For what feels like the hundredth time, I have to apologize for abandoning the blog. I’m encouraged to see there are still people at least clicking through to see if something is there although I wonder if some of my readers are gone for good. I haven’t had access to the Internet anywhere but work or haven’t had a moment to myself in several weeks and unfortunately, both of those things are needed for regular posting. I’m in the process of shopping for Internet service and will probably end up buying a cable package so I can watch some of the shows people are raving about. My boss was concerned before I started this job that I wasn’t into pop culture (aka TV) enough, so I have to keep up with the references.
I’m not doing very well because I listened to an interview on NPR last night with Demetri Martin, who I’d never heard of. He’s a comedian who used to do a bit on Conan O'Brien – which I’ve seen but I still don’t know Demetri - and now has his own comedy special on DVD (see, what do I need cable for?) He was being interviewed on Fresh Air by Terry Gross who was so obviously charmed by Martin that I assumed must be very good looking or extremely hip – something that I couldn’t hear over the radio – to get that kind of reaction from her.
But as he spoke about his background and upbringing I noticed that there was something particularly disarming about him. Soft-spoken and serious, he didn’t sound like the typical comedian. He didn’t laugh much, didn’t do any voices and didn’t even tell that many jokes. He just sounded like a genuine person, a nice guy with a cool and funny view of the world. Then, he laughed and I could swear I was falling in love over the radio. You could hear him smiling, his eyes twinkling and once he said he was Greek, I was beyond hope. Call me crazy but I’m a sucker for a big nose.
So this morning I looked him up on the Internet. He looks as young as he sounds but turns out he’s only two years younger than me and although totally adorable, not the kind of face you'd expect to get Terry Gross giggling like a schoolgirl. The best part of the interview was when he told her how he got into comedy. He was studying law at NYU, having moved there with a girlfriend, planning to do the one thing he always thought he’d do, corporate law. For no particular reason he’d never questioned this decision, until he started school. He immediately hated it, the day-to-day wasn’t enjoyable to him at all, but stuck with it for two years before dropping out. Martin challenged himself to find something he liked doing with his day, and then to find a way to make money doing it.
He liked joking around with his friends, he said to himself, and so “comedian” became the answer. I wonder if it was really that simple. I’d like to think that it was, that life decisions can be that basic. Am I happy? What would make me happy? How can I make money being happy? Cute and funny Demetri has given me something to ponder as I start month two at the new job.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Sometime in the next five years
Last weekend, after my haircut, I tripped into a new age shop and started looking around. I met an Astrologer with a short haircut I really liked and we got to talking about hair. I told her I was new to the city and about my barbershop experience. She had a nice face so I asked her about the Astrology readings and before I knew it, was making an appointment for a reading. I went home to unpack for a while and then headed back out to my new city for a new experience.
After generating my birth chart on the computer, Linda looked at me and said my chart suggested that I was an entrepreneur, someone who should have my own business or work for myself and that she was surprised that I had moved up here to work for eBay. I had to stifle a laugh when I heard it out loud, for some reason it sounded ridiculous that someone would go through what I just went through for a job at some generic big corporate Internet company. I told her that I would love to work for myself but I just haven’t figured out what the thing is. "You will," she said, "sometime in the next five years."
She said I had an issue with commitment because I am in constant conflict with myself. One the one hand, I want stability and need a home, I also want enormous freedom and have a need to travel. She suggested that I use home as a base instead of an anchor, and that I write down this phrase “freedom through commitment.” Committing to something doesn’t mean I can’t do the other things, she said, it just means I’m going to do that one thing fully. It made me realize, again, that in my ideal world I would travel the world, take pictures, interview people and write articles. Maybe for National Geographic, maybe just for myself.
Later when I recalled the details of a reading to some friends at a brunch, a woman I’d just met told me a story about a guy that works for her ad agency. He’s a guy, she said, who wasn’t sure what he was doing, just dabbling in graphic design and some other things. He put together a video for this job of his torso and arms walking the viewer through his world and what he does. He got the job and ended up directing the HP hands campaign based on his video resume. Now, he works part-time at one of the most prestigious ad agencies in the world and lives in his native London and wonders how the hell this all happened. The point was that you don’t need to know how to get where you’re going; you just have to do what you love.
After generating my birth chart on the computer, Linda looked at me and said my chart suggested that I was an entrepreneur, someone who should have my own business or work for myself and that she was surprised that I had moved up here to work for eBay. I had to stifle a laugh when I heard it out loud, for some reason it sounded ridiculous that someone would go through what I just went through for a job at some generic big corporate Internet company. I told her that I would love to work for myself but I just haven’t figured out what the thing is. "You will," she said, "sometime in the next five years."
She said I had an issue with commitment because I am in constant conflict with myself. One the one hand, I want stability and need a home, I also want enormous freedom and have a need to travel. She suggested that I use home as a base instead of an anchor, and that I write down this phrase “freedom through commitment.” Committing to something doesn’t mean I can’t do the other things, she said, it just means I’m going to do that one thing fully. It made me realize, again, that in my ideal world I would travel the world, take pictures, interview people and write articles. Maybe for National Geographic, maybe just for myself.
Later when I recalled the details of a reading to some friends at a brunch, a woman I’d just met told me a story about a guy that works for her ad agency. He’s a guy, she said, who wasn’t sure what he was doing, just dabbling in graphic design and some other things. He put together a video for this job of his torso and arms walking the viewer through his world and what he does. He got the job and ended up directing the HP hands campaign based on his video resume. Now, he works part-time at one of the most prestigious ad agencies in the world and lives in his native London and wonders how the hell this all happened. The point was that you don’t need to know how to get where you’re going; you just have to do what you love.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The only doll in the place
This week, I was desperate for a haircut. I didn’t have anyone I liked in L.A. but at least knew I could go to Rudy’s Barbershop in a pinch and get a decent haircut most of the time. Of course, the last time I went there, my gal stepped away after a 20-minute blur of cutting in the spirit of Edward Scissorhands to reveal that she had, in fact, cut off all of my hair. It’s the peril of having short hair. A barber who doesn’t know what he/she’s doing won’t stop until there’s nothing left to cut.
I asked a co-worker for a recommendation. She’s lived in the city a long time and I thought she might know of a similar concept to Rudy’s – a hip barbershop where you can just walk in a get cut by a funky hairdresser. Her gal is booked a month in advance, as most good hairdressers are, so she referred me to a place her husband goes to. So my first Saturday morning in the city, I peeked my head into a 70-year old barbershop in the heart of the Castro, inquiring for someone who could do a woman’s cut. I sat down in Luis’ chair and explained that the last time I’d been cut I walked out looking like him and that I’d prefer that not happen again. I showed him a photo from a magazine and he got to work. Luis was very serious about his work, nervous even.
While he was preparing, I scanned the walls. The price chart listed clipper cut, shave (head), shave (beard) and scissor cut. I was pretty sure that this barbershop in the gayest neighborhood in America, whose head barber that day had a beard distinguished by two ringlets, hadn’t seen many female customers. Luis brushed my bangs into my face and then put the hair on the sides into clips making it look like I had pigtails. With the striped cloth tied around my neck, I looked like one of those old-fashioned dolls when you take the clothes off - a porcelain head on a striped cloth body.
“I look like a doll,” I said, to which Luis replied with a Latin flourish, “You’re the only doll in here honey.” “Do you get many women in here?” I asked. “Yes, we do” he said, “but they want their hair cut like men.” Yikes! Guys started to accumulate in the chairs, waiting for the next available barber, and at least one seemed irritated by the fact that I was taking up so much time. Luis spent 45 minutes on my cut but the guys only took about fifteen with the clippers.
There were mirrors along the wall so in the chair I could watch out the window through the mirror, which also meant that people passing by could see the people in the chairs. I swear that two guys walking by, stopped, looked in the door at me, spoke to each other, looked at me again, and then continued down the street. I must have been something to see. Luis actually gave me a great cut and seemed to be working hard to win my business as I’d filled him in on the fact that I was new in town. The cut was $30, a steal for a woman’s cut, and only $15 more than the clipper cut. I left him a ten-dollar tip hoping I was worth the extra half hour.
I asked a co-worker for a recommendation. She’s lived in the city a long time and I thought she might know of a similar concept to Rudy’s – a hip barbershop where you can just walk in a get cut by a funky hairdresser. Her gal is booked a month in advance, as most good hairdressers are, so she referred me to a place her husband goes to. So my first Saturday morning in the city, I peeked my head into a 70-year old barbershop in the heart of the Castro, inquiring for someone who could do a woman’s cut. I sat down in Luis’ chair and explained that the last time I’d been cut I walked out looking like him and that I’d prefer that not happen again. I showed him a photo from a magazine and he got to work. Luis was very serious about his work, nervous even.
While he was preparing, I scanned the walls. The price chart listed clipper cut, shave (head), shave (beard) and scissor cut. I was pretty sure that this barbershop in the gayest neighborhood in America, whose head barber that day had a beard distinguished by two ringlets, hadn’t seen many female customers. Luis brushed my bangs into my face and then put the hair on the sides into clips making it look like I had pigtails. With the striped cloth tied around my neck, I looked like one of those old-fashioned dolls when you take the clothes off - a porcelain head on a striped cloth body.
“I look like a doll,” I said, to which Luis replied with a Latin flourish, “You’re the only doll in here honey.” “Do you get many women in here?” I asked. “Yes, we do” he said, “but they want their hair cut like men.” Yikes! Guys started to accumulate in the chairs, waiting for the next available barber, and at least one seemed irritated by the fact that I was taking up so much time. Luis spent 45 minutes on my cut but the guys only took about fifteen with the clippers.
There were mirrors along the wall so in the chair I could watch out the window through the mirror, which also meant that people passing by could see the people in the chairs. I swear that two guys walking by, stopped, looked in the door at me, spoke to each other, looked at me again, and then continued down the street. I must have been something to see. Luis actually gave me a great cut and seemed to be working hard to win my business as I’d filled him in on the fact that I was new in town. The cut was $30, a steal for a woman’s cut, and only $15 more than the clipper cut. I left him a ten-dollar tip hoping I was worth the extra half hour.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Somehow, it DOES all work out
From the beginning of this moving process, what was stressing me out the most was how I was going to get my belongings and furniture from point A to point B. I’d never actually had things worth moving before, and nothing that wouldn’t fit in a car. My dad suggested that I just get rid of everything and start over but that’s his style, he’s attached to nothing and practically lives like a monk with only the bare minimum. But selling what I have and buying new furniture is more work than moving it.
So there was labor to consider – what would make my life easiest? What would make the most sense financially? The most difficult consideration was when to move. Do I wait until I have a point B and move from one apartment to another? What about breaking my lease? I need to clear out ASAP so the landlords can rent and how long can I afford to leave my stuff there? But if I move it to storage do I still use professional movers? And do I store it here or there (and at that point I don’t think I could have specified which location was here and there.)
My good friends kept saying “don’t worry, it will work out,” which is one of those things that’s really irritating to hear when you’re stressed out. I feel like saying “How? HOW will they work out exactly? Don’t I have to make them work out?” But then, as promised, they did. I found an apartment in San Francisco and a few days later Delancey Street returned my call. When I talked to them initially, they said they’d need to come out and look at the apartment and at my stuff – which concerned me because I wasn’t there – but when I got the guy on the phone I said “Look, I’m already living in the Bay Area; my stuff is packed, I’ve filled out two inventory lists already for moving companies, I think it’s 2,500-3,000 pounds and I need to move it next weekend, is there any way we can do this?” To which he miraculously replied, “yeah” and just like that, I had movers arranged.
On the day of the move, a crew of five young guys covered in tattoos, but otherwise clean cut, arrived on my doorstep an hour early. I wasn’t done packing (I’d lied before about being done) and asked them to come back. “Do you want us to help?” they asked, “we can bang that out for you in ten minutes.” They made an otherwise crazy day into an easy one. They were polite and professional, quick and careful. I felt taken care of and actually enjoyed the process. It cost me just over $1,400, which is a very good price. They packed me on a Friday and I my things were delivered Wednesday morning in San Francisco, also about an hour early, by a similarly professional and pleasant crew. They were able to get everything through the slim doorway of my new building and not one thing was damaged or broken. Whoever said, “it will work out” was a genius! (I think it was Steve).
So there was labor to consider – what would make my life easiest? What would make the most sense financially? The most difficult consideration was when to move. Do I wait until I have a point B and move from one apartment to another? What about breaking my lease? I need to clear out ASAP so the landlords can rent and how long can I afford to leave my stuff there? But if I move it to storage do I still use professional movers? And do I store it here or there (and at that point I don’t think I could have specified which location was here and there.)
My good friends kept saying “don’t worry, it will work out,” which is one of those things that’s really irritating to hear when you’re stressed out. I feel like saying “How? HOW will they work out exactly? Don’t I have to make them work out?” But then, as promised, they did. I found an apartment in San Francisco and a few days later Delancey Street returned my call. When I talked to them initially, they said they’d need to come out and look at the apartment and at my stuff – which concerned me because I wasn’t there – but when I got the guy on the phone I said “Look, I’m already living in the Bay Area; my stuff is packed, I’ve filled out two inventory lists already for moving companies, I think it’s 2,500-3,000 pounds and I need to move it next weekend, is there any way we can do this?” To which he miraculously replied, “yeah” and just like that, I had movers arranged.
On the day of the move, a crew of five young guys covered in tattoos, but otherwise clean cut, arrived on my doorstep an hour early. I wasn’t done packing (I’d lied before about being done) and asked them to come back. “Do you want us to help?” they asked, “we can bang that out for you in ten minutes.” They made an otherwise crazy day into an easy one. They were polite and professional, quick and careful. I felt taken care of and actually enjoyed the process. It cost me just over $1,400, which is a very good price. They packed me on a Friday and I my things were delivered Wednesday morning in San Francisco, also about an hour early, by a similarly professional and pleasant crew. They were able to get everything through the slim doorway of my new building and not one thing was damaged or broken. Whoever said, “it will work out” was a genius! (I think it was Steve).
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The soccer players and me
Never again will I agree to take a job in a new city without time off. I don't care how urgent the company says it is. When all I had to do was show up, I was on top of the world. I felt smart, I felt needed, I felt like I belonged and I was excited about this job. But as soon as the moving part started, I couldn't focus on anything. It was like the ground and everything else was moving at the same time, in different directions. Then I started feeling lost, stupid, unsure and confused. I'm a creature of habit, I need to have certain things be the same or I lose my bearings. Eventually I got into a little bit of a rhythm, sleeping on a friend's couch and living out of a closet, sure, but getting up at the same time and getting coffee at the same little shop on the way to work made a big difference. I had a few days where I felt like things were clicking, but every week the rhythm was interrupted by a trip to LA (I've been three times in three weeks for work), weekends in the city looking for apartments, and everyone else's vacation schedules. Then I got a really bad cold.
Luckily I'd already found an apartment and got to spend some time just relaxing (I'm still sick but the relaxing was nice). I finished Harry Potter book 5 and was thinking that for all my complaining, I can be grateful I'm not Potter. That kid has problems that just never end, eh? It was funny because the whole book was about his dreams and how he kept dreaming what Voldemort was doing. It make me more conscious about my dreams. Last night I dreamed that a whole team of hot international soccer players were vying for my attention, one had cooked me an authentic Italian meal, another wanted to give me a massage. I cracked myself up at how very female it was - hot guys who cook and give massages (LOL!) - and also how reflective of despite all the chaos, I'm in a pretty good mood. I just hope I'm back on top soon.
Luckily I'd already found an apartment and got to spend some time just relaxing (I'm still sick but the relaxing was nice). I finished Harry Potter book 5 and was thinking that for all my complaining, I can be grateful I'm not Potter. That kid has problems that just never end, eh? It was funny because the whole book was about his dreams and how he kept dreaming what Voldemort was doing. It make me more conscious about my dreams. Last night I dreamed that a whole team of hot international soccer players were vying for my attention, one had cooked me an authentic Italian meal, another wanted to give me a massage. I cracked myself up at how very female it was - hot guys who cook and give massages (LOL!) - and also how reflective of despite all the chaos, I'm in a pretty good mood. I just hope I'm back on top soon.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Proud to be a Muggle
I've never seen personalized plates referring to Harry Potter and in one day, I saw two. The series is an amazing phenomenon, making J.K. Rowling the highest-paid novelist of all time, and is credited with increasing literacy and reading by children up to 50%. But what I find bizarre is that people who read fantasy and created these license plates aren't continuing the fantasy by claiming to be fantastic witches or wizards, or even Quidditch players. Instead, they're proudly claiming to be what they are, regular people, who just happen to read Harry Potter.
Last night, leaving work to drive down to L.A., I noticed a car that had a MUDBLUD customized license plate. Mudblood refers to a Muggle who performs magic (like Hermione). Then, on the long drive I saw ANOTHER Harry Potter themed license plate, MUGGLES, with a frame that said "My other car is a Firebolt." (But Muggles don't fly, do they?) I love the proud claim to be a muggle, a term used even before Harry Potter to describe an ordinary person without special skills.
Last night, leaving work to drive down to L.A., I noticed a car that had a MUDBLUD customized license plate. Mudblood refers to a Muggle who performs magic (like Hermione). Then, on the long drive I saw ANOTHER Harry Potter themed license plate, MUGGLES, with a frame that said "My other car is a Firebolt." (But Muggles don't fly, do they?) I love the proud claim to be a muggle, a term used even before Harry Potter to describe an ordinary person without special skills.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Three whirlwind weeks
I drove up to the Bay Area on August 20 to start the new job the next day. It's only been a little over three weeks and already I've flown back to LA for work twice. It's disorienting to go to San Francisco on the weekend (to apartment hunt), San Mateo in the evenings, San Jose for work and Los Angeles for meetings and not live in any of those places. But by next weekend, my life will start to make a little more sense. Today, even though I'm totally ill and woke up with a cold my co-workers gave me (thank you!), I'm driving to LA to meet the ex-con movers at my place on Friday. They'll deliver my things on Wednesday and by next weekend, I'll be unpacked and living in San Francisco! I'm hoping then I will then be able to blog more regularly.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Erupting at the speed of sound
National Geographic continues to be the coolest most relevant magazine to what's actually going on in our world. I swear, news and TV shows just seem flip and meaningless compared to the soulful exploration of National Geographic. Growing up, I was fascinated by it because it took me to distance lands that I wanted to visit, to the highest peaks and the lowest depths of the ocean, places that I could never visit. Then starting in the nineties, it seemed like every article was about pollution, over-population and other plights of our time. It made me sad and I felt our beautiful world was coming to an end and realized, I had only enjoyed it on paper.
I still wish I had chosen a career that enabled or required worldwide travel as I am still fascinated by other cultures and countries. But I have been pleased to discover that National Geographic is again inspiring me although, and maybe this says more about me than the magazine, it's a more mature relationship. The articles still celebrate the human spirit and beauty of nature within the context of a modern world - but in a less abrasive way - as if we're all better suited to digest these complex issues.
Last month, I read that Hurricane Katrina was the costliest natural disaster in U.S. history and that not even a "massive and endless national commitment" to the safety of New Orleans is enough to secure it. The area has always been environmentally vulnerable, it is put under water about every eleven years. The letter from the editor suggests that it's foolish for anyone to live there, foolish for the government to spend money trying to keep people there and wouldn't we all be better off if they paid people to start anew somewhere else and let nature reclaim the wetlands?
This month, the magazine ran an awesome article about Naples and the area surrounding Mt. Vesuvius, home to about the same number of people as the New Orleans area. There have been seven eruptions over the last 25,000 years, a frequency far less than that of devastating hurricanes in New Orleans, but each blast has destroyed all life in the area for several hundred years.
Scientists say the area should expect another blast any day. There is no way to predict it before it happens. There is no way for an area of that size to be evacuated safely. There is no way to survive it. And yet a thriving population continues to live in the shadow of and on the slopes of the deadliest volcano in the world with the faith that they will survive. The article is worth reading for the description of how a blast like that will unfold, a cataclysmic event equal to a nuclear explosion. Here the government, instead of spending money to build artificial protections, pays people to leave.
The pressure building from below will blow a hole in the mountain that will hurl "100,000 tons a second of superheated rock, cinders, and ash into the stratosphere," breaking the sound barrier and causing a sonic boom. This liquid rock will shoot 22 miles in the air, far higher than cruising altitude for commercial jets, and spreading out like an umbrella before flying back to earth at 95 miles an hour.
Then an avalanche of debris will explode sideways from the volcano sending a cloud of powder and ash outward, a "hot, choking wind, advancing at about 240 miles (386 kilometers) an hour" at a temperature of 900°F (482°C). If it passes quickly, and your clothing and flesh aren't vaporized, you can survive the heat for a few seconds. But you'll certainly suffocate on the fine powder in the air which will accumulate up to "65 feet (20 meters) deep at a distance of three miles (five kilometers) from the crater to about ten inches (25 centimeters) thick at a distance of 15 miles (24 kilometers). Eight inches (20 centimeters) of ash is enough to cause modern roofs to collapse."
Anyone or anything left will be washed away by the rivers of mud created by liquid ash and thunderstorms. Volcanologists estimate that an eruption nearly four thousand years ago unleashed that cycle of destruction six times in a 24-hour period. I don't know, it kind of makes me laugh to think that we spend so much time devising ways to inflict that kind of damage on each other when nature is happy to do it for us.
I still wish I had chosen a career that enabled or required worldwide travel as I am still fascinated by other cultures and countries. But I have been pleased to discover that National Geographic is again inspiring me although, and maybe this says more about me than the magazine, it's a more mature relationship. The articles still celebrate the human spirit and beauty of nature within the context of a modern world - but in a less abrasive way - as if we're all better suited to digest these complex issues.
Last month, I read that Hurricane Katrina was the costliest natural disaster in U.S. history and that not even a "massive and endless national commitment" to the safety of New Orleans is enough to secure it. The area has always been environmentally vulnerable, it is put under water about every eleven years. The letter from the editor suggests that it's foolish for anyone to live there, foolish for the government to spend money trying to keep people there and wouldn't we all be better off if they paid people to start anew somewhere else and let nature reclaim the wetlands?
This month, the magazine ran an awesome article about Naples and the area surrounding Mt. Vesuvius, home to about the same number of people as the New Orleans area. There have been seven eruptions over the last 25,000 years, a frequency far less than that of devastating hurricanes in New Orleans, but each blast has destroyed all life in the area for several hundred years.
Scientists say the area should expect another blast any day. There is no way to predict it before it happens. There is no way for an area of that size to be evacuated safely. There is no way to survive it. And yet a thriving population continues to live in the shadow of and on the slopes of the deadliest volcano in the world with the faith that they will survive. The article is worth reading for the description of how a blast like that will unfold, a cataclysmic event equal to a nuclear explosion. Here the government, instead of spending money to build artificial protections, pays people to leave.
The pressure building from below will blow a hole in the mountain that will hurl "100,000 tons a second of superheated rock, cinders, and ash into the stratosphere," breaking the sound barrier and causing a sonic boom. This liquid rock will shoot 22 miles in the air, far higher than cruising altitude for commercial jets, and spreading out like an umbrella before flying back to earth at 95 miles an hour.
Then an avalanche of debris will explode sideways from the volcano sending a cloud of powder and ash outward, a "hot, choking wind, advancing at about 240 miles (386 kilometers) an hour" at a temperature of 900°F (482°C). If it passes quickly, and your clothing and flesh aren't vaporized, you can survive the heat for a few seconds. But you'll certainly suffocate on the fine powder in the air which will accumulate up to "65 feet (20 meters) deep at a distance of three miles (five kilometers) from the crater to about ten inches (25 centimeters) thick at a distance of 15 miles (24 kilometers). Eight inches (20 centimeters) of ash is enough to cause modern roofs to collapse."
Anyone or anything left will be washed away by the rivers of mud created by liquid ash and thunderstorms. Volcanologists estimate that an eruption nearly four thousand years ago unleashed that cycle of destruction six times in a 24-hour period. I don't know, it kind of makes me laugh to think that we spend so much time devising ways to inflict that kind of damage on each other when nature is happy to do it for us.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Cut from the same cloth as Jodie Foster
A few weeks ago, I saw Harry Potter and there were a string of trailers for violent movies and one was Jodie Foster's new film, The Brave One. I wasn't crazy about the vigilante idea but thought she had a great haircut - as a girl with short hair, I'm always shopping for a new look. I've always liked her. I grew up watching Disney movies and two of my favorites were Jodie Foster movies, Candleshoe and Freaky Friday. I thought she was the coolest and I wished I were like her, tough and street smart. Today I read an article about her in the New York Times and gasped when I read this section about her media persona:
Story after story told much the same story: she was talking at 9 months and had taught herself to read by 3. She had never taken a single acting lesson. She could memorize her role after reading the script twice. She wanted to be the president of the United States. (Later, she said being a director would do.)
See, I was talking at 9 months (complete sentences my mom claims) and I starting reading at 3 (my parents said I was reading billboards along the road and that's how they discovered it). I memorize scripts instantly and when I was acting used to know the entire thing, not just my part but everyone's. And I wanted to be the president of the United States when I was 4 (and later thought being a director would be better). How bizarre to read a string of characteristics for someone else, someone famous, that are just like mine!
It made me wonder if my life is fabricated, like I've just been assigned personality type 140-AX-5B and just happen to share it with Jodie Foster. It would certainly explain why I've always been a fan of hers, eh?
Story after story told much the same story: she was talking at 9 months and had taught herself to read by 3. She had never taken a single acting lesson. She could memorize her role after reading the script twice. She wanted to be the president of the United States. (Later, she said being a director would do.)
See, I was talking at 9 months (complete sentences my mom claims) and I starting reading at 3 (my parents said I was reading billboards along the road and that's how they discovered it). I memorize scripts instantly and when I was acting used to know the entire thing, not just my part but everyone's. And I wanted to be the president of the United States when I was 4 (and later thought being a director would be better). How bizarre to read a string of characteristics for someone else, someone famous, that are just like mine!
It made me wonder if my life is fabricated, like I've just been assigned personality type 140-AX-5B and just happen to share it with Jodie Foster. It would certainly explain why I've always been a fan of hers, eh?
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Weird back bedrooms and hobbit abodes
Once again, I'm sorry for not keeping up with the posts! I really miss blogging but it's just not something I can do at the moment. I don't have my own space and am so easily distracted that just the sounds of other people can keep me from having enough concentration to write. Maybe it's just my writerly excuse but I find it very difficult to formulate original thoughts in the midst of other's activities. I do my best thinking while exercising, driving and showering and well, unless I can write immediately afterwards, the thoughts vanish and all that's left are a few mindless scribbles. This week, however, I've been clocking 12 hour days at the new job and haven't even had time to decipher my scrawl.
But this weekend, I finally found an apartment! And actually I only was looking for three weekends and with very little to choose from, am amazed I found something I like. It's not EXACTLY what I wanted. I would have liked to be in an upstairs apartment, I would have liked to have a garden and I would have liked a bay window, but apartment hunting in San Francisco is a process of determining which collection of compromises is more appealing that the others. I saw an adorable apartment that same day, but at the same price as mine in Santa Monica, it had probably a third of the space. It looked as if someone had shrunk the perfect apartment down to a size that would suit a hobbit. It had a tiny little kitchen with a tiny little refrigerator and a tiny little dishwasher. it was fantastic with bay windows in the main room and the bedroom but again, teeny tiny.
There were others with beautiful views but that sprawled all over the place and made no sense. One had the kitchen split in two - the refrigerator and stove in one room and the sink and cupboards in a dark little cave of it's own. In the back, the fourth room after the kitchen(s) was a "bedroom" that looked like somewhere you'd wake up after being kidnapped by terrorists, or worse, rapists. It was weirder than weird and yet, being SF, there was a woman there absolutely in love with it and selling herself via her credit report to the landlord.
Others have parking or a washer and dryer but are modern carpet boxes without any charm. It's very difficult, unless funds are no issue, to get that perfect apartment. But I found something very nice: well-maintained, charming, bright, spacious, clean and within my price range. It's a five-minute walk to where the company bus will fetch me, a half-block from the laundromat, a whole foods grocery and an array of coffee shops. Less than a mile in any direction are restaurants, shops, parks, and anything else I could need. And so begins my life in the city!
But this weekend, I finally found an apartment! And actually I only was looking for three weekends and with very little to choose from, am amazed I found something I like. It's not EXACTLY what I wanted. I would have liked to be in an upstairs apartment, I would have liked to have a garden and I would have liked a bay window, but apartment hunting in San Francisco is a process of determining which collection of compromises is more appealing that the others. I saw an adorable apartment that same day, but at the same price as mine in Santa Monica, it had probably a third of the space. It looked as if someone had shrunk the perfect apartment down to a size that would suit a hobbit. It had a tiny little kitchen with a tiny little refrigerator and a tiny little dishwasher. it was fantastic with bay windows in the main room and the bedroom but again, teeny tiny.
There were others with beautiful views but that sprawled all over the place and made no sense. One had the kitchen split in two - the refrigerator and stove in one room and the sink and cupboards in a dark little cave of it's own. In the back, the fourth room after the kitchen(s) was a "bedroom" that looked like somewhere you'd wake up after being kidnapped by terrorists, or worse, rapists. It was weirder than weird and yet, being SF, there was a woman there absolutely in love with it and selling herself via her credit report to the landlord.
Others have parking or a washer and dryer but are modern carpet boxes without any charm. It's very difficult, unless funds are no issue, to get that perfect apartment. But I found something very nice: well-maintained, charming, bright, spacious, clean and within my price range. It's a five-minute walk to where the company bus will fetch me, a half-block from the laundromat, a whole foods grocery and an array of coffee shops. Less than a mile in any direction are restaurants, shops, parks, and anything else I could need. And so begins my life in the city!
Friday, September 7, 2007
Canada's golden era
There was a three-part series on NPR last week about global warming in Canada and the Arctic and all the business opportunities that are opening up because of the melting ice. It was the most bizarre thing. People are actually hitching their star to global warming and looking forward to the day when the ice melts? It's like an episode of The Twilight Zone. Are people really that short-sighted? Are they really not able to connect the dots? Or is it just massive amounts of denial that allow them to believe they'll be rich before we all burn up?
Here are some of the opportunities about to befall Canada:
1) A lot of animals are migrating further north. It's warmer now and has less development, perfect for wild animals like the cougar that are usually associated with the dry mountains of southern California. Americans could start taking safaris through the Canadian outback.
2) Apparently there are a lot of diamonds in Canada, and the potential for other valuable rocks like uranium. Mining claims are hot right now, kind of like the gold rush of the mid-1800's. Trick is, the owners of the claims won't know until the ice melts, but their ship is coming in they say in 50-100 years.
3) Speaking of ships, the ice melting is also opening up a huge opportunity for shipping to come through the Arctic circle instead of way down in Panama. A viable way to link the Atlantic to the Pacific, a least one developer is talking about building a port which will naturally lead to a bustling port town in what is now tundra.
4) I was thinking I should buy some lake front property. What is currently just a patch of snow will someday be beautiful green mountains and while everyone in Los Angeles is burning in a fiery inferno of smog, I'll be lounging by the lake in beautiful and balmy Canada!
5) Oil is already big business up north but relies on ice roads to get the heavy equipment up there. Not too long ago a truck driving valuable drilling equipment fell through a frozen lake and sunk. The clever engineers who can figure out a way to fly, drive or ship the equipment there can retire on the riches.
Here are some of the opportunities about to befall Canada:
1) A lot of animals are migrating further north. It's warmer now and has less development, perfect for wild animals like the cougar that are usually associated with the dry mountains of southern California. Americans could start taking safaris through the Canadian outback.
2) Apparently there are a lot of diamonds in Canada, and the potential for other valuable rocks like uranium. Mining claims are hot right now, kind of like the gold rush of the mid-1800's. Trick is, the owners of the claims won't know until the ice melts, but their ship is coming in they say in 50-100 years.
3) Speaking of ships, the ice melting is also opening up a huge opportunity for shipping to come through the Arctic circle instead of way down in Panama. A viable way to link the Atlantic to the Pacific, a least one developer is talking about building a port which will naturally lead to a bustling port town in what is now tundra.
4) I was thinking I should buy some lake front property. What is currently just a patch of snow will someday be beautiful green mountains and while everyone in Los Angeles is burning in a fiery inferno of smog, I'll be lounging by the lake in beautiful and balmy Canada!
5) Oil is already big business up north but relies on ice roads to get the heavy equipment up there. Not too long ago a truck driving valuable drilling equipment fell through a frozen lake and sunk. The clever engineers who can figure out a way to fly, drive or ship the equipment there can retire on the riches.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
All you need is love
Another interesting report from NPR. In 1960, a scientist named Harry Harlow set out to prove on CBS that children need love from their parents. Using baby Rhesus monkeys, separated from their mothers, he studied their behavior in response to two types of surrogate mothers - one wire that delivers milk, and another soft cloth that does nothing. The babies preferred the soft embrace of the cloth mothers and huddled next to them for most of the day, returning to the wire mother only when they were hungry.
Prior to this experiment, it was widely believed by psychologists that kissing, hugging or otherwise showing affection to one's children was detrimental to their upbringing. Parents in the fifties were raising children to be good citizens, parents and employees. This attitude is reflected in the family shows of the 1950's like Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best, romanticized versions of the nuclear family where children are well-behaved and advised coolly by their always in-control parents.
Harlow's revelation of children's need (and therefore everyone's need) for love must have been what catapulted America into 1967's Summer of Love and into the epoch of the individual where a person's needs are as important, if not more important, than that of society. It reminded me, once again, how quickly our world changes. It's difficult to even imagine a world in which people doubted the importance of love, just as people once believed the world was flat. It renews my faith in our ability to change - to rapidly and sincerely strive to be better.
Prior to this experiment, it was widely believed by psychologists that kissing, hugging or otherwise showing affection to one's children was detrimental to their upbringing. Parents in the fifties were raising children to be good citizens, parents and employees. This attitude is reflected in the family shows of the 1950's like Leave It To Beaver and Father Knows Best, romanticized versions of the nuclear family where children are well-behaved and advised coolly by their always in-control parents.
Harlow's revelation of children's need (and therefore everyone's need) for love must have been what catapulted America into 1967's Summer of Love and into the epoch of the individual where a person's needs are as important, if not more important, than that of society. It reminded me, once again, how quickly our world changes. It's difficult to even imagine a world in which people doubted the importance of love, just as people once believed the world was flat. It renews my faith in our ability to change - to rapidly and sincerely strive to be better.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Bourne Identity meets Catch Me If You Can
It's times like this when I wish I ran a production company. After three days of neglecting my blog because I was so busy working - and came to Los Angeles for business meetings and hustling to wrap up some moving things while I was here - I had nothing to write about. Frankly, my life isn't very exciting and I much prefer talking about the big wide world outside of my tiny existence. I had only to listen on NPR and browse the New York Times on a relaxing Saturday morning (my first in weeks) to hear about several extremely interesting things.
The first is an upcoming book release from a British author who wrote a book about a man who was a British double-agent during World War Two. It sounds unbelievable, a natural to be made into a film with an already juicy title: Zigzag: The Incredible Wartime Exploits of Double Agent Eddie Chapman. Basically the guy was a wild man, the kind that usually has to be invented. John Nash invented a hilariously fun and care-free best friend in A Beautiful Mind, and the Leonardo DiCaprio character in Catch Me If You Can was a total fabrication, reinvented every few years for maximum appeal to women and adventure.
But this is a true story of a controversial figure whose loyalty was questioned by everyone. A "rogue and a patriot," he was considered a prime candidate as a double-agent because of his apparent lack of scruples. Spending most of the war partying and womanizing he still managed to complete his assignments, won the Iron Cross from Germany for his (unknown to be traitorous) activities and even volunteered to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The files on Eddie Chapman were declassified a few years ago and nothing's been written on him since the fifties. The author of the first book written with access to those files (another author is releasing a book later this year), describes on NPR this highly unpredictable character who spent 18 months in the bosom of the enemy, at a fabulous Chateau in occupied France.
I couldn't find any reference that this story is being made into a film or even that the film rights have been purchased. Is it possible that Hollywood is so drunk on the profits of the blockbuster (this summer topped $4 billion making it the biggest summer ever with most of the money coming from sequels) that they are overlooking gems like this? In 2001-2002 there were a slew of World War II movies excavating every possible story that hadn't yet been told - The Pianist, Enigma, Charlotte Gray, Windtalkers, U-571, Pearl Harbor, Enemy at the Gates, Hart's War, Focus - and I decided I couldn't watch another WWII movie. But I have to say, this sounds like a fun story about an agent with the wiles of Jason Bourne, the charm and good looks of James Bond and the fantasy life of Frank Abagnale Jr. Unfortunately, I won't make the bucks of Spiderman 3 and might not get made unless Steven Spielberg gets behind it.
The first is an upcoming book release from a British author who wrote a book about a man who was a British double-agent during World War Two. It sounds unbelievable, a natural to be made into a film with an already juicy title: Zigzag: The Incredible Wartime Exploits of Double Agent Eddie Chapman. Basically the guy was a wild man, the kind that usually has to be invented. John Nash invented a hilariously fun and care-free best friend in A Beautiful Mind, and the Leonardo DiCaprio character in Catch Me If You Can was a total fabrication, reinvented every few years for maximum appeal to women and adventure.
But this is a true story of a controversial figure whose loyalty was questioned by everyone. A "rogue and a patriot," he was considered a prime candidate as a double-agent because of his apparent lack of scruples. Spending most of the war partying and womanizing he still managed to complete his assignments, won the Iron Cross from Germany for his (unknown to be traitorous) activities and even volunteered to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The files on Eddie Chapman were declassified a few years ago and nothing's been written on him since the fifties. The author of the first book written with access to those files (another author is releasing a book later this year), describes on NPR this highly unpredictable character who spent 18 months in the bosom of the enemy, at a fabulous Chateau in occupied France.
I couldn't find any reference that this story is being made into a film or even that the film rights have been purchased. Is it possible that Hollywood is so drunk on the profits of the blockbuster (this summer topped $4 billion making it the biggest summer ever with most of the money coming from sequels) that they are overlooking gems like this? In 2001-2002 there were a slew of World War II movies excavating every possible story that hadn't yet been told - The Pianist, Enigma, Charlotte Gray, Windtalkers, U-571, Pearl Harbor, Enemy at the Gates, Hart's War, Focus - and I decided I couldn't watch another WWII movie. But I have to say, this sounds like a fun story about an agent with the wiles of Jason Bourne, the charm and good looks of James Bond and the fantasy life of Frank Abagnale Jr. Unfortunately, I won't make the bucks of Spiderman 3 and might not get made unless Steven Spielberg gets behind it.
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