megastore tent to meet Travis and get the new CD signed (if Jeff could manage to not crap his pants with excitement in the meantime, that is. THAT was the deal). When we got there, the line was real long, so I offered to wait in it while Jeff went into the actual "store" (tent) to purchase the CD. After he'd been gone a couple minutes, I started to feel a little fuzzy. Now, I'm no pussy. I'm not about to let a little fuzz get in the way of my line waiting, so I stayed. The fuzzy turned to dizzy. Then something took hold of my brain and whispered in no uncertain terms, "find Jeff. Like, now."
I walked/zombie-staggered to the tent, and located Jeff in line. Now, I wish wish WISH I could have taken a picture of Jeff at that moment, the moment he saw me in the tent beside him, and not in line. It was such a glorious mixture of surprise, confusion, and anguish - an absolute work of art. It was as if his entire body was emitting a low moan, as if to say "woman, what are you DOOOING?!"
But I cared not. In my tunnelvision, the only thing I could think to do was mutter, "I feel dizzy", and slump against his chest.
After that, you'll have to ask Jeff, or the numerous strangers, what happened. Because I FAINTED. Yeah, I passed out in the Virgin Megastore tent, apparently from heat stroke. The details I have gathered involved a lot of Jeff shaking me and yelling my name, as well as my head lolling back limply - like a cartoon! Haha! Jeff and a Virgin employee both poured cold water on me, which allegedly woke me up long enough to say "I'm fine" before I fainted again. I don't remember that part. What I do remember is feeling very pleasant and floaty, and having what I can only classify as dreams. I dreamt about how nice it was to float, and how much I like blankets and warm water, and things like that. I'm not being cute. That is really what I was thinking about. But then I was cruelly wrenched back to reality by the Virgin employee, who had poured cold water on a t-shirt and put it over my face. And this reality I was wrenched back to? Kind of embarrassing. I was on the ground, soaking wet, and there were people all around saying things like, "oh god" and "is she okay?"
Well, I'll end the suspense. I was okay. I was fine. I got to sit next to a giant fan and drink a lot of water and dab my dainty self with the wet t-shirt while Jeff went back to the line. It didn't turn out too badly for Jeff, either, because if it hadn't been for my fainting and a very sweet employee named Shane, he would never have gotten his CD signed by Travis. You see, Shane took pity on "the one whose girlfriend fainted" and when they cut off the line far in front of where Jeff was, he pulled him out of line and brought him to the front, thereby making him the last one to get an autograph.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch, except that every time I lowered my head to rub my eye, or check my shoelace, Jeff leapt upon me like a mother lion on her cub shouting, "are you all right?! Do you want to go?! What do you need?!"
Here we are, mere moments after the whole escapade:
I think I'm smiling because deep down, I subconsciously knew it could have been much, much worse. On the ride home, Jeff called his sister Jenny, who is in nursing school, and told her the story. Her response was, "tell Kerry she should be grateful, because a lot of times when you faint, you pee your pants."
Okay. I am soliciting. But I assure you it is for good reason!
Tickets are now available for Rogue Artists Ensemble's newest production, opening April 27 in Los Angeles! I, costume designer of the project, cordially invite you to check it out.
Clicking on the poster below will take you to the Rogue website, www.rogueartists.org, where you can get all the info you would ever want, including a pretty bad-ass trailer for the show (also viewable below for your viewing pleasure! Go ahead and view it!). You can even buy tickets! On the internet! Isn't that crazy!
You can also purchase pre-sale tickets directly from me, which are $4 less than regular tickets, and can be used at any performance except the gala opening.
AAAAAND the trailer:
Please come! It's a crazy world out there, folks. Enjoy the puppets.
"List seven songs you are into right now, no matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good but they must be songs you're really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your Live Journal along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they're listening to."
1. Flowers in the Window - Travis 2. Yankee Bayonet - The Decemberists 3. Half Jack - Dresden Dolls 4. Sister Kate - The Ditty Bops 5. Blind Love - Tom Waits 6. Typical Situation - Dave Matthews Band 7. Hotel Song - Regina Spektor
And since I have to, I tag: Chris, Jeff, Lilan, Chih, Wilder, Miranda, Barrie
Imagine for a moment, gentle reader, that you are minding your own business. Hush, just imagine. Imagine you come across, as I did, the following article on a news site from Seattle, Washington (here is the actual article if you prefer to view it complete with a picture of two knitters, inexplicably flanking a small asian girl: http://www.komoradio.com/news/local/6282587.html):
"KNITTING WOMEN UNITE TO KEEP NAVY DOLPHINS WARM
by Bryan Johnson
A group of women gathered Friday at the Bainbridge Island Senior Center.
They are part of a knitting group growing across the United States.
It only It looks like a knitting club.
This is much more than knit one, purl two. This is politics.
"The whole problem of putting them on the dolphins is one of the things we have to consider in the future. It's an interesting thought," said Jan Bailey, one of the knitters.
The women are knitting sweaters for warm-water bottlenose dolphins. The Navy wants to put them on Homeland Security patrol here.
One of the knitters Karin Beran says that's cruel, but says the dolphins will know what to do with the sweaters.
"Well, I guess the dolphins are so smart, so they can figure it out, if and how and when. I'm just happy to knit for them," Beran said.
They've thought of everything. Susan Scheirman showed me a multi-colored yarn.
"We've imported camouflage yarn for these local dolphins," she said, "so they don't become subject to any kind of terrorism."
Jan Bailey even went to a button store and bought regulation Navy buttons. She sewed the regulation 13 buttons on what could be called the bathroom flap. But dolphins don't have arms:
"That is the dolphins problem. No, that's the Navy's problem," Bailey said. "I think if they have divers in the water, and the dolphins signal. The whole problem of putting them on the dolphins is one of the things we have to consider in the future. Then the divers can go over and unfasten the 13 buttons, one at a time."
They even have a knitting song.
Oh so why do I swim through seas so arctical," one of the lines asks.
The women say they'll keep on knitting as long as the Navy plans to put dolphins in the frigid waters of the Northwest.
The women plan to present the sweaters to Navy officials at a hearing on the plan to put bottlenose dolphin into guard service locally."
Ok. Ok, ok. After reading this article, the proper reaction is: A) Pity them. B) Kill them. or C) Do a double-take at the screen, clutch your chest, and crumble under the crushing amount of idiocy with which you have just been confronted.
Although A is almost guaranteed and B is sure to be tempting (if only to ensure the survival and continued evolution of the human race), the correct answer is C. We should all do our part to preserve the endangered art form of the comedic double take.
But all that aside, WTF?!!!!!!
Let's go through this together, shall we? First, they are knitting sweaters for dolphins. Sweaters. For dolphins. With yarn. Wha wha what? Since when does ANYTHING stay warmer underwater while wearing a garment of yarn? If anything, wet garments make you colder; that is, if you were to come in contact with the surface. If not, they simply become heavy and irritating. You know, like guilt.
Next, knitter Karin Beran (woooah what a bummer of a name! Oh, I hope it rhymes. I really hope it rhymes) goes on to explain that they don't know how the sweaters will actually make it ON to the dolphins, but that "dolphins are so smart, so they can figure it out." Uh huh. Well, I hate to destroy your magical childhood image of Man's Best Ocean-Dwelling Friend, but I think you are giving them too much credit here. I'm pretty sure there are some PEOPLE who don't even know how to put on sweaters. And dolphins are at a distinct disadvantage, as they are thumbless and in fact, handless.
But they seem undeterred by mere facts. These knitters mean business. I mean, Jan Bailey even managed to procure Navy regulation buttons! How was she able to pull this off, you ask? Why - she went to a BUTTON STORE. What a brave soul. I would congratulate her, except she then went on to sew THIRTEEN Navy buttons onto each DolphinSweater, and when their practicality was challenged by the knife-tongued reporter, proceeded to explain that the Navy divers are to individually unbutton these thirteen Navy buttons UNDERWATER when the dolphins want them to. And how are the divers to know the dolphins are in need of an unbuttoning? According to Jan Bailey, the dolphin will signal. Ok. Again, dolphins? THEY HAVE NO ARMS.
But then, you already know that, don't you Jan Bailey? I believe you do, because when the reporter pointed out that tiny detail to you, your response was to blame it on the dolphins. Quickly realizing your mistake, you backpedalled and blamed it instead on the Navy.
WHAT?!
It's nobody's FAULT that dolphins don't have arms, Jan! They JUST DON'T! It's SCIENCE!
And this brings me to another point: am I to understand that they are knitting the traditional kind of sweaters, the kind fit for PEOPLE?! They aren't even knitting dolphin-shaped sweaters?!
Obviously, knitting a sweater for a dolphin is a woefully flawed idea, but I would have thought at the very, very least they would try to accomodate the shape of a dolphin's body in their design. Apparently I overestimated them. They really are just knitting sweaters and hoping that somehow, just somehow this fanciful garb will just morph its way onto the dolphins and protect them from the chilly Northwestern waters they could potentially be patrolling.
So, how did the Navy ever sanction this embarrassing display you ask? Well, as it turns out, they haven't. The knitters intend to "present" their sweaters at a Navy hearing. OH BOY I wish I could be there for that! I cannot WAIT to hear how that goes. My imagination reels with the well-spoken and official moding they are sure to receive, in the complicated, government-y words the Navy is sure to use! I CAN'T WAIT!
My brain is literally being liquified in my skull with a lethal combination of confusion, disbelief, and rage. What kind of topsy-turvy world IS this?! My mind grasps for stable ground in the form of an explanation, and both Bonnie and I managed to come up with the same one: These women, these utterly, blitzkriegingly, bat-shit crazy women think that a "dolphin" is a breed of dog.
And now, here are two excerpts from the article which I simply find too ridiculous to comment on. I'm not just being cute. I literally have no words for this. No words.
1. "They've thought of everything. Susan Scheirman showed me a multi-colored yarn. "We've imported camouflage yarn for these local dolphins," she said, "so they don't become subject to any kind of terrorism."
2."They even have a knitting song. Oh so why do I swim through seas so arctical," one of the lines asks."
Heaven bless you, brave knitters. You are both infuriating and precious. And dolphins - I salute you.
When you work in an office building, at a desk, in a cubicle, you take your amusement where you can find it. Does anyone remember that commercial where the portly, balding man in an undershirt and boxers is surfing the internet and his confusingly attractive wife is in the kitchen where she belongs, and suddenly a window pops up with a flashing red sign, telling him he's reached the end of the internet? That's what it feels like. It's gotten to the point where I can almost amuse myself simply by thinking. Sometimes my thoughts are funny, and I do my best to laugh under my breath and not out loud, although if I did laugh out loud it would probably be easier to explain. As it is, I'm probably the "creepy girl" in my office who chuckles under her breath at what seems like thin air. You know the one, you had one in your class in elementary school. A kid who seemed permanently lost in their own fantasy world, who was constantly muttering and talking to themselves and drawing pictures of nightmarish creatures in his or her notebook, and didn't have time for worldly distractions like "friends".
So anyway, I think a lot. I think about things that make me uncomfortable, such as sci-fi or fantasy that takes itself too seriously, women in their 50's who write fanfiction, children in sailor outfits – what is with that?! There is something very wrong and Freudian about a mother who dresses her infant as a dirty sailor. Or perhaps it's just the novelty of seeing a child dressed as a mini-adult, in a uniform representative of an adult profession. But if this is the case, why sailors? Why don't you see kids in firefighter outfits? And don't you dare cite Halloween as a time you do see kids in firefighter outfits. You know what I meant. Don't be that smartass. I know you think you're funny, but my blog and I don't want any of your sass.
I think about things that give me a good giggle, such as when I'm working and I think to myself, "I would like some music", so I grab my ipod but I don't really know what I want to listen to, and even the thought of expending the brain power to try to decide makes me weary, so I just hit 'shuffle' and say, "okay, ipod, surprise me!" and it starts playing deliciously random songs, and some of them rub me the wrong way in the moment so I skip them, and some of them are just right and cause me to smile softly and half-close my eyes thinking "well done, ipod", and then every once in while, when I least expect it a crazy song I may not have even known was on there comes on out of left field and suddenly I'm listening to "Hakuna Matata" in Japanese. And I'm sure right now you're thinking two things: 1. Did she really just write that brazenly long run-on sentence? and 2. Does she really have "Hakuna Matata" in Japanese on her ipod? And the answer to both questions is "yes".
But the point of that story is that "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot just came on, and all I can say is if you ever feel like you need a good chuckle, pull up this old classic and listen to how angry the male back-up singers are at the part when Sir Mix-A-Lot asks them if their girlfriend's got the butt. They get SO mad! And their anger continues into the "shake it" sequence immediately following. They are literally yelling their lyrics as if to say, "HELL YEAH my girlfriend's got the butt! How dare you even suggest that my girlfriend WOULDN'T have the butt? I thought you knew me, man. If you really knew me, you would know that any girlfriend of mine's gonna have the butt. No, man, seriously, I'm hurt. No, don't touch me. Seriously, back the fuck off!"
This has gotten me thinking (there I go again, with the thinking!): I just inherently think it's funny when people appear angry when there's no reason they should be. This happened the other night while I was watching "Wheel of Fortune". They were in South Carolina, which is Vanna White's home state which they wouldn't SHUT UP about, and there was this contestant named Deborah. Now, Deborah was a very pleasant lady. She was rotund, with lovely short gray hair and a very kind face. She was totally normal the whole time she was getting introduced and interviewed (during which time she revealed she has 10 kids. TEN.) While the other contestants spun the wheel? Normal. While SHE spun the wheel? Still normal. But then she opened her mouth to call a letter, and it was as if all the demons of hell had possessed her in that moment and their one and only purpose was to demand from Pat Sajak an "R". Her whole face contorted and her placid features suddenly became a twisted map of seemingly irrepressible rage as she shrieked out her request, causing even Pat Sajak to let out a strangled cry of surprise before he could stop himself. This continued throughout the entire show, when and only when she was calling out a letter. At the end of the episode I remember thinking, I don't care if she has ten children to feed, thank god she didn't win because if that's what happens when all she wants is a letter, then a smoldering chasm would open its fiery maw and swallow the earth whole if she won a car.
The other day I received a very special myspace message, printed for your convenience below. This is my open letter to he who hand-picked me to be the recipient of his vibrant poetry, MIRO.
HELLO BEAUTIFUL IM MIRO 6'2'' 190 BLK HR GREEN EYES IN SHERMAN OAKS I OWN A EXPORTING COMPANY , LOVE TO TRAVEL AND TRY NEW THINGS! i love your look very classy and sexy I WOULD LOVE TO WINE AND DINE YOU SOMETIME TREAT YOU LIKE A PRINCESS, ARE YOU INTERESTED? LET ME KNOW CUTTIE THANKS
MIRO
Dear MIRO,
Firstly: You rascal! Your beautiful words make me blush. I could not resist responding to you, whoever you are, my personal Casanova. Your note prompted a veritable whirlwind of emotion from me, running the spectrum from tenderness to raw disgust. Let's, as the kids say, "break it down":
HELLO BEAUTIFUL
Off to a good start! You compliment me, while at the same time putting me at ease by proving that you do, in fact, know me in person.
IM MIRO 6'2'' 190 BLK HR GREEN EYES IN SHERMAN OAKS I OWN A EXPORTING COMPANY , LOVE TO TRAVEL AND TRY NEW THINGS!
Okay. That's a lot of information there, MIRO. I can appreciate that you are excited for us to get to know each other, but I'm the kind of girl who likes to take it slow. I don't jump into bed with every guy simply because he owns an exporting company. If I did that, I would never get anything done. I think this is a good time to mention that it also makes a difference WHAT you actually export. Is it coffee? Sugar cane? Levis? Fine. Black tar heroin? Probably not so fine. (Here I pause for laughter, because I obviously know absolutely nothing about black tar heroin. Can it even be exported? Is it even black?) If your exporting company does in fact export hard street narcotics, count me out. You know why? Because then all that money you make is dirty money, and I don't want you buying me the diamonds and fur coats I would surely demand with dirty, bloody, drug money. Why? Because I don't want to be sitting in our mansion getting a deep tissue massage from a half-naked Swedish adonis while you're at "work" only to be interrupted by a SWAT team breaking down the door, because then I will have to run to the bathroom and try to flush all the black tar heroin (can it be flushed?!) down the toilet just to keep your criminal ass out of jail. Then, when we've escaped arrest, you will yell at me for flushing all the black tar heroin, as it is our livelihood. (As you can see, any knowledge I have of drug culture comes directly from "Goodfellas".) But I digress. I do think it's great that you love to travel and try new things. So do I! I can see why you chose me, out of all the women on myspace, for this elegant message of love. I also want to commend you on your abundant energy, and at your age nonetheless! I don't know too many other 190-year-olds who even know how to use the internet, much less use it to proposition women! Bravo, MIRO!
i love your look very classy and sexy
Why the sudden lower case? Is this your equivalent of whispering sexily in my ear? Or are you less emphatic about this statement than some of the others in your note? While you are absolutely positive that you LOVE TO TRAVEL AND TRY NEW THINGS!, your tone in this last segment seems unsure and unworthy of an exclamation mark, or in fact punctuation of any kind. Doesn't inspire a girl with a lot of confidence, now does it? On the bright side, you love my look very classy and sexy. Gosh, MIRO! I'm blushing! My first instinct was "aww, shucks, I'm not THAT classy and sexy!" But then I looked through my myspace pictures, and I can see where'd you'd get that idea.
I WOULD LOVE TO WINE AND DINE YOU SOMETIME TREAT YOU LIKE A PRINCESS, ARE YOU INTERESTED?
Ah. Now you pose me a question! A very clever way to try to illicit a response! You are a little sparkplug, I like that.
LET ME KNOW CUTTIE
I am unsure about this part. Cuttie? Is this a simple spelling error, or an insult that I don't understand? If it's the former, then hmm. I can't say that pleases me too much. If it's the latter, then screw you, Stabby.
THANKS
MIRO
No, thank you, MIRO. Thank YOU. Your note was brief, yet so full of equal parts information, passion, and whimsy. What a recipe for love you have whipped up: generous helpings each of grammatical errors and ego, with only a pinch of punctuation. What can I say? Holla at me, lova. I'm down.
Apparently I'm totally a voyeur because I have been gleefully reading other people's answers to these things thinking, heh heh, I won't do one. I'm a mystery. Well, Maggie tagged me, so here it is. I play fair, folks, let it be known. Also, Hi Maggie. I really miss you.
List five truths. Five things that are on your mind. Good, bad, it matters not. Lift some weight off. Then, pick five people to do the same.
1. I really miss college, but refuse to become a sad person who lives in the past. When I really stop and think about it, that time of my life was pretty damn close to perfect and it's nice to know I did it right. It exists as a little parcel of time and I want to stroke it and love it and treasure it forever. You rascally kids who are still there, make the most of it, will you!
2. My future looks very bright from where I'm standing. I'm doing what I love to do with people I love to work with. But I will love them more when they give me money.
3. Speaking of money, I'm really bad with it. Not because I spend a lot, but because I simply don't care. It's usually the last thing on my mind, when it should actually be pretty far up there, considering I'm young and doing the standard amount of struggling.
4. My man freaking rocks in every way. It's cliche as hell but I don't care. I honestly don't know how I got this lucky.
5. My best friend lives too far away, and I don't appreciate it.
I tag: Jeff, Chris Kelly, Chih, Wilder and Miranda. If you want.
I like sharks. I really, really like them. If you know me in any kind of remotely intimate way, you are probably aware of this. I think they are fascinating, beautiful, and totally badass. The shark is an animal that was so masterfully designed, so perfectly constructed, that it has hardly changed in literally 400 million years. They never evolved because they didn't need to. They are one of the oldest species still alive in the world, the living, swimming history of our planet.
Cool, right? But I know, I'm preaching to the choir. You think sharks are great, too. If you don't, then you're no friend of mine!
Just kidding.
But anyway, the reason for this shark love-fest, this 'feeding frenzy' of information (Haha! See that? That's a little shark humor for you.) is that something is coming up, something which up until recently I regarded on par with christmas or my birthday or any other event during which I might recieve presents: Shark Week.
Shark Week starts July 30 on the Discovery Channel, and normally around this time I would be drunk with joy at the prospect of an entire week filled with endless underwater footage of sharks going about their everyday lives.
I've even started seeing ads around Hollywood announcing that Shark Week is on the way. They are all so excrutiatingly clever, so very "LA". One says "And you thought working with divas was hard" superimposed over a menacing picture of a Great White's open jaws. Another, over the same picture, says "Work with him and he'll take more than 10 percent", which of course launched me into a 20-minute daydream about a shark agent who always felt the need to prove that he was worth a damn to his surly, hard-to-please, successful father, while all the while swearing that he won't grow up to be like him, that sonofabitch. Eventually he does make it big, and he has a fancy car and a corner office and all the tail he wants (Haha! There I go again) and a big mansion in Beverly Hills which is all really just showy compensation for his embarrassingly small claspers, and finally he realizes just how empty his life is and in a moment of clarity he can see that, dammit, he is just like his father afterall.
But I digress. Although now that I mention it, there is a funny trend that I have noticed since moving to LA, and that trend is painful-and-sometimes-forced LA-themed advertising. I saw an ad on a bus for some job-finding agency that said, "We know, you're an actor. But in case you want a real job..." Now, I know it's just common sense for a company to advertise to their target market group, but I can't help but think this attitude is partly for tourists. Either that or LA just has a big, fat boner for itself and its showbizzy image. I mean, does any actual serious up-and-coming actor want to be told they need to get a "real" job? Hell no. That's not how you land a recurring role on a daytime soap. Nobody ever got anywhere in this world by having a sense of humor about themselves.
I digressed again, I'm sorry. Anyway, so Shark Week was always a good thing to Childhood Kerry, something special, something she looked forward to. Something she taped off the t.v. and replayed over and over again before bed the rest of the year, the little freak. But two summers ago, all that changed.
I was in college, living in an awesome house full of my best friends. We all settled down together to watch the first night of Shark Week 2004! But something was not right, something was quite wrong. Rather than the usual lineup of interesting, scienc-y shark shows ("Makos: Built for Speed", "The Mysterious Hammerhead", "The Whale Shark: A Gentle Giant") we were bombarded with a barrage of fear-filled shock shows, full of blood and guts and over-dramatized horror ("Red Water", "Shark Attack Files: Great White", "Primal Scream" - these are real titles, people!). I was outraged. Pardon me, Discovery Channel, but isn't your purpose to educate? Aren't you there to teach viewers through awakening a sense of interest and wonder in things commonly misunderstood? Isn't that the very dogma of your organization and yea, the purpose for Shark Week specifically? I can't believe you sold out, you beastly fear-mongers. You know better. You are well aware that of the roughly 368 known species of sharks, less than 25 of them have ever been recorded as aggressive to people, and rarely at that. We don't need more shows about people being ripped apart by sharks, we have Hollywood for that. We also have Hollywood to give us gems in which cancer experiments on sharks result in their expanded intelligence, allowing them to make a joint decision that the most productive use of their time would be to eat every human being in sight. Someone, alert the Academy.
Consider this my angry letter to you, Discovery Channel. I know you read my blog. You are an internet pervert who is stalking me through myspace and livejournal, don't think I haven't noticed. But most importantly, you are a coward. Your job was to show people the truth, but you showed them fear because you thought that's what they wanted. How insulting, Discovery Channel. I am taking my sharks, and we are leaving you. You'll be getting a call from my lawyer over custody. Have a nice life.
Yes, that's right. Not only is it a delightful ditty by The Decemberists, but it is also a direct reference to me. As of the day before yesterday I have officially left the warm, comfortable, tender womb of Irvine to be squirted into the cold, foreign world of Los Angeles. Now at first this world will seem harsh and unforgiving, and I will be reluctant to accept it. But before long I will realize that it is a world filled with beauty as well as pain, love alongside cruelty, joy together with sorrow. I will then realize that all things exist because of this dichotomy; there is no light without dark, no good without evil -- at which point I will realize that I am actually just recalling the prologue from the movie "Legend" with Tom Cruise as some sparkly elf and Tim Curry as a sexy, sexy Satan.
But seriously, folks. I moved. I live in North Hollywood now. I'm a fan of it so far. Of course I have my reservations but on the whole I think it's a very good thing for me.
Things I will miss about Irvine: *People. Everyone who contributed to my life in Irvine. I hope you know that every good memory I have of that place was because of you.
*Parking. Actually, this extends to everything car/traffic related. I'm sure before long I will not be able to comprehend the luxury of a suburban town where every single damn building has its own massive parking lot. You've spoiled me, Irvine, spoiled me to the core.
*Safety. Until now I have never lived anywhere that you couldn't walk down the street alone at 3 am and think nothing of it. Not that I'm prone to taking long angsty night-walks (I leave that to Chris) but still, I could've if I'd wanted to and been pretty damn sure I wasn't going to get raped and/or dismembered in any way. Boy, are those cozy safe feelings long gone.
*Full-time Employment and his close friend, Money. Hopefully it won't be too long before I see these two again. I have a couple job leads (one for a film, one for the costume shop at Universal Studios) so it's not a completely barren wasteland. Just kind of a sparse one. This is when I try to resurrect my old friend Patience and just chill the fuck out because I've only been here two days and I WILL find a job and I will not starve. Jesus.
*Live Nudes. I only missed one show in the last five years. Sad...or impressive? You decide.
Things I will NOT miss about Irvine: *The complete lack or at least apparent lack of culture. Boba does not count. Neither does the Spectrum.
*The Irvine Company. They own everything and lord over it like college-student-hating Nazis. Two cars only, Irvine Company? But I have six roommates! Why? Because rent is outrageously high and I go to college in your fine town and am therefore broke. Why else would I share an apartment with that many people? What's that, Irvine Company? Too bad, you say? Two cars only? Well, fuck you. You're why I moved to Costa Mesa.
*Chris, Kevin, Lindsay, Bonnie, Daniel, Wilder, Miranda, and soon to be Lilan and of course Jeff. Because they live up here, and I will now see them on a regular basis. The thought of this makes any lingering negativity about leaving Irvine melt away like that. (Just imagine that I snapped my fingers at the end of that sentence there.)
All right, enough. I have unpacking to do, curtains to make, and a prom to go to. Ain't it just grand!
Get out. Get out of my house. You sucked. That's right, I'm throwing you out. Don't give me the puppy eyes, it won't work this time. This is not like the ABBA song "Mamma Mia", 2005. It's not like "I can't count all the times that I've told you we're through. And when you go, when you slam the door, I think you know that you won't be away too long. You know that I'm not that strong." It's not like that at all. It's more of an "I Will Survive" kind of thing. It's an "I should've changed that stupid lock, I should've made you leave your key" kind of thing. So get off your ass and get out, 2005. And on your way out, send in 2006. Let's all hope he's cooler than you. You cock bastard.
Love, Kerry
And that was my obligatory New Year's Eve entry. Now everybody get shitfaced but be safe! I miss you, all of you scattered all over the place. I am wishing you the happiest of new years and nothing but love and success in 2006!
Yes, indeed, it's that time of year again. The most wonderful time, in fact. Once again I get to hear "Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus" on the radio (one of my absolute favorites), and there are various new commercials involving polar bears and now penguins and polar bears making friends with the penguins and all having massive iceberg dance parties, all thanks to the uniting power of Coke. I don't know about you, but I definitely think that a refreshing, ice-cold cola beverage definitely has the power to outsmart not only human hate and racism but also that in the animal kingdom, not to mention all of Darwin's rules and also the food chain. But I digress.
Those of you who have been to South Coast Plaza recently have probably seen another of my favorite holiday staples: the gargantuan, shiny, red christmas ornament balls stationed at every entrance to the mall. Every time I drive by them the same thought always crosses my mind: somewhere, there is a factory that produces those. And at that factory there are a number of workers who get up every day, get dressed, and head down to their jobs at the Giant Christmas Ornament Factory. This is guaranteed to make me giggle out loud. Every time. But, I digress again.
The point is that it's obviously Christmastime. It's beginning to look a lot like it. Everywhere they've hung the lights on the palm trees like they do each year. God, I love California.
Like always, it seemed like this year that general holidayish-ness started to spread around really, really early. Before Thanksgiving. Like, they barely let Halloween squeak by before "Christmas is right around the corner!" And me, in my precious, wide-eyed innocence thought, "well, it's really no crime to want the holidays to come as fast as possible! After all, they are a joyous time of love and togetherness!" And then I found out that the reason companies start running Christmas ads so early is that they want people to hurry up and buy things before their first utilities bill of the winter comes out and they realize how much the price of power has gone up. Ho, ho, ho.
So then, I start noticing how obnoxious and desperate these ads sound. And all it is is stuff. I feel totally surrounded by stuff. Has anyone been to the movies recently? I hope so, because we've had some good ones this year. But anyway, if you go, be sure to get to the theater early and catch The Twenty! and you'll see what I mean. There is this one ad, a sprawling, epic Radio Shack commercial which shows Destiny's Child and what I assume are a bunch of other R&B artists and their families, sitting around a huge Christmas tree which you can barely see for all the huge, gorgeously wrapped presents which are bursting from underneath it. Then, to the tune of some touching Destiny's Child song about Christmas and family togetherness, they all proceed to tear into the packages which all turn out to be various expensive electronic items. There are multiples each of laptops, ipods, video game consoles, digital cameras (both photo and video), and mp3 players. At one point, they wheel out a giant plasma screen TV with a big bow on it and everyone claps and squeals with delight. At another point, they hand a gift to a toddler and he rips it open to reveal a digital camera. And with huge grins on their faces they just keep tearing open presents like ravenous wolves, hungry for more and more electronics. And it just goes on and on, leading me to 1) puke a little in my mouth, and 2) ponder not only how many electronic devices one family needs, but also just how obsessed we are with stuff. Especially stuff that plugs in.
I don't know what changed about Christmas for me since I was a kid, if anything. But despite the presents and all that fun, I genuinely did used to buy all that razzle dazzle about how Christmas was about the spirit and the love, and how the true magic was in your heart all along and blah blah blah. I don't think it ever was about stuff for me. And not only that, but I barely even noticed the stuff everywhere because I was so caught up in the warmth and happiness of everyone around me. Maybe their warmth and happiness was caused by stuff, but I hope not. I guess the ironic thing is that only now, now that I'm all on my own, and the people I love the most are miles away does all that jazz about holiday love and togetherness ring the most true to me. Not to be cheesy or anything, but for real, yo. That's what matters. Fuck stuff.
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kerryonwheels's journal
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