Friday, December 11, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Where the Depressed Things Are...
Like any other twenty-something, I eagerly counted down the days until the releaes of the Jonze WTWTA.
Karen O. enticed me with her siren sounds as I bathed in the glow of the trailer on TV and my computer over and over until the fateful day.
I bought my tickets online and ahead of schedule opening day. I arrived first and saved eight seats for my party.
I pretended to ignore the swarms of children who I was convinced were not the target audience of this film. And you know what? I was right.
While the break from technicolor candy coating was welcome and the soundtrack was appropriately visceral yet playful, the script was an atrocity.
I have trouble with most interpretations from book to film, but somehow I thought this would be the exception. Alas. Everyone makes their own internal interpretations when experiencing art. Though shades can be shared, most artistic experiences are highly personal. The leap between media is often too great to bridge for an entire generation.
Anywho, back to specifics. Sendak's original wild things seemed ferocious yet irreverant. Bellicose yet social. Jonze's wild things could be wild, but more often were overwhelmed.
Pleas of "make the sadness go away" and accusations of "you were supposed to take care of everything" were regurgitated throughout with a settling heaviness.
My wild things enjoyed their king but they were also able to take care of themselves and take a joke.
A nostalgic visit turned into a heavy drag through forced pathos without catharsis.
Boo.
Karen O. enticed me with her siren sounds as I bathed in the glow of the trailer on TV and my computer over and over until the fateful day.
I bought my tickets online and ahead of schedule opening day. I arrived first and saved eight seats for my party.
I pretended to ignore the swarms of children who I was convinced were not the target audience of this film. And you know what? I was right.
While the break from technicolor candy coating was welcome and the soundtrack was appropriately visceral yet playful, the script was an atrocity.
I have trouble with most interpretations from book to film, but somehow I thought this would be the exception. Alas. Everyone makes their own internal interpretations when experiencing art. Though shades can be shared, most artistic experiences are highly personal. The leap between media is often too great to bridge for an entire generation.
Anywho, back to specifics. Sendak's original wild things seemed ferocious yet irreverant. Bellicose yet social. Jonze's wild things could be wild, but more often were overwhelmed.
Pleas of "make the sadness go away" and accusations of "you were supposed to take care of everything" were regurgitated throughout with a settling heaviness.
My wild things enjoyed their king but they were also able to take care of themselves and take a joke.
A nostalgic visit turned into a heavy drag through forced pathos without catharsis.
Boo.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Stop Rockstaring at Me
As a “new kid,” the last thing you want to do is stand out in a not so positive manner. I learned this lesson the hard way. Walking into middle school with stitches in one’s face after banging into a door is an example of what not to do if you want to make friends, trust me.
Finding myself in a new school ten years later, I vowed never to make the same mistake again. But fate had something different in mind.
It all started on taco night in my new place. Surrounded by beige carpet, eggshell walls and other lonely, neutral colors, I hoped that the scratchiness in my throat was a result of singing in my car.
Alas, the next day it was confirmed that I had a cold.
Days 1-3 Symptoms: sore throat, swollen glands. Run of the mill.
Days 4 and 5 Symptoms: friends dubbed it the sexy, raspy voice. Inappropriate phone messages and calls made to demonstrate the effect of said voice. Also did a reading of Cosmos’s latest sex tips at a going away party.
Day 6 Symptoms: mucous.
Day 6 unfortunately coincided with the first day of class.
Sliding into the back of French was the easy part. After the first cough, my cover was blown. I was officially spotted and tagged as a potential disease carrier, even though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website clarifies that “[i]n general, the flu is worse than the common cold, and symptoms such as fever, body aches, extreme tiredness, and dry cough are more common and intense.” None of which I had. Nevertheless, the headlines abounding about H1N1 virus and the swine flu clause in all syllabi made each and every sniffle a source of extreme suspicion.
But it’s not as if I don’t care. I do. I was determined to take every germ precaution offered possible even though I was sure I was not contagious.
Case in point: the hand sanitizer at the Reitz Union elevator bank. Perfect!, I thought as I hurried over. Not so much. While my hands may have been cleaner, they surely didn’t look that way. What I thought would be gel turned out to be foam; a non-absorbing, white, semi-liquid foam which did not actually look like hand sanitizer. Was there really any way to avoid public embarrassment in my circumstances?
No. The coughing attack began in a stadium style lecture hall. My eyes watered. The harder I tried to suppress it, the more my lungs wanted to explode with a racking cough that made my whole body shudder. Way to make a good first impression, right?
But the real point of this self-deprecatory rant is really that we all need to relax just a little bit. Not only is the stress of the first week of school mostly self-imposed yet unnecessary worry, but so is thinking that you will die from swine flu.
Though this is not in any way advising against normal medical precautions, let’s not go overboard here. It’s tempting to listen to sensationalism but maybe not so healthy. Instead, simple advice is often the best. Take your vitamin C, get a reasonable amount of sleep and plan on packing your own hand sanitizer.
Finding myself in a new school ten years later, I vowed never to make the same mistake again. But fate had something different in mind.
It all started on taco night in my new place. Surrounded by beige carpet, eggshell walls and other lonely, neutral colors, I hoped that the scratchiness in my throat was a result of singing in my car.
Alas, the next day it was confirmed that I had a cold.
Days 1-3 Symptoms: sore throat, swollen glands. Run of the mill.
Days 4 and 5 Symptoms: friends dubbed it the sexy, raspy voice. Inappropriate phone messages and calls made to demonstrate the effect of said voice. Also did a reading of Cosmos’s latest sex tips at a going away party.
Day 6 Symptoms: mucous.
Day 6 unfortunately coincided with the first day of class.
Sliding into the back of French was the easy part. After the first cough, my cover was blown. I was officially spotted and tagged as a potential disease carrier, even though the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website clarifies that “[i]n general, the flu is worse than the common cold, and symptoms such as fever, body aches, extreme tiredness, and dry cough are more common and intense.” None of which I had. Nevertheless, the headlines abounding about H1N1 virus and the swine flu clause in all syllabi made each and every sniffle a source of extreme suspicion.
But it’s not as if I don’t care. I do. I was determined to take every germ precaution offered possible even though I was sure I was not contagious.
Case in point: the hand sanitizer at the Reitz Union elevator bank. Perfect!, I thought as I hurried over. Not so much. While my hands may have been cleaner, they surely didn’t look that way. What I thought would be gel turned out to be foam; a non-absorbing, white, semi-liquid foam which did not actually look like hand sanitizer. Was there really any way to avoid public embarrassment in my circumstances?
No. The coughing attack began in a stadium style lecture hall. My eyes watered. The harder I tried to suppress it, the more my lungs wanted to explode with a racking cough that made my whole body shudder. Way to make a good first impression, right?
But the real point of this self-deprecatory rant is really that we all need to relax just a little bit. Not only is the stress of the first week of school mostly self-imposed yet unnecessary worry, but so is thinking that you will die from swine flu.
Though this is not in any way advising against normal medical precautions, let’s not go overboard here. It’s tempting to listen to sensationalism but maybe not so healthy. Instead, simple advice is often the best. Take your vitamin C, get a reasonable amount of sleep and plan on packing your own hand sanitizer.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sterility
Not that kind.
The hospital kind. The professional kind. Really what I'm referring to is the museum kind.
I think I am a pretty intent art appreciator. However, something about museums has never totally clicked 100% for me.
My earliest memory is of the MET. My mom took me relatively often when we were in the city, and I always bee lined to the gift shop at a dead run whenever possible. It was the most magnificent place I had ever been. Games, toys, books, colors, puzzles, science experiements.
My favorite was the lanyard set for making keychains.
The museum itself never did it for me.
I would prefer to see one piece by itself than thousands of pieces competing for my attention, eventually overwhelming me to the point where my awareness viewed all of the pieces as a continuous blur.
I have since returned and often enjoy myself if I focus on one exhibit. The moment we start wandering, it's all over and I just want a hot dog and the hard stone steps of the entrance.
When I was 20, I visited the Brooklyn Museum to see both an Annie Leibovitz exhibit and a Ron Mueck exhibit. I was blown away and thought my aversion to museums had finally been cured.
Then I visited the MOCA in Los Angeles. Again, there was a turn off that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The exhibit I visited was amazing and featured Robert Frank's portfolio of The Americans. But as I began weaving away from the photography, I began to get angry. Modern art often makes me angry (not always, but usually).
Well, it was the modern art and not the museum, I thought.
Then again, I visited a small art museum. Something was not clicking.
Then it came to me: the sterility.
I felt like I was walking on eggshells. The guards were constanly watching me. I couldn't get too close to a piece to see the detail. Some of the prints were too small for the huge, white walls that held them. I was shushed.
But how many of these artists intended for their pieces to be viewed as a static?
As a generality, many artists are rife with eccentricities and I wouldn't say "reserved" is a quality that is required of the artist. Sure, there is the "brooding" artist. But many must be kind of out there. And even if they aren't, they are still people and, like the rest of us, probably don't like being shushed and pushed and watched and advised.
Looking through an art book, in privacy and without intrustion, offers much more thrill to me.
Currently, I am looking through The Photo Book, Phaidon's megalithic bible of images.
Within seconds, I am captivated by James Abbe's informal portrait of Bessie Love. Taken during a break from a photo shoot, the nude actress warms herself by the fire. The beauty, the story, the energy is overwhelming.
Had I seen this in a museum, with a guard hovering over my shoulder, would I have felt the same?
The hospital kind. The professional kind. Really what I'm referring to is the museum kind.
I think I am a pretty intent art appreciator. However, something about museums has never totally clicked 100% for me.
My earliest memory is of the MET. My mom took me relatively often when we were in the city, and I always bee lined to the gift shop at a dead run whenever possible. It was the most magnificent place I had ever been. Games, toys, books, colors, puzzles, science experiements.
My favorite was the lanyard set for making keychains.
The museum itself never did it for me.
I would prefer to see one piece by itself than thousands of pieces competing for my attention, eventually overwhelming me to the point where my awareness viewed all of the pieces as a continuous blur.
I have since returned and often enjoy myself if I focus on one exhibit. The moment we start wandering, it's all over and I just want a hot dog and the hard stone steps of the entrance.
When I was 20, I visited the Brooklyn Museum to see both an Annie Leibovitz exhibit and a Ron Mueck exhibit. I was blown away and thought my aversion to museums had finally been cured.
Then I visited the MOCA in Los Angeles. Again, there was a turn off that I couldn't quite put my finger on. The exhibit I visited was amazing and featured Robert Frank's portfolio of The Americans. But as I began weaving away from the photography, I began to get angry. Modern art often makes me angry (not always, but usually).
Well, it was the modern art and not the museum, I thought.
Then again, I visited a small art museum. Something was not clicking.
Then it came to me: the sterility.
I felt like I was walking on eggshells. The guards were constanly watching me. I couldn't get too close to a piece to see the detail. Some of the prints were too small for the huge, white walls that held them. I was shushed.
But how many of these artists intended for their pieces to be viewed as a static?
As a generality, many artists are rife with eccentricities and I wouldn't say "reserved" is a quality that is required of the artist. Sure, there is the "brooding" artist. But many must be kind of out there. And even if they aren't, they are still people and, like the rest of us, probably don't like being shushed and pushed and watched and advised.
Looking through an art book, in privacy and without intrustion, offers much more thrill to me.
Currently, I am looking through The Photo Book, Phaidon's megalithic bible of images.
Within seconds, I am captivated by James Abbe's informal portrait of Bessie Love. Taken during a break from a photo shoot, the nude actress warms herself by the fire. The beauty, the story, the energy is overwhelming.
Had I seen this in a museum, with a guard hovering over my shoulder, would I have felt the same?
The Journalist Procrastinator
What makes something newsworthy?
Various things: interest, proximity, importance and something my professor likes to call (and aptly so) the sexy factor. But maybe one of the most important is timeliness.
If you're the last to know, it ain't news no more. And if you're the last to know and you're a journalist, you're also screwed.
If you are like me, you thrive on last-minute projects that go in just under the wire. This works if you have an actual deadline. Quite well actually. But if you are a freelancer, you have to hustle. The only deadlines are the ones you set yourself.
On this particular Saturday morning, I had intended to visit the Thornebrook Art Festival, suggested by local artist Roberto Evans. My alarm went off promptly at 9:09 a.m. Reflexes just as catlike in the wee hours, the disturbance was promptly snoozed about 10 times.
And just like that the opportunity was gone. I had time enough to get ready and report to my volunteer post.
Next order of business: make a motivational poster featuring the word "hustle."
Various things: interest, proximity, importance and something my professor likes to call (and aptly so) the sexy factor. But maybe one of the most important is timeliness.
If you're the last to know, it ain't news no more. And if you're the last to know and you're a journalist, you're also screwed.
If you are like me, you thrive on last-minute projects that go in just under the wire. This works if you have an actual deadline. Quite well actually. But if you are a freelancer, you have to hustle. The only deadlines are the ones you set yourself.
On this particular Saturday morning, I had intended to visit the Thornebrook Art Festival, suggested by local artist Roberto Evans. My alarm went off promptly at 9:09 a.m. Reflexes just as catlike in the wee hours, the disturbance was promptly snoozed about 10 times.
And just like that the opportunity was gone. I had time enough to get ready and report to my volunteer post.
Next order of business: make a motivational poster featuring the word "hustle."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Hipster Haters
Maybe I'm slow, but I didn't fully realize hipsters were so hated until about two minutes ago. But now, thanks to Gavin Laessing and his "Better Know Your Hipster" article, I have become fully aware of the "cancerous" breed.
Collecting and categorizing the habits of the hipster brings us a picture of a dirty, drug-addled, narcissistic, arrogant and contrary species.
But aggregating the negative traits of any social group will lead to a similarly distasteful view. Let's take the Greek system (Aug 20 entry of Stuff Hipster's Hate). Equally robotic fashion dictates (khaki shorts, polo t's and flip flops). Also distainful of sobriety. Often misinformed or ignorant of history and current events. Prone to use the word "like" and other fillers more often than actual communicative content. Inclined to associate only with other Greeks. Discusses last night's "bang" while using public transportation. Well, huh.
But let's take a demographic that's not the antithesis of the hipster. Let's take the baby boomer. Moderatly cut denim. Land's End tops of a hunter green, navy or maroon shade. Pastels in spring. Fans of JCPenney, Macy's, Target and the mall in general. Classic rock listeners. They enjoy boating, moderate dining, occassional travel, but most of all financial stability.
Grouping classes of people by relatively similar interests is marketing. It's advertising.
Taken individually, the person easily tucked into a category based on the cut of their pants falls more and more away from a stereotype or a mailing list and becomes less and less the bane of society.
There are hipsters, Greeks and baby boomers who alike are drug addicts. There are hipsters, Greeks and baby boomers who alike are passionate about a valid social cause.
If we are going to attack apathy, let's be clear here and attack apathy, not the latest subculture, which will be replaced by the tweens of today in an even more abominable form (these people grew up with Miley Cyrus and High School Musical, do not tell me it will get better).
Collecting and categorizing the habits of the hipster brings us a picture of a dirty, drug-addled, narcissistic, arrogant and contrary species.
But aggregating the negative traits of any social group will lead to a similarly distasteful view. Let's take the Greek system (Aug 20 entry of Stuff Hipster's Hate). Equally robotic fashion dictates (khaki shorts, polo t's and flip flops). Also distainful of sobriety. Often misinformed or ignorant of history and current events. Prone to use the word "like" and other fillers more often than actual communicative content. Inclined to associate only with other Greeks. Discusses last night's "bang" while using public transportation. Well, huh.
But let's take a demographic that's not the antithesis of the hipster. Let's take the baby boomer. Moderatly cut denim. Land's End tops of a hunter green, navy or maroon shade. Pastels in spring. Fans of JCPenney, Macy's, Target and the mall in general. Classic rock listeners. They enjoy boating, moderate dining, occassional travel, but most of all financial stability.
Grouping classes of people by relatively similar interests is marketing. It's advertising.
Taken individually, the person easily tucked into a category based on the cut of their pants falls more and more away from a stereotype or a mailing list and becomes less and less the bane of society.
There are hipsters, Greeks and baby boomers who alike are drug addicts. There are hipsters, Greeks and baby boomers who alike are passionate about a valid social cause.
If we are going to attack apathy, let's be clear here and attack apathy, not the latest subculture, which will be replaced by the tweens of today in an even more abominable form (these people grew up with Miley Cyrus and High School Musical, do not tell me it will get better).
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Etsy Bitsy [Sans Spider] Fun!
SharpShirter
Rules to craft fair fun:
1. Eat before low blood sugar levels make one verrry angry.
2. Remember that downtown LA addresses are silly and often very unobtrustive.
3. Get there as fast as possible because the moment you do, all your troubles and trials will melt away.
Laura and Matty joined me on this lovely excursion and we all managed to stay together and in one piece until we made it to the 13th floor of a large downtown building where we found it: the Etsy Craft Fair!
The welcome booth was just that and we rummaged giddily through the free Etsy merch, emerging with our favorite color selections of buttons and mini-tapestries.
Each vendor was a selection of the best from the site: hand stamped woodland jewelry, funky robot wall prints, postmodern graphic tees and imported fabrics.
We got our kicks to find so many of our favorite cities were represented, especially Austin and Brooklyn (okay, borough if you will).
Choice Pieces:
Chocolate and Steel Jewelry
SharpShirter
Loyalty and Blood
3 Fish Studios
Friday, July 24, 2009
Ummm...Somebody and the Zero Magnetics...?
Yeah, okay, I got the name wrong...at first.
But an acclaimed psych-folk indie feature as part of a showcase called "Also I Like to Rock" definitely piqued my interest. Because among other things, also I like to rock. Plus it was held at the Hammer Museum managed by UCLA, a school to which I almost applied and which has a pretty great rep.
But an acclaimed psych-folk indie feature as part of a showcase called "Also I Like to Rock" definitely piqued my interest. Because among other things, also I like to rock. Plus it was held at the Hammer Museum managed by UCLA, a school to which I almost applied and which has a pretty great rep.
So when my ride and my roomie and my bestie arrived home 15 minutes before the show officially started, I was still determined to get out of the house, no matter the migraine. The drive through West Hollywood was as uneventful as a drive through West Hollywood could be. Beverly Hills was dull and dark.
When we reached Westwood, the looming condos attempted to subdue our little Camry, but Darla persevered despite the near parking debacle. However, what almost made us forfeit our whole adventure actually exposed the best secret of the night: the back door!
After parking 1/3 of a mile away per our handy and obnoxious GPS unit, we trecked the deserted streets and past the 200 plus crowd in the front to the back, where but a single guardian kept watch and was rather friendly in allowing us to pass.
The courtyard led to the balcony which led to a wondeful view of the 10ish band of bohemian free souls and their joyous noisemaking.
"What's their name again?" I ask a fellow concert-goer.
"Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I've heard great things about them."
"Yay!"
It was love at first site for Laura and dancing shortly ensued around the entire upper level. The singalong comraderie and good-natured accordian and trumpet could brighten any mood and did. Needless to say, we won't be getting the name wrong anymore.
"What's their name again?" I ask a fellow concert-goer.
"Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I've heard great things about them."
"Yay!"
It was love at first site for Laura and dancing shortly ensued around the entire upper level. The singalong comraderie and good-natured accordian and trumpet could brighten any mood and did. Needless to say, we won't be getting the name wrong anymore.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sunshine Cleaning + Tampa Theater
Separately, each of the elements in this equation would be have been perf for a chill Friday night, but together, we almost experienced magic.
I geared myself up for a dramedy in the vein of Little Miss Sunshine, which I was told shared the same director as Sunshine Cleaning. I just learned that I was mistaken, however, there were key similarities that make this surprising. More searching for a common producer will ensue...hoping for a third sunny installment to create a trinity.
While the bright, blinking bulbs illuminating the classic entrance of the Tampa Theater verge on causing seizures, the romantic interior is a soothing caress on the senses. And if that's not enough for you, there is a selection of beer and wine, in addition to your standard candy and corn.
Beginning near concession and proceeding outward, gargoyles guard the ceilings as each level of stairs sneaks upward to the dark entrances that lead to the balcony seating. Of course, we chose the upper level to enjoy the open "sky" hovering over us and the full view of the interior architecture, modeled after an outdoor theater.
While the sound system took some getting used to, the candid portrayal of each of the characters won everyone over. The gritty, middle class realism of anytown, New Mexico instantly struck a chord in portraying a believable struggle. The actors were also left remarkably "real" in appearance which made their rawer emotions and performances stand out, each in her own personal scene.
I geared myself up for a dramedy in the vein of Little Miss Sunshine, which I was told shared the same director as Sunshine Cleaning. I just learned that I was mistaken, however, there were key similarities that make this surprising. More searching for a common producer will ensue...hoping for a third sunny installment to create a trinity.
While the bright, blinking bulbs illuminating the classic entrance of the Tampa Theater verge on causing seizures, the romantic interior is a soothing caress on the senses. And if that's not enough for you, there is a selection of beer and wine, in addition to your standard candy and corn.
Beginning near concession and proceeding outward, gargoyles guard the ceilings as each level of stairs sneaks upward to the dark entrances that lead to the balcony seating. Of course, we chose the upper level to enjoy the open "sky" hovering over us and the full view of the interior architecture, modeled after an outdoor theater.
While the sound system took some getting used to, the candid portrayal of each of the characters won everyone over. The gritty, middle class realism of anytown, New Mexico instantly struck a chord in portraying a believable struggle. The actors were also left remarkably "real" in appearance which made their rawer emotions and performances stand out, each in her own personal scene.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Good[win] Violet
A series of irresistables ends up with a fashion statement almost as satisfying as a pint of ice cream.
First up, with a title like He’s Just Not That Into You in this day and age of break-the-rules, no holds barred dating, you are gonna draw your target, female crowd.
Second, one can’t help find Ginnifer Goodwin cute-as-a-button adorable as the insanely romantic Gigi. While I can’t say that I’m in love with the exaggerated caricature the script called for, I could always be won over by her wardrobe when I found the dialogue unsatisfying. Yes, I am that shallow when it comes to chick flicks. But c’mon, a floral strapless with the perfect belt? Don’t tell me you didn’t want it.
But the icing on the cake definitely went to…her nail polish. While I wasn’t expecting to obsess about nail lacquer from scene to scene, it couldn’t be helped. A luscious purple that makes you feel safe but dangerous at the same time (thanks Vince), is what any gal needs this spring. So while you are dialing, typing and texting your way to his heart, give your nails a treat with the shade of the moment: a vivacious violet.
First up, with a title like He’s Just Not That Into You in this day and age of break-the-rules, no holds barred dating, you are gonna draw your target, female crowd.
Second, one can’t help find Ginnifer Goodwin cute-as-a-button adorable as the insanely romantic Gigi. While I can’t say that I’m in love with the exaggerated caricature the script called for, I could always be won over by her wardrobe when I found the dialogue unsatisfying. Yes, I am that shallow when it comes to chick flicks. But c’mon, a floral strapless with the perfect belt? Don’t tell me you didn’t want it.
But the icing on the cake definitely went to…her nail polish. While I wasn’t expecting to obsess about nail lacquer from scene to scene, it couldn’t be helped. A luscious purple that makes you feel safe but dangerous at the same time (thanks Vince), is what any gal needs this spring. So while you are dialing, typing and texting your way to his heart, give your nails a treat with the shade of the moment: a vivacious violet.
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