ira glass and i are officially lovers

plans

[19:31] me: trying to figure out what to do tonight
[19:31] me: :-/
[19:31] Ryan: haha
[19:31] Ryan: you're always doing something
[19:31] Ryan: it's like having an ant farm

you didn't effing pay for this 01.27.09

i don't make it out to Santa Monica very often, but as there's no traffic at nine thirty on a Tuesday night, nobody has any excuse not to go to this free show.



Full set here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/megalope/sets/72157613128738650/

neil hamburger 01.25.09

seeing Neil Hamburger at Spaceland is more than just going a comedy show, it's a spiritual experience. Being called an asshole does wonders for getting a fresh perspective on the universe. And perhaps only when an angry, sinus-congested man throws a full vodka-cranberry into the audience is one able to realize the luxury and futility of dry pants; or recognize that we're all but tiny individuals, not one of us above laughing at jokes lampooning Anthony Kiedis or Robin Williams. Not a one.

Opening acts were Egos Personas' "Imagine the Band," Ron Lynch, Brent Weinbach, and Bryson Lang. Here's a slideshow of last night's photos:



And the whole set is here: http://flickr.com/photos/megalope/sets/72157613026485826/

obamania

according to the Washington Post:

President Barack Obama today signed an executive order lifting a ban on U.S. funding for international family planning groups that perform abortions or provide counseling about the procedure.

The order rescinds the Mexico City Policy, also known as the "gag rule," which President Ronald Reagan originally instituted in 1984 and President Bill Clinton rescinded and President George W. Bush revived in 2001.

The decision had been eagerly expected by family planning groups, women's health advocates and others, who hoped it would restore millions of dollars of funding to programs providing health care, contraceptive services, HIV prevention and other care around the world.

While here I am, sitting in my videogame chair and frittering away precious hours worrying about what so-and-so thinks of me or who's Googling me or why this person keeps checking my blog, President Obama—I felt a happy shiver writing that—is getting work done. I don't mean to imply (by my hearty endorsement of this event) that the degree to which I am upset about certain unpleasant situations in the world correlates to the degree to which people are actually affected by these situations; however, the Mexico City Policy is something I studied about during my undergrad coursework. It's something that goes back to the very beginning of when I made the shift from born-conservative to born-again liberal. The idea that any international women's health organization would effectively self-eliminate their U.S. funding by disseminating information—information!—about abortions is absolutely absurd. We're talking about pamphlets with pregnancy options. We're talking about information regarding women's safety.

I'm certainly not the first person to be outraged by the gag rule, but hopefully I'm among the last.

(Meanwhile, Ryan tipped me off to this Salon article. Get with it, U.S.! "Provider conscience" should be next on the hit list.)

sigh, unemployment

i can't seem to stop playing this ridiculous Facebook application. Its interface leaves much to be desired, there aren't a lot of things to "do" on it, and, well, it's something a ten year-old would like. Still, there are a lot of great things about it. Mainly, that actually being able to navigate the clumsy interface gives one a great feeling of success, there aren't too many things to "do" on it, and it appeals to one's ten-year-old inner child.



Don't judge me.

weird im conversation

it started simply enough. Oh wait, no it didn't.

[00:24] Mike: What are you doing?
[00:24] me: right now?
[00:24] me: why?
[00:25] Mike: I cant sleep\
[00:25] me: haha, it's still early!
[00:25] me: try meditation? unfortunately, i have an important job interview tomorrow
[00:25] me: do you want to hang out then?
[00:25] me: i'll be done at like noon
[00:25] Mike: Good luck with that I hope you get the job
[00:26] Mike: I am going to go to bed now.

... huh?

more togo's abuse

i posted a review on Yelp a while back about this particular Togo's, but I feel compelled to write this follow-up here on the blog.

After getting "taken advantage of" (my dad's words, retroactive) at a smog testing station just a few minutes prior, I figured I'd treat myself and the boyfriend to some dinner. You know, just to get the feeling of 98-dollar despair out of my mouth. Anyways, I zip around the parking lot, grab a space, and watch the guy in the SUV next to me open his door into the side of my car. Right.

Then, once inside Togo's, I got to overhear an overly-made-up Persian couple argue with the manager about restrooms. Underlings shrunk away as Girl Half demanded to pee, and Guy Half seemed to be worrying about the state of his shoes and whether Girl Half was going to puke on them. Yes, they were both drunk, at 4:45 pm.

"No, we have no restroom!" the manager all but sang.

"You have no public restroom." Angry eyeliner.

"No we don't."

"Right, but you guys have one."

"Why don't you try going-" but the manager trailed off, because there's nowhere to go in Hollywood for a public restroom except Tommy's (and a description of theirs would require a whole 500 more words).

The inebriated lovebirds were already walking towards the door, and as they brushed past me, I unfortunately heard Girl Half finish the manager's sentence: "Going in yourr mothherr's phussy?"

Then she tripped on her own shoes, stumbled out of Togo's, and left me to face the already-demoralized motley crew of professional sandwich assemblers.

accident pwn

is it any surprise I worry about my knees when I'm constantly dealing with my own clumsiness?! I got the above badge of honor when I slipped during a hiking session in Griffith Park.

Remember this?



Fell in a haunted house during Halloween.

And let's not forget the toe ...

hi enemies!

here's a freebie: sometimes I fall asleep listening to Jagged Little Pill.

laziness

if I had had to get up and go to the next room for my credit card, I would have very likely not made this online purchase. Lazy? Yes, but in five to seven business days I will have new workout clothes. Hm, maybe not drawing the line at having to walk to the kitchen could be a start.

new year's resolutions

always take the stairs up to and down from my apartment—never the elevator.

Pay off credit card in entirety.

Stop making personal lists on the blog.

eleni mandell 01.16.09

for those of you who missed Eleni Mandell at the Hotel Cafe tonight, you have one more chance to catch her! January 30 at 8pm (only $10) is the last show in her Hotel Cafe series this month. Show up early; she goes on right at 8! (Her reasoning: Twilight Zone starts at 10:00.)



The set: http://www.flickr.com/photos/megalope/sets/72157612619847509/

I was happy to hear Eleni play songs from her apparently rocking upcoming record; she's traded in her uke for an electric guitar. To mix things up, she threw in "Pauline" (perhaps the best live performance of anything, ever) and "My Twin." I maintain that the Hotel Cafe is the perfect place to see Eleni Mandell on account of the great sound, respectful crowd, and the old-world, classy ambience.

Can't wait for the 30th!

flickr block update

woo! Clearly Flickr is listening to their users, because the blocking issue I complained about here has been resolved. Using a test account, I blocked my regular Flickr and then logged in as myself to see if "Fakey" was blocking me.



Yay Flickr! This makes it easier to not feel reciprocal stalking pressure and re-check that those old so-and-sos aren't still blocking me. Flickr's all like, "I'll never te-ell." And that's definitely for the best.

firsts

the advent of my Miata, Betsey Ross, has made a lot of typical car things exciting again. I bought the car—not knowing how to drive stick—at the urging of my dad (savvy car shopper), our mechanic (fan of Miatas), and my own annoyingly plucky, I-can-do-it spirit. With the difficult period of sobbing and cursing manual transmissions out of the way, I can now appreciate driving as I never have.

First solo drive: Nothing's more exciting than taking the training wheels off and hitting the road. The hardest part is choosing the music. Ended up being "See You" by the Foo Fighters on my "For a singing day" playlist.

First late night drive: Had delicious girl talk with Susannah and made my way home at midnight. The temperature was perfect, there was hardly anyone on the road, and if I had a friend to visit somewhere more than 20 miles away with last-minute, midnight notice, I would have gone.

First fast food drive-through: I think this photo by Brody Stevens says it best. Didn't stall once! I am a master of the "biting point."

First unapologetic pop song belt-out: "You're My Number One" by S Club 7. Blogs don't get more honest than this, dig?

First race: Red light with a red sports car next to me. I refused to make eye contact, but it was clearly still a race. I lost, of course. (Didn't help that I was a little embarrassed by my apparently mis-named "unapologetic" belt-out.)

First drive in flip flops: Not a success. Ended up segueing nicely into "First drive barefoot," which was unremarkable.

First favorite gear: Fourth! Smoooooth.

First road rage: Some lady dick got a little annoyed that I have a longer reaction time to green lights than negative two seconds, tailgated me, and changed lanes (as I had my left turn signal on to go into that lane). She eventually went back into her original lane, thus making her previous lane change a total dick move. I was about to yell at her until I realized, "Aww, my first road rage in Betsey Ross!", and fell in love with my sexy wheels all over again.

First full album: Dismemberment Plan - Emergency & I. Christ, this is good. Also, hello there, 1999!

Looking forward to "first animal passenger," "first makeout sesh," and "first road trip." Hopefully I can defer "first parking ticket," "first speeding ticket," and "first accident" indefintely.

*Photo of me and Heather Thomson on a girl trip! All the single ladies (x7), now put your hands up! Whoops, back on the wheel. There ya go.

a conversation

me: Maybe we should get some Special K. Mmm, that stuff is delicious!

Him: Ew, I'm a boy and I don't like it.

Me: What does you being a boy have to do with anything?

Him: I just don't like it, that's all. It's for ladies.

Me: What are you talking about?! It's cereal!

Him: Cereal for ladies. It doesn't taste good to me or to other men.

Me: My grandma used to make it for me and she'd put some banana ...

Him: Your grandma's a lady!

Me: Single ladies ... put a banana on it?

Him: Do not put that in your blog.

mental midgets, intellectual giants: religious simpletons, atheist dicks

this rant has been a long time coming and was recently revived by a reaction to the post directly before this one.

Two years ago I was having an early dinner at a charming Mexican restaurant with a person for whom I had very strong feelings. It was right around Easter, and afternoon sunlight filtered through pastel crepe streamers onto our plates. In a sort of Sunday reverence, conversations were quiet across tables and busboys refilled water glasses. I'm setting the scene because I can only remember these impressions, and I don't recall how the topic came around to religion. As he spoke I found myself agreeing generally, until he came to this one phrase: Anybody who believes in anything metaphysical is a mental midget. So what, I asked. Like Martin Luther King? Is he a "mental midget"?

Sure, he said, maybe too flippantly.

Galileo? Copernicus?

And in all fairness, I can't claim any more memory of the evening as I thought of his thesis as applied to my pious family and loved ones, and as he continued to rant, I became teary-eyed and quiet. My primary regret is that I was unable to defend my feelings then, and that I couldn't fulfill my half of our intellectual relationship by successfully elucidating my own convictions.

Of course nobody wants to consider themselves wrong in terms of their metaphysical beliefs, or lack thereof. I came from a Christian family and my parents are still religious, and they take their born-again identity very seriously. I now call myself an atheist, and I disagree with my family on just about everything that "matters;" however, what I always disliked most about the faith was its emphasis on proselytization—missions to countries in which converting to Christianity is as much of a denigration to local culture and economic structure as trade restrictions enforced by the IMF or any other neocolonial Western imposition. How does converting to a Judeo-Christian faith even make sense if you live in a place infused with local customs and superstition, which guide one's everyday choices? How is that respectful of diversity?

For that matter, a more genetically heterozygous population is more resilient to disease and has a generally higher level of fitness, so why are we so mentally opposed to a broad spectrum of human ideas and philosophies?

In this sense, I feel betrayed by my immediate Atheist community. Yes, religious intolerance has been the root of countless deaths and atrocious acts throughout history—there's no defending that. It continues today in the U.S. through homophobia and relentless campaigning to divert more government funding to Christian pet causes, primarily teaching creationism in schools. Still, when Atheists point to these understandably inappropriate actions and situations, I find that they're quick to write off all individuals who would subscribe to any religion whatsoever. "You're a Christian? You're an idiot."

This is simple bigotry. There's no other way to see it. The argument that having a metaphysical belief is being in denial about one's own mortality, using religion as a "crutch," is not an argument. That is exactly what these people are doing, and what's wrong with it? If my parents have the desire or need to believe in God in order to live fulfilled, happy lives, who am I to deny them? Who are we to deny anyone's self-expression of faith? (This is obviously excepting those "expressions" that violate or denigrate others' rights.)

While atheists embrace science and feel most comfortable and justified in a beliefs system based on supported evidence and rationality, they're still chasing the same "faith high" that they belittle in believers. The need to feel super-powerful, to believe in more than the self, is found in one's own proud confidence that embracing Science leaves no chance of being wrong. It's the same self-satisfied conclusion that any religious person draws, with the same instinctual desire to better the world by proselytizing others. An atheist doesn't believe in hell; only stupidity. Thus, is condemning a Muslim to "mental midgetry" any different than a Christian denying him access to Heaven?

If I could go back in time to that afternoon, I'd have a lot more to say. I'd do better than staring at my two forks and wishing the food would come faster. It's okay for a person to choose religion over atheism. If it's an indulgence, it's no more hedonistic than developed nations' penchants for cash crops like tobacco, coffee, and sugar (not to mention illegal drugs)—with the same detrimental local impact overseas, and the same armchair evaluation back here. The religious zealot willfully ignores scientific facts and doesn't care about the intellectual implications of small-mindedness. The atheist zealot willfully ignores the human aspect of spiritual belief and doesn't care if he's a dick.

What's the difference?

memorable ex quotes

in no order whatsoever.

On being asked if I should audition for American Idol:

"Why, so you can embarrass yourself?"

Driving me home at 3am when I refused to stay the night:

"Wait, you are eighteen, aren't you? Oh god! Can I see your driver's license? No, no, forget I said that." (I was 19.)

Before opening an album full of photos I took:

"Now you might think that there's an interesting story for each one of these pictures, but I'll let you know if I want to hear it."

During a late-night chat:

"That girlfriend I had before you, Kim? I made her up."

On expressing my distaste for the cliched Beethoven's 9th:

"You're a Philistine!"

A compliment-fishing session gone awry:

"There are a million girls prettier than you!"

During a discussion of my family and other Christians:

"Anybody who believes in anything metaphysical is a mental midget."

To be continued.

a letter to winamp

dear Winamp,

I fucking hate you.

I also hate iTunes, so you guys have got me cornered. Where do I turn now? How is it that you've failed me? I realized that you and Baby H.W.* have reached the point of irreconcilable differences, but now you gotta play me like I'm some chump that doesn't need playlists? I don't look at porn. I don't go to sites with popup ads and virtual STDs. Why you gotta break down all the time? "Winamp has encountered an error and needs to close." O RLY WINAMP.

Winamp: "YA RLY"

Jesus fuck to Christ I hope that if you are reincarnated as a street animal you are put down by a shelter as soon as possible (which you will be, due to your uncooperative nature and tendency to lash out at all creatures great and small).

Somebody pay for my medication already so that stuff like this doesn't give me an aneurysm.


*iPod, sometimes referred to as simply "The Baby"

real housewives of orange county cliffhangers

will Donn and Vicki ever not be emotionally divorcing on camera?
Can Jeana really lose weight?
Is Vicki ever going to buy that yacht?
Does Tamra ever stop being a cunt?
How long before goody-goody Gretchen snaps?
When will Lynn get a haircut befitting an Orange County housewife?

Watch next week for answers.

ps. Jeana, just make a move on Gretchen already.

the cuddle party

i've never been to one.
I fantasize a sea of sweaters,
Angora and fleece.

Clothes are on.
Lights are low.

It's his first time, and he
left his glasses at home on purpose,
four-eyes.
"Can I touch your hair?" he asks two blurry girls,
but the instructions are starting
and he had only whispered.

He listens to what he
already knows from the internet.
He wants to get laid
in the most respectful way.

Now people are partnering,
Twos, threes, and one foursome looks
Particularly close.
Spoons tessellate on Berber carpet;
remainders look on.

The girls he expected to want
are too far away.
He's a toad,
kinematoscopic,
Only sees his prey when she moves,
singly,
from one man to another.

At home, I worry he won't find anybody,
That nobody will unlock his secret brilliance.
I didn't want him to attend,
be disappointed,
judge these mutual strangers.

"What is this music?" he's thinking.
Somebody's iPod, probably.

Maybe he can go home with that.

garlic and oregano

she cooks garlic and oregano. There are heartier ingredients, but nothing sticks under the skin so much as the garlic. Nothing provokes the nose like the oregano. She chops and squeezes, getting closer to the meal's climax with every dissection. The bathos finale of a simmering stew dulls against the drama of cuts and eye sting. She wishes she could go back in time to before her soup was finished, before its only task was to bathe and deliberate--and then she does.

At the summoning of her fingertips, the crushed garlic surfaces and shiny, patent cloves reconstitute themselves. The soggy oregano crisps at her beckoning, re-furling into flakes. Water droplets un-sizzle themselves from the stove top, and the first course un-cooks. The rawness of food is more than a memory as she palms the smooth cloves, the crumbly leaves. I'll savor it, she thinks, and begins the process again. In a tantric rhythm, she slices and crushes and wishes back time. Slice, crush, wish, repeat. Chop, crumble, hanker, jump. Squish, scrape, deja vu.

The whole kitchen whispers as again and again, time folds in on itself. Forks shiver in wooden drawers, hanging pans swing clockwise. She continues the pattern; everything else has faded. Slice, crush, wish, repeat, until her fingers themselves begin to fall away. She peels papery garlic skin from where her fingernails used to be, and cuts the cloves from her thumbs. Soft flesh in the press, her palms do the mashing. It's so natural! she marvels.

Budding from her wrists now are whole bulbs, whiter than her pale skin, which she lets slip uncrushed into the born-again bisque. As she leans over to marvel at her own garlic knuckles bobbing in the broth, some oregano catches in her eyebrows. Her garlic stumps move instinctively, but cannot deflect the shower of herbs. Curly oregano hair flutters into the pot, flaky seafoam on a garlic coast. The liquid churns and swallows her, greedy for cloves and leaves. She regrets her inability to manipulate the knife and the press on her now-garlic shoulders, her breasts. Her spine buckles, and unsliced, uncrushed calves splatter on the tile. An oregano face, now unidentifiable, dissolves and splits at the edge of the pot; the flame beneath claims an eyelash, while gravity guides the rest to the smattering of lost garlic.

She basks in her concoction. She only has to wish for the process to start again; she is a phoenix, unafraid of extinction. The pot's boiling tide sweeps her up the sides, into the center. Outside, her cat circles the spilled ingredients, her legs. She imagines Husband tasting her piquancy in polite spoonfuls. He will look at the recipe on the counter, squint at his wife's dissolved state. He might have a bowl, and bring leftovers to work tomorrow.

The left side of the pot seems to be warmer than the right. She curls up, whole and crushed, and opens herself to the broth. It's not that much different here, she thinks. It's really not bad at all.