Closure

JFGI: Just fucking google it. Used when people ask stupid questions without asking google first.

I had to google "jfgi" to see what it meant. The irony is overwhelming.

First let me share this video because I think it’s amazing and weird and beautiful. Allison Schulnik, the artist, creates music videos for Grizzly Bear, which is how I came across her stuff.


[Pretend transition here.]

This was meant to be written in the quiet hours of the early morning, sitting next to my packed bags and appreciating the stillness of my house. That was the plan, but I accidentally fell asleep and woke up to frantically run around like a headless chicken, grabbing all the last-minute crap I forgot about.

So I’m writing my closing post now, in the international United terminal at O’Hare, waiting to get on my flight that has been delayed three hours. I’m staring at the bony butt of the older man sleeping across a row of chairs nearby. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But alas, my ranting and babbling has come to an end. At least on this blog. By the time I have the internetz and actually get a chance to post this, it will be history. I’ll either be in my hostel or some internet café in Asia, jetlagged, hungry and melting from the sun.

It just recently hit me that I’ll be missing certain moments this year for the first time—Thanksgiving, Christmas, my brother’s graduation, etc. I’m especially sad to be missing the holidays in Seattle because it’s the one time a year I get to see my mom’s side of my family who I adore in a city I consider my second home. I also feel a tinge of guilt because my grandpa died last Christmas Eve, which was hard enough on everyone, and now I’m upping the number of missing relatives this year.

Trust me, I’m not thinking Oh man, what are people gonna do without me! Pretty much everyone is like "We’ll miss you, but we’re happy you’re doing your thing. Send a postcard." I’m the one who’s having trouble saying goodbye, even though this experience is completely self-inflicted.

Also, I only just realized it’s almost NEW YEARS. 2009 is close to over and we are embarking on a new decade. Can you believe that? I honestly can’t. It’s been a big 10 years, look at all the stuff that’s happened.

Just watching this, I think Oh yeah, I can’t believe that happened six years ago, it feels like a month ago. Oh dear Time, how you continually mystify me.

But here I am, getting ready to spend the next year of my life far away from everything and everyone I know. I promise that I will have a new blog up and running sometime in the not-so-distant future to document my journey. Hopefully it will be more interesting than writing about White Chicks.

Until then,

Thanks for ever reading my stuff, no matter how infrequently or anonymously it was. It means a lot to me.

J.

We Love You, Miss Hannigan

PDQ: Acronym for "pretty damn quick." Faster than "ASAP."
I need the money PDQ.

You may remember from way back when I was considering various get-rich-quick schemes. Ideas included selling plasma (not necessarily my own), gambling and working as an unregistered cabbie. Well, I pursued none of them and instead worked and babysat like a normal, boring person.

When I'm not at my internship, I feel like I'm usually entertaining someone a fifth of my age. I have lost count of the number of times I've heard a high-pitched "Scuse me, I tooted!" followed by incessant laughter.

I totally get her now.

But I must admit I've really grown to enjoy kids' company. They are an endless supply of absurdity and optimism, both of which are good for me.

Sometimes I play around in Photo Booth with them.

I also document the way they make their dolls bald-headed.

However, my biggest challenge as a caregiver has yet to come:

Beginning tomorrow, I am house sitting for a couple visiting their son in Chile for 10 days. Oh yeah, and they're also leaving their three teens and two dogs under my supervision. Jebus, help me. My head is still spinning from going over everything with their mom today—meals, alarm system, soccer practice, orthodontist appointment. Make it stop.

The daily schedule:

• 6-8 am: Walk dogs, shower, get dressed, wake up the youth, make them lunch, drive the youngest to school
• 8:30 am-5:00 pm: Try to uncross my eyes in front of the computer screen
  
• 5:30 pm-10:00: Make them dinner, help with homework, ensure no one is sniffing glue in the bathroom, escape to Twitter
• 10:30-6:00: ZZzzzzZZZZzzzz or something like it

I lead a rich life.

But you do what you got do to make things happen. And in four short weeks, that thing will happen, and I will leave for Thailand. Yes, I'm excited/apprehensive, but my emotions are still very hazy because it hasn't really hit me yet. I'm far more preoccupied with the preparations than the actual journey at this point. I don't expect my "Holy shit, what am I doing??" moment to occur for another 23 days.

Until then, you can find me driving someone else's minivan.


J.

Young & Wild

No Homo: Phrase used after one inadvertently says something that sounds gay.
His ass is mine. No homo.

OK, I consider myself relatively in the know with lingo—which is ironic because by saying that, I just made myself sound like my jeans go up to my armpits—but I must have missed the boat on this one. Do people (and by people, I mean dudes) actually say this? I've never heard it firsthand, but the idea makes me laugh and cry in unison. If it's a harmless joke, that's one thing (though still not funny), but if it's actual attempt to disclose masculinity and self-confidence, you, my friend, are one sad bastard.

This, however, is humorous:



In other news, Where The Wild Things Are is opening this weekend, and my jazz hands are out in full throttle. What I mean is that I'm really excited.

Can we just talk about Karen O for a second? As you may know, she's responsible for the film's dreamy soundtrack. But even more awesome, I discovered she's half ASIAN. Half Korean to be exact. After recent virtual creepage, I came across photos of her without her usual David Bowie-esque makeup and immediately recognized it.

Us halfsies just know.

Besides the soundtrack, I'm also really looking forward to watching Max Records on screen. Talk about casting. He just has that look, you know? That perfect young-yet-wise, angelic-but-mischievous face. I have no clue if he can actually act, but he's definitely special. Lots of kids are cute and all, but something about him evokes this strange notion of childhood that's both romantic and sad when I look at him. I don't know, I'm a weirdo.


But don't you just want to squeeze him so he can never grow up and will be embalmed in beautiful, dewy youthfulness forever? Well, too bad the movie was shot about two and a half years ago so the kid's about to be teenager. Damn puberty ruins everything.

Moving on, I was thinking about how cool it would be to start a zine or more realistically a website for people my age. About what? I don't know. To be honest, I mostly just wanted to come up with a cool title for it.

It's like what Dave Eggers wrote in "A Heartbreaking Work of A Staggering Genius" when he's auditioning for The Real World and explains the magazine he and his friends just started up:

Now what's it called again?
Might.

M-i-t-e?
No, M-i-g-h-t. Everyone spells it M-i-t-e. It's ridiculous. Why would it be named after a bug? Mite is such an obscure word, compared to Might, right?

Well, what is it named after?
Well, it's a double entendre, see—you'll love this, this is great, it can mean two things at once, can sit right on the fence between two meanings—with, in this case, "Might" meaning both power and possibility.

Ooooh.
Yeah. I know. It's good.

So I came up with reFRESH, thinking Awesome, this is original and works on multiple levels—slightly geeky Web browser reference and will also have the reFRESHing (subtle, right?) voice of my generation. Until I discovered it already existed. The gays beat me to everything.

Oh well, I guess I'll just have to think of another name for my theoretical magazine/website that will most likely never be produced.

Until then, my blog shall do.


J.

Yes for Extraneous Videos

Swagger jacker: A person who steals someone else's flow, lines, jokes, swagger.
Guy 1: Ay, bro, I just spit this whole song.
Guy 2: Na, you didn't, Hova. I heard Biggie say you a swagger jacker.

You know what I miss? Sister, Sister. I used to love that show. In fifth grade, my friend Yaosca used to come over to braid my hair and watch it with me. I felt so damn cool, like I was friends with Tia and Tamera myself.

Remember this opening? The quality is shit probably because whoever posted it taped directly from the television, but the song is still da bomb.



Two other, completely unrelated songs I love—these from Europeans:

Ultra Orange & Emmanuelle, "Sing Sing", France



The Dø, "At Last", France/Finland
This video is especially exciting



I've been meaning to a write a hearty post about art and accessibility for a while now. I got all these disconnected thoughts floating around my head but have yet to formalize an argument. I don't know, something's cooking though. I'll keep you posted.

Until then, do your own style in your own time.


J.

Really, We're All Just Searching for Our Pot of Gold

Hot snack: The small amount of acidy puke you have to swallow when you are just sitting around minding your own business and you have a little unexpected burp.

Dude, I was just talkin' to my girl and out of nowhere I had to swallow a hot snack without her noticing.

Hot snacks are the pits.

Regarding my last post about the New Moon soundtrack, I told you. And I'm not even saying that I personally feel this way, I'm just the psychic messenger.

In other news, I'm officially leaving for Thailand Nov. 18th. I fly into Bangkok for a day then over to Phnom Penh for two weeks and then to Pattaya for the rest of my TESOL certification course. After that, who knows. Am I totally pumped to travel and teach English? Yes. Does it make me a little nervous that the second phrase that pops up in Google Image after Pattaya is "Pattaya Girls"? A little. Adventures, people, we all need adventures.

Now for the best thing that was once actually labeled "news" by someone in a position of broadcasting power.



Until next time, stay out the trees and away from the crack.


J.

Sights & Sounds

Imma let you finish: An obnoxious way to interrupt someone and steal their moment, while wryly mocking the media train wreck that is Kanye West.

Bob: Thank you Mr. Brown for having us in to give this sales presentation. We'd like to talk to you today about...
Alfred: Yo, Bob, I'm really happy for you, and Imma let you finish, but I just got to say our product is one of the best products there is!

First, my last blog was very unlike me, I know. But I was hurtin', man. Hurtin' real bad. A guy at the Gap store was pressuring me into buying a pair of pants later that afternoon, and I almost broke down in front of him. He could tell and thought I was nuts. I'm better now though.

So let's talk about things less meditative and more frivolous than the death of a living creature, like articles of fashion I want:

A pair of browline glasses so I can look like this guy.

A sharp, ever-so-slightly masculine blazer like the one below from Urban.

As my mother once said after I told her she looked like a Chinese school boy when she got her haircut extremely short, "Androgyny is très chic." It's true, you know.

Now let's discuss music because I want to remind all you young whipper snappers I still know what's up.

Have you heard about the new New Moon soundtrack? It'll be probably be awesome, but I'm a little shocked who's on it. I just would have never guessed Bon Iver or Grizzly Bear would want to jump on the hormonally-charged vampire train. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but some music fans are sure to throw around the word "sellout".

It would be tough to be an indie band with an image of obscurity and impervious dedication to uphold (because it's like all about the music, man) while trying to grow a fan base and generate a steady income. Being featured in a Twilight movie is a huge deal, but then you run the risk of having brace-teethed girls running around with your band name and this image across their newly budded breasties.

He's 17, by the way. Awkward.

On another note, I am madly in love with Neko Case, not just as a performer but as an individual. I've listened to her for a while now but have revisited her work a lot lately, and I always discover something new in her songs. I appreciate that despite her amazing song-writing, haunting voice and crazy past, she seems like a very approachable, relatable person.

She's this charmingly strange woman who loves animals more than anything, dreams about tornadoes and has no desire to have children. I read this story about her life and music like half a year ago and never forgot because I thought it was great and so is this multimedia.

One of my all-time favorites:



She's probably the only person who can convince me to give country music a chance.

Until next time, don't forget your headphones.


J.

That Smushed Face

Hello, I have a lot I've been wanting to write about lately, but the main thing on my mind right now is Sumo. We just put my sweet pup to sleep, and it's been really rough so the best way for me to cope is to reflect.

The Beginning
Summer after sixth grade, I was obsessed with the idea of having a dog. No one else in the family was particularly into it, even my little brother, because he sucked. But I somehow managed to drag my mother to the Anti Cruelty Society Downtown one day and that's where I saw this little mug.


Amidst the barking and cage shaking of the other dogs, he sat quiet and composed observing the chaos around him. When I walked by, he looked up and said, Hey you, I think I'd be a good fit. I get along with all types of people, I'm super low maintenance and my fur is pretty. I had to have him.

My mom liked him too but wasn't going to make any decisions that day. "We'll go home and talk to your dad about it." Fine. So we did, and he was surprisingly gung ho. We'd go back to the shelter tomorrow and get our dog.

The next day, his cage was empty. The other canines continued to bark, and I wanted to scream back at them. I threw a shit fit in the middle of the shelter and demanded to know where they put him. My mom said she would track him down, and my dad took me and my brother to get hot dogs.

Apparently he had been moved to a Petsmart in Broadview, a southern suburb of Chicago. We didn't know if he would still be there, but we were going to make the drive to find out. I ran in the store like a crazy person looking around every which way, and there he was against the wall. I sighed of relief, took him out of the cage and walked him down the isles. And then he humped a bag of dog food.

I wanted his name to do something with his heritage (he was a Japanese Chin) and the fact he liked food. I shall name him Sumo, I decided, you know, like a sumo wrestler.

Over Time
Then, like the way many kids get with things they are once so passionate about, I lost interest. It's not that I didn't care about him anymore, I just didn't want to be responsible. I didn't want to walk him, I didn't want to brush his fur and I didn't want to feed him all the time. My original obsession was taken over by laziness and preoccupation with pathetic middle school woes. And Sumo lost interest in me. He discovered who his real love in the house was—my mother, the food bearer. The woman who constantly bitched about his shedding then secretly fed him chicken chunks under the table.

This continued on over the years, a shared distance between me and him. I should also point out that Sumo is much more like a cat than a dog. He enjoyed his space and privacy, and if you ever tried to get him to do something like fetch a ball, he looked at you like, Fool, please. Get it yourself. The only time he barked was out of excitement of being fed. He was definitely a fat kid of dogs.

But he started acting differently in the past year. Sumo had always been mellow, but now he seemed to have no energy to the do the simplest things. He didn't hold his beautiful fanned tail up anymore, he wanted to turn around after half a block when being walked, even his appetite diminished. And this past month was the worst. He couldn't make it up and down the stairs by himself anymore, so he would just wait on one of the middle steps for long periods until someone picked him up. One of his back legs started curling under the other. He painted louder than ever like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. His cataracts got worst and he aimlessly ran into things.

And then for the first time in years, Sumo actually started acting like a dog, a dog that wanted company and affection who sits at your feet and lays on your lap. We all became extremely sentimental toward him once we realized his days were numbered. I started paying more attention to him and remembered why I loved him so much in the first place.

My parents took him to the vet the other day to see what was up. Turns out he had two growths, one on his lung and the other on his kidney. He had advanced arthritis in his hips. He was already 12 years old and wasn't going to get any better. The vet gave him some pain medicine and that was that.

The past few days were up and down. He wouldn't move for four hours at a time and then would get surprisingly energetic. But on Friday night, he couldn't lay comfortably or seem to breath well, so my dad stayed up all night with him. And yesterday morning, my parents decided it was time to end his suffering.

Going In
Driving to the animal hospital with Sumo on my lap was one of the worst car rides of my life. The moment we all got into a little room to wait for the nurse, we transformed into blubbering children. Even my dad was a wreck. The nurse came in and told us the procedure, that they would put a catheter in for the anesthesia and then the poison. She took Sumo away for ten minutes as nostalgia and tears took over. He came back with a bandaged arm, completely unsure of what was going on. My mom snipped some hair from his tail, his best feature, and put it in a plastic bag.

Then the doctor came in with two needles in her hand. She was very kind and respectful and told us what to expect. The first needle went in and Sumo sunk to the metal counter in 30 seconds. Then the second needle went in, and I watched the life leave those big watery eyes. It broke my heart seeing his body lay like that.

When the doctor turned to each of our red, streaked faces, I could tell she sincerely felt for us. Can you imagine having her job—taking away the lives of animals people adore? Not that it's a dishonorable profession, it's actually a very necessary one. I just couldn't do it.

What's worst about the whole experience is the permanency. The fact Sumo will never drink from his water bowl that's still sitting on the kitchen floor. The fact that his hair is still covering that nasty blue couch upstairs he will never lay on again. The fact I can't hear his dog collar clinking up and down the stairs at night. My nose stings just thinking about it.

Shit, I haven't cried this much in one weekend since my grandpa died in December. I'll eventually be fine, but right now it's all a little too fresh in my mind.

So Sumo, my dear: thank you for being such a wonderful companion, and I hope you rest in peace. May your next chapter be filled with food, lush pillows and many back rubs. Love you always.


J.

Alive

Pimposterous: Unbelievably smooth.
His outfit is totally pimposterous!

Yes, I'm still alive, whether you like it or not. So let's catch up, yeah?

I must say I’ve felt kind of funny this weekend. Besides general loopiness caused by sleep deprivation and the anxiety of the future, I finished the last episode of Freaks & Geeks this afternoon and felt seriously unsettled. The last ten minutes left my mouth watering for more, but there was nothing left to eat.

Will Lindsay get caught for following the Grateful Dead tour instead of going to the academic summit? Was there weird sexual tension between her and Mr. Rosso, or is it just me? Is Daniel a geek now that he’s playing Dungeons and Dragons with the boys? Is Cindy Sanders going to murder Sam in his sleep for dumping her? So does this mean that Nick likes disco now? What’s that all about? So many questions and not an answer in sight. Such is life.

In case you’re interested at all, I wrote a review of Inglourious Basterds recently. It wasn’t published or anything, just for practice. Here:

It’s amusing to imagine the loud (and explicit) expressions of joy that must have come from the Weinstein brothers’ mouths last weekend as Inglourious Basterds knocked out anticipated box office predictions. Their golden boy had done it again, and perhaps that’s because Quentin Tarantino is paradoxically uninterested in the kind of calculated success so much of the industry foams over.

The director’s image constantly seems to be evolving—just when you think he must be as maniacal as the characters he creates, he goes and guest-judges something as family friendly as American Idol. It is clear Tarantino is not afraid to take risks with his own artistic image and body of work, which is apparent in his latest picture. Two foreign languages, a number of unknown European actors and not a Jheri curl in sight could have been a disastrous formula. Diehard QT fans may have been bored by too much war history and not enough jive while skeptics hoping for something new from the auteur felt the film still reeked of Tarantino. But hell, it worked.

Basterds parallels two stories of characters seeking the same revenge against Nazis—a girl named Shosanna whose family was murdered under the command of Colonel Landa and a squad of Jewish-American soldiers aiming to live up to their infamy. Their plots collide when Shosanna, played by graceful French actress Mélanie Laurent with the unfortunate resemblance to The Hills star Heidi Montag, decides to host a Nazi propaganda film premiere at her theater in Paris, which the Basterds infiltrate by posing as an Italian camera crew, explosives strapped to their ankles.

The historical war genre is new for Tarantino, but the action-comedy-gross-out hybrid is not. And do not fear, his signature is still very legible. In addition to the use of juxtaposed music like David Bowie, the film employs some old gags the viewer is sure to recognize. There’s something undeniably wonderful about seeing the name “Hugo Stiglitz” in big, bright, porn star letters.

Another familiar element that seems more pronounced in this film than in his others is the self-reflexivity of movies and their making. Besides the chemistry lesson on the flammability of celluloid film base, courtesy of Samuel L. Jackson, and the character of the British film critic, Inglourious Basterds is sprinkled with obscure references to early German filmmakers (is he talking about Pabst Blue Ribbon?). The climax even takes place in a theater with an audience mirroring our own delightful, trance-like state, except that they’re, you know, evil Nazis. When Shosanna’s face hijacks the screen as she informs the clueless viewers that they’re about to die then devilishly laughs, I was half-waiting for someone to scream, “Fire!” in German.

This similar kind of direct communication from character to audience is of course evident in the last few moments of the film as Lieutenant Raine carves a swastika into Colonel Landa’s forehead, the two men staring deeply into the camera. Raine tells the Bear Jew “I think this could be my masterpiece.” By the way all fifteen rows behind me were cheering, it seems perhaps it is, Mr. Tarantino. Mazel tov.

Thanks for getting through it, if you actually did.

Anywho, if I haven’t told you already, I’ve officially decided to teach English in Thailand within the next few months. I’m looking at a TESOL course that starts in Chiang Mai Nov. 9th. I’m nervous and had some reservations, but something feels very now or never to me so I’m just going to take the plunge. The timing is right—I end my internship in seven weeks or so, will have made some money and have no commitments or attached strings after that. I’m ready for an adventure. My plan is to be back by early to mid summer, however I know that time frames with these kinds of things can easily change. You will see me again within the next year though. I can guarantee that. I think.

Wow, what a visually boring post this has been. Let's change that:

.....

I guess that’s the report for now. I’ll try to touch back sooner. Until next time, long live freaks, geeks and every self-loathing youngster in between.


J.

Cheezburger

[Note to the reader: This blog was started over a week ago and is now being finished/posted due to lack of time and/or general laziness. My apologies.]

Fluffle: A sign of affection over the Internet. Like you're fluffing a pillow.
He fluffled Kate and skipped off happily.

Schmello. Coming to you on a Saturday evening since I never want to go out again after last night. This morning was spent dry-heaving in the bathroom like a cat choking on its own hairballs. And no place is worst to be doing this than in the house you grew up in—I became potty-trained in that room for Christ sakes. And at least in high school, I could feel slightly badass when I got sick and had to hide it from my parents. Now they just walk by the door, shaking their heads. It's sort of a pathetic really.

Uh, just because this brings me great pleasure.

Although the past few weeks have mostly revolved around my internship, I'd prefer not to write about it because it would be boring to read and boring to write about, I'll just share this passage from "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoapuffs" that has resonated lately:

Darth Vader tells Skywalker he has to make a decision: He can keep fighting a war he will probably lose, or he can compromise his ethics and succeed wildly. Many young adults face a similar decision after college, and those seen as "responsible" inevitably choose the latter path. However, an eight-year-old would never sell out. Little kids will always take the righteous option.

Now I'm not saying I'm compromising my ethics or that I'm an eight-year-old. I'm just saying that some form of this thought has been with me all summer as I venture into the job world, and I don't think I'm alone here.

Thought: For years now, I have found the exclamation point to be most unnecessary, over-used form of punctuation in the English language. It has become such a forced expression of excitement or enthusiasm or way to relieve tension (I'm not mad at you anymore, but I still hate your guts! [smiley face]). I feel like it's worse for girls as they become socially obligated to show how happy they are about upcoming events (So excited to see Cindy this afternoon!) When I see them, I either feel yelled at or lied to. I also don't like when academics use it in their writing in attempts to seem hip or whimsical (Nihilists have feelings too!!!). Kinda takes the credibility out of it for me. In my humble opinion, words should have the power to express these emotions.

Me in grumpy old man form (Please don't sue me Jospeh Farris).

HOWEVER, I will say that prudent and well-timed exclamation point can be a good thing. Matched with all caps, I love TW1TTERTRACKER's use of the punctuation to ridicule the most obvious and dull celebrity tweets. A few recent examples:

UPDATE THE ENCYLOPEDIA AFTER YOU GET TO THE MEAT OF THIS TWEET! RT @mileycyrus Just ate/made the most uh-mazing breakfast of all history :)

YOU’LL WANT TO BUY A BOAT AND STACK SOME SANDBAGS BEFORE YOU GET HIT BY THIS TWITTER BLOOD FLOOD!! RT @iamdiddy Watchin true blood!

THIS SLAMMING SWEET TWEET SERVES UP ACES AT OVER 100 M.P.H'S YEAHH YEAHHHHHH!!!! RT @andyroddick had a short but good hit!

Now these are how you use exclamation points. Take note, people.

Wow, this blog has become far more complacent than intended, so I think I should stop here. Until next time, have a great fucking week [exclamation point]. (I'm being sincere, by the way.)


- J.

Everyday I'm Hustlin'

Dilbert: an office loser. Any office employee who embodies some characteristics of the main character in the comic strip Dilbert, created by Scott Adams, which depicts employees who work in cubicles for a clueless boss at a large company.
The young Dilbert tried in vain to sell his boss on the new technology, but his boss told him to shut up and consider himself lucky he even has a Coleco.

Note: above term and comic are unrelated to below
news—just funny and mildly timely.

I start work Monday, well, technically I start an internship Monday. I’ll be doing marketing—press releases, product promos, stuff like that—for a small medical technology company. It really just fell into my lap. I randomly applied as someone's personal assistant not knowing who it is, who happened to be president of this company. Then, his marketing manager called to say the assistant position was filled, but they wanted me somewhere else.

I still don’t know everything about the job, but I think it could be an interesting experience. Plus, it’s paid (thank Hashem). It will be full time for the next few months making it a temporary solution to unemployment. Unfortunately, this also means you won't be hearing from me as much. Dry your eyes, little one, it'll be okay.

I'm grateful for the opportunity but am always looking for ways to make a buck. Despite a few obvious kinks to work out, here are a couple ideas I came up with:

Start gambling. My gambling experience extends to walking through Caesars Palace once. I don't even know how to play poker. But I am prepared to be that woman sitting at the slot machines eating peanuts for six hours straight. Something about no clocks and highly oxidized air gives me a good feeling.

Sell my plasma. Despite the fact I've never really donated blood and needles make me a bit queezy, I think this could be a real money maker. I even overheard a girl say she made $60 from doing it the other day—not bad! Then I came across this graphic that made me want to throw up in my mouth a little.

This looks unsanitary.

Become an undercover taxi driver. I've always thought driving a cab would be kinda fun, but I have no interest in becoming registered or dealing with drunk men. So I think I should just do it on the down-low on my own terms for people I trust. Oh yeah, I don't exactly have my own car or any sense of direction, but I can usually borrow my mom's or you can just ride on my handle bars.

My plans may seem a little flawed, but I can work around these issues—you could even help me out. Teach me poker, give me a vile of your blood or lend me your car a few times a week. I will also accept cold hard cash.

Moving on, is anyone else as jazzed for Where the Wild Things Are as I am? The trailer looks awesome and Arcade Fire doesn't hurt either. I weirdly get choked up whenever I watch this:



I was thinking how cool Spike Jonze must be and how he dates Michelle Williams, who has become a huge star like former Dawson's Creek co-star Katie Holmes. So what happened to that other guy?

Poor James Van Der Beek

Until next time, keep your day job.


-J.

Eat Your Heart Out, Kafka

Fivehead: An extremely large forehead.
That girl has a fivehead so big you could show movies on it.

Sunday greetings. Hope your weekend was as lovely as mine. Yesterday was filled with food, drank and summer dresses at Micaela's mom's spontaneous backyard wedding. I would describe it as a beautiful shitshow. The end of my night was spent taking mind-blowingly (not a real word) obscure photos in an alley with Katie.

Nobody gets us.

My mother has been in Oregon for the past five days and won't be back from Seattle until Thursday—translation: the house is a hot mess. And as the oldest child and only daughter, one might assume I would then step up as "lady of the household" during her absence. Sike, I have transformed into one of the boys. We track dirt into the house, leave the dishes in the sink and lack general cleanliness. It's like living with 17- and 62-year-old frat brothers. The other night, the three of us bickered over dinner about who didn't replace the toilet paper. "Well, you were in there longer than 5 minutes!" one of us yelled at the other. I'm not sure if it's kind of sweet that we notice each other's bathroom habits or just wrong.

You know, I've been doing some thinking about my place in the "career world." I know I'm not in a position to be too picky about my employment right now, but I hope I never work somewhere feeling that I'm selling my soul. I told my dad that and his response was, "You won't be in a position of power or influence for years. And what does that even mean? What if you work for a newspaper that is owned by a media conglomerate that also manufactures WMDs, or your office is in the middle of nowhere and the only thing to eat around there is McDonald's who cuts down Brazilian rain forests for grazing space?"

I know he's right—I'm going to be a professional nobody for a while, and everything is somehow connected in ways we often don't recognize. I could be indirectly doing something to cause harm elsewhere and never know about it, nor does everyone have the option of an occupation to do good. Try talking about this kind of stuff to your immigrant mother or father from a blue-collar background—I feel like a privileged ass. I just hope I can find a job that proves to have a direct positive effect on something I care about. Damn, what do people having existential, quarter-life crises do? Buy bikes?

I've been meaning to post this video for a while just because I love it so much though it's not really related to anything. Or perhaps it's related to everything.



Until next time, viva el frat house.


- J.

Fight the Power

I pity the fool: In Mr. T-glish, a common equivalent to the English "I'd best not find out who it was."
I pity the fool who scratched my car.

First things first: NEW JACKIE AND DEBRA VIDEO. I was so jazzed when I stumbled upon this (and by stumbled upon, I mean I was watching "Jackie + Debra - Stephanie Berger" for the 492nd time). Please do not watch this out of context—take the time to watch the two previous videos so you really understand the inner workings of Debra's soul first:



While you were watching MJ's memorial service on every single broadcast medium known to man yesterday, I was waiting my turn at a court hearing for my loitering ticket. Yes, the loitering ticket I got approximately a month ago while sitting and innocently eating goldfish near the Lighthouse Beach parking lot at 2:50 a.m. It was a bogus ticket, no doubt about that, but the cop got us for "being in a park after hours."

I've lived half a block away from this so-called park my entire life and never knew it was considered one, so I decided to contest the ticket. But first, I did a little homework. I went back to Lighthouse to see if signs were clearly posted, which they weren't. Only a sign in the actual sand saying the beach was closed after 11 p.m. and ones in the parking lot saying no cars after this time. Nothing calling it a park. Later, I went on the city Web site to find the list of Evanston parks—no other beaches were on there. My argument: Lighthouse is NOT sufficiently labeled a park.

I was a little nervous when I actually got to the hearing, not because I was scared of being found guilty (it's a friggin' loitering ticket) but because I had to perform. The other people there with me consisted of three groups:
- Generally law-abiding, middle-aged women with petty tickets like having their dog off the leash or not wearing protective eyewear on a motorcycle
- High school students caught drinking
- People a little too familiar with the court system and all seem to personally know each other

After the high school seniors made their unconvincing case (and lost, $500 tickets each), they dramatically stormed out with "this is bullshit!" and threw up peace signs to the others waiting. I was relieved to go next, knowing any act following theirs would be an improvement. After my explanation, the hearing officer told me I made a strong argument and seemed to appreciate my gumption and willingness to waste an hour—he reduced it to $25. "I'm not going to make you pay $75 to the city for this; tell your friends I'll do the same for them."

Needless to say, I walked out with a little skip in my step. I utilized my journalist/sexy foreign detective skills, and it payed off. It's still bullshit we weren't just let go in the first place, but at least I defended myself. What of it, 5-0?

Sorry, you're probably so tense sitting on the edge of your seat after my civil court story. Here's something to ease your nerves for the rest of the day.



Until next time, "I'm putting the boot on her thing!" (please tell me you watched it till the end).

J.

Luring You With Moving Pictures

Effed in the a: A different way of saying "Dude, we're screwed."
If we get caught, we're gonna be effed in the a!

So I just applied to write content for a social media site, and they asked to include a blog address if we had one. I did, then realized all the stupid crap I have on this thing. The idea of someone sitting at their desk quietly judging me via Rants and Babbles is a little scary. God knows they're going to think I'm crazy. Plus, I don't want my blog to become so public that something I said five months ago sabotages my future career as a senator. That would just be tragic.

In other news, I'm feeling much better. I started taking antibiotics a few days ago, and they just wiped out whatever was in my system. Still coughing a bit but such an improvement. Azithromycin = magic beans! Speaking of health, I've been researching and comparing different insurance plans lately, and it's probably the worst way to spend your summer afternoons. Copayments, deductions... it's all so messed up. I really hope Obama makes us a little more European in the next few years.

I've watched this video a hundred times lately because it always makes me smile. And they're playing at Pitchfork in two weeks, any takers?



One good thing about unemployment is having the time to watch movies. Good movies. The latest:

Welcome to the Dollhouse - I had seen this dark comedy six years ago or so and remember finding it disturbing. Turns out it still is a little but in an awesome way. It's about a girl named Dawn who is pretty much rejected by everyone she knows. She lusts after the lead in her brother's band until her feelings grow for the school bully. The director Todd Solondz always has the most pitiful protagonists and usually some degree of pedophilia in his films. He's a weird man, but his movies are very original.



In The Heat of The Night - This poster was on the wall of one of my film classes last semester, and it always intrigued me. I finally watched it and was quite pleased. Sydney Poitier plays a homicide expert trapped in this town where a man was just killed. After first being accused of murder, the police chief forces him to help with the investigation. The movie is about 40 years old, so parts of it are understandably dated, but I can imagine how powerful it was during the Civil Rights.
Swingers - Really, I had never seen this before. You probably have so I won't discuss the story. Vince Vaughn is amazing (and so cute). And I love how the male characters dress and really think pocket watches should make a comeback.

Broken Flowers - After Lost In Translation, it seems Bill Murray was trying to reinvent himself as a serious "indie" actor, however the success of that movie is hard to replicate. In this film, Murray goes on a cross-country road trip revisiting old lovers after he gets a letter warning him he has a son who's gone looking for him. The story has the potential to be good, but it was tiresome to watch and barely reveals anything by the end. But one of my favorite films is by this director (Jim Jarmusch), and that's Stranger Than Paradise.



Jesus Camp - Ironically, the only responses I had after seeing this documentary about a crazy Evangelical summer camp in North Dakota involve some religious connotation (i.e. "sweet mother of God" and "holy shit"). It follows a female minister/camp director who aims to train these young children to become "soldiers of God" and essentially brainwash this next generation with fundamentalism. Some footage is truly frightening, and this comes from a girl who went to church camp as a kid. However, they never passed out little plastic babies to represent aborted fetuses where I went.

The Puffy Chair - Part of the mumblecore genre, this low-budget, DIY flick follows Josh and his annoying girlfriend Emily on a journey to find a replica of a recliner from his childhood for his father's birthday. His free-loving, hippie brother invites himself along and completely takes the trip in another direction. Certain scenes are difficult to watch because they're uncomfortably realistic, but I also think that's what makes this film, and those like it, important to experience. It also gives hope to people who want to tell good stories—but don't have the money or resources of a studio—that it's still possible.

Phew, this is one meaty post. If you'll excuse me, I have to go find out which healthcare provider is least likely to ruin my life. Until then, meet me in Canada.


- J.

Man In The Mirror

Mirrorface: The look of coolness, focus and determination that appears on one's grill when in front of a mirror. A self-preservation technique in which one fantasizes about looking way better than they really do, usually occurring prior to a significant social outing.
Rick got suited up for a night out with his homies. Prior to his departure into the evening, he gave himself one final mirrorface. He knew he was ready to slay some hoes.

For the second time this week, I've been unwillingly up at the ass crack of dawn. It was another all-night coughing fit. My dad heard me in the middle of the night and told me to take Oxycodone and Robitussin, which, by the way, is a bizarre combination. I felt like I was sleeping in slow motion, if you can imagine that—I was consciously dreaming, but time felt completely nonlinear, and I kept imagining myself lifting cardboard boxes. OK, my acid trip is over, let's move on.

I'm not going to get into the Michael Jackson/Farrah Fawcett stories because I have nothing to say that hasn't been said. It's sad to have lost two American icons, however the coverage has been a little absurd the past few days, especially over the former. I'm curious as to what other world news has been neglected because of it. Also, American media has created such a tragic, one-dimensional view of death with our famous. These people have moved on and will now have their spirits celebrated for years to come. And I think that's nice.

Next: movies. I had really high expectations for Away We Go. The cast is excellent, it's directed by Sam Mendez and written by Dave Eggers (who I know is hot shit but haven't read him yet. I know, who am I?) It seems destined for "indie" rom-com greatness, don't you think? Just watch this:



Problem is all the best parts of the movie are already in the trailer. The story is underdeveloped, the acting is only mediocre and a good soundtrack seems to be what pushes the narrative forward. The film is watchable, even cute, but nothing original or life-changing. And I must express annoyance with John Krasinski, who I used to adore but now realize just plays variations of Jim in all his roles—this one being Slightly Alternative Jim.

So I'm in need of a laptop sleeve, and I've literally looked everywhere both in stores and online. I came across this and think it's adorable. But not for the $40 it would cost, include S&H. That's too much, right? Do I really need to make a statement with my computer protector? Because if I did, then I may have to go with this bad boy.

It screams, "Fuck with my laptop, and I'll char your fingers off!"

Knowing me, I'll probably grow impatient and just buy the first black sleeve I find. But until then, maybe I'll just keep my laptop in... a cardboard box (I am totally still tripping).


J.

Roadtrip Anyone?

War Corps: a FOR-profit organization founded by Jessica Clark and Julia Shiplett in the spring of '09 that works to oppose the Peace Corps in every way imaginable. This includes blowing up buildings, wasting food and stealing teddy bears from small children.
Tiffany: So what are your plans after graduation?
Joshua: Well, I applied to War Corps but I'm still waiting to hear back. I'm all about anarchy.

This is how we imagine our corps members to look like.

I'm coming at you from my very new laptop that I very much love. Such a ridiculous improvement from my 2005 10-lb iBook with the broken mic, chipped corner, permanently dim screen and speed of a snail on its deathbed. I can't believe I used to lug that thing everywhere; a typewriter would have been better for class. I think my new investment will inspire me to start fresh in other aspects of my life, as well.

LIFE UPGRADE

My new baby also just allowed me to video chat with my awesome friend Laura-Claire for the first time, who's currently teaching English outside of Seoul.

Here she is with an Afghan from the animal shelter she works at.

Sorry for being weird and posting this like a gushing mother, but I MISS YOU, LC.

Moving on, I've come to realize how much of this country I have not seen yet so I aim to change that. Here's a list of American cities I will attempt to visit in my twenties:

Austin - Even though I'm kinda scared of the state as a whole, I think Austin would be a refreshing bubble kinda the way Madison is in Wisconsin. Also, I'm dying to go to South by Southwest.
Portland - Seems beautiful and laid-back, like a less emo Seattle. Also, I was watching No Reservations, and Anthony Bourdain said it is the place for foodies to be. Needless to say, I think I'd do well there.
New Orleans - Mardi Gras aside, it's just too important not to visit.
Miami - Um... Will Smith, hello?
Boston - Rich history and lots of young people. Good combo.
Boulder - Everyone I know who has ever lived or visited there has told me I'd fit right in. Not entirely sure what that means, but I'm curious to find out.
Philadelphia - Just seems cool for some reason. Perhaps It's Always Sunny sealed the deal for me. Who wouldn't want to get drunk with Danny DeVito at 11:00 in the morning?

Lastly, I would like to end on this irrelevant note... just cuz.



Until next time, stick with coffee.


J.

"You Got BIG!" And You Became an Ass

Madam's apple: A play on "Adam's apple," referring to the large bulge on the trachea of a woman. May be the sign of a male-to-female transvestite or transsexual, or may simply be genetics.
Holy crap! Look at the madam's apple on Ann Coulter!

Case in point.

Sorry for another two-week hiatus, but I live at home now and nothing happens. But Julia, then you should have much more time to share your thoughts/aspirations/photos of dogs wearing wigs you google! Problem is I'm just not that motivated.

The past few days have revolved around my nine-year-old neighbor Roy, a precocious little man with a big appetite. The kid can eat. Because of him, I've gone to movies I would never otherwise see in a theater, i.e. Land of the Lost and Terminator Salvation. Both somewhat entertaining in their moments but completely forgettable.

I will say one thing though—I do love the wardrobes of any sci-fi, apocalyptic movie... Matrix, Children of Men, War of the Worlds, Terminator... It's British punk meets the Marines meets Eileen Fisher. Like heavily-zippered jackets, combat boots and perfectly frayed, organic tops.

Do these sweaters not scream "end of the world" to you?

See what I mean?

Also, my movie-going experience was slightly ruined after a run-in with this guy from high school who works at the theater, whose name I can't remember.

Guy: Yo, you were in my homebase. Ms. Berry, right?
Me: Oh yeah. Hey, how's it going?
Guy: Dammnnn, girl, you got BIG!!
Me: What?
Guy: I mean, like, you grew. Even in your cheeks! [makes exploding cheek motion]
Me: So you're pretty much just calling me fat...
Guy: Naw, that's not what I'm sayin' [laughing]. You just used to be real petite and shit... and you just grew and got big!
Me: Sweet, thanks. I'm gonna go to the bathroom now and try to shit out the 70 pounds I apparently gained since college. BYE!

So I didn't exactly say that last part, but I was pissed. Who says that? Even if I did put on a little weight. It's not like I can't lose it eventually (as I pop a third Lindt Lindor truffle into my mouth. Dammit.)

Anyway, here's my list of books to read this summer that I'm pretty jazzed about. Thus far:

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman
The Omnivore's Dilemma, Michael Pollan
Taking the Red Pill, Glenn Yeffeth

Damn straight I'm taking the red pill. This book sounds B.A.

But first, you can find me reading The Hollywood Assistants Handbook that Rachel lent me. I know, I know... sounds kinda ridic. But it's actually really funny and insightful. After I finish, I'll let you know what I learned.

Until then, would you get me some Starbucks, hon?


J.

That's What I Call Good Advertising

Mommunist: A term used to describe a mother who acts like a tyrannical dictator of a household; best used for women originating from communist nations (i.e. China) but can be applied loosely. May also be referred to as Mom Zedong.

Mother: If you don't clean those dishes in the next two minutes, I won't let you use the car ever again!
Child: Jeez, can you stop being such a Mommunist? I am almost 22!

I made this one up myself if you can't tell. People, I NEED to get out this house. I know I'm experiencing what a lot of recent college grads who move back home go through, but it sucks. Really, it does. Everyday, I'm asked how many resumes I sent out, if I'm going to start working out again anytime soon, if I'm going to become someone a parent can generally be proud of, etc. It's exhausting.

Speaking of communism and mothers, mine recently returned from a trip to China and brought home some interesting gear for my brother and I to sport around town. According to her, "commie chic is very in." I made my brother model the apparel for your viewing pleasure:

A true propaganda poster boy.
I think the shirt is cool, but the hat is absurd.

Thank god for a sibling I can bitch to. However, I also walked in on him singing along to Barry White recently, so I'm not sure what that says about either of us.

Another reason I want to move to the city is so I can play this song (you may remember it from this commercial a few years ago) and feel like it belongs in my life:




Don't you feel like you should be walking in slow motion through a super swanky lounge with cool light fixtures filled with beautiful people of all colors wearing a sexy black dress with one strap falling down because you're a little tipsy? Because I do. And in case you're curious, the song is called "Breathe" by Telepopmusik.

Let's talk about Conan—I missed it last night, but I thought his first show went pretty well. Pretty classic O'Brien. Something was a little off though. The intro was weird because the original seems so New York with all the famous landmarks, but now it's LA stuff. I don't love the set either. Feels big and flashy, not personal and classic like the old one. I don't know, maybe I'm just criticial because I subconsciously don't want him in LA. Although he is a new motive to move out there in the next few years. Hmm... a place near Universal Studios perhaps? We shall see.

Until then, pick me up in a Mitsubishi.


- J.

My Friday's Fancier Than Yours

Hater tots: Like haterade, the figurative snack you consume when you're hating on someone.
Guy 1: He acts like he's the shit because he has that Mercedes SLR.
Guy 2: Man, you need to cut down on all those hater tots you've been eating.

Top of the morn'! TGIF, huh? Can I get an amen?! Finally, I got the "the Man" off my back for the next two days. Gonna take my tie off and RAGE.

... Hah, if only my life slightly resembled that right now.

Stuff ain't bad—waking up at 10:30, messing around on the online abyss, catching up on old Vanity Fairs—but I got to find some work. Not just to make money but to get out of my house and feel mildly useful. It's hard to look for something just temporary and still interesting though.

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm supposed to stick around here for a while anyway—Chicago, I mean. The more I come back, the more I realize it's a city I can actually see myself living in for a while. Maybe that time is now.

Thailand is definitely still on the radar, but my mom's relentless protests aren't helping. She fears I will become a heroine-shooting surfer hanging with boy-turned-girl prostitutes who will later traffic me to Cambodia... where I will become Buddhist. Dun, Dun, DUN.

Oh, well. It's my decision in the end, and "I'm gonna get what I want!"

When I figure out what that is. But what I do know I want is this hair:

Rad, right? I may or may not get a perm.

Alright, I know this entry was short and pointless, but it's time for other stuff. Have a good weekend, and until next time, cut back on them hater tots.


- J.

It's Looking Like a Limb Torn Off

Leave Britney Alone: An exclamation made when your friends or family are teasing you to a point where you can't handle it anymore and a hissy fit is in order. Derived from a YouTube user's famed outburst following Britney's lackluster performance at the 2007 VMA's.

Sarah: OMG Susan, I can't believe you are wearing the same skirt as yesterday. Oh, and by the way, EVERYONE knows what you did with Kevin on the weekend. Plus you look a little fat, are you retaining water?

Susan: LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!

Hi hi hi, sorry sorry sorry. But I just graduated, so I've been ENDLESSLY busy this past week. Actually, I've been basking in wonderful nothingness.

Recap of the past week or so:

- My family came up for graduation, including my lovely grandma from Seattle.

- Commencement with Bud Selig (boring and extremely generic). His speech could have been given at a batmitzvah.

- Various graduation parties/too much drinking.

- Half-heartedly researching my potential future, maybe sorta. I don't know.
- Chilling with the homies/avoiding unpacking.

- Watching movies—Rachel Getting Married, Doubt, Capote, Frost/Nixon, Wristcutters.

I LOVE Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He's my new favorite actor. He's so good in everything he's in. Definitely someone I'd want to have lunch with.

He'll have the BLT.

Oh man, crazy story. Some time during finals week, my roommate was lying out on our balcony when she heard something fall on one of the chairs. Look what she found:


The poor little thing had fallen out of its nest or something, and its mom kept swooping back and forth looking for it, but she couldn't see it. We didn't know what to do so we tried to give it water and feed it yolk. (Is that weird to feed to a bird? I mean, it's what they eat in their eggs.) That night, it stormed so we brought it inside and made a makeshift incubator to stay warm in. We named him Thomas. He died the next morning. It was really tragic but also kind of amazing to see something like that up close. Weird I took photos, I know, but I wasn't trying to be exploitative. It's part of nature—just watch Planet Earth.

On a lighter note, I can't stop listening to this song right now. It's not new, but I just discovered Band of Horses a few weeks ago.

EXCITING NEWS: This summer, I plan to start a movie blog called Cinemama (cute, right? because I'm like a girl and stuff). It won't be geared toward just girls, but it's meant to demonstrate we're not just designated to chick flicks and period pieces. Hopefully it will include reviews, news and opinions on the industry. Of course, I welcome other voices as well. But right now, it's a work in progress.

OK, gotta go. Until next time, RIP Thomas.


J.

All Over the Place

Ghettiquette: Socially acceptable behavior in the ghetto. Good manners in a bad neighborhood.

It is considered good ghettiquette to pour out the first drink of your forty to honor your dead homies. It is considered bad ghettiquette to mess up the rotation. Puff, puff, pass.

Hello all, sorry if this entry seems really disjointed—it was written over a 5-day period. I start writing, then have to go somewhere or get distracted, you know how it is. The past week and has revolved around finally finishing my screenplay (hallelujah), applying for this arts and culture journalism scholarship (they only choose one writer, I'm not expecting anything) and thinking about "Jackie and Debra." On numerous occasions, I've laughed aloud in class by myself about it. I've also picked up her speech pattern, which is great.

"Let's plant a tree for Stephanie Berger!"

More highlights: FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS! I saw them at the Overture Center last Sunday night and they were friggin' awesome. Also awesome was Eugene Mirman who opened for them. "I was doing a book reading in Seattle when this kid with Aspergers stands up in the back row and yells 'bow down to me for I am your ruler!' And I responded, 'But I do bow down to you.' Because that's who god really is—a 12-year-old boy with high-functioning autism." It was funny, but maybe you had to be there.

I don't think Mel is crazy at all. If I was a stalker, these would be my types.

I took this Dreamweaver class last week so I can become a master of the Internet. We had barely learned anything yet and were just messing around with the features, when my skinny Abercrombie/Hollister-clad instructor flatly said, "If you really wanna look like a n00b, don't title your Web site." Like heaven forbid we don't title our Web site though you haven't even taught us how to make one yet. I laughed—again maybe you had to be there.

Mifflin was yesterday and although I did enjoy myself, I'm glad it's over. Day-drinking for eight hours is not something I handle well. And living on Mifflin is surprisingly stressful, especially when 17-year-olds townies try to enter your house and won't get off your porch. On top of the alcohol, I felt drunk with power kicking strangers off my property.

And no one dared fucking with me with this on.

Minus a few obnoxious guests and the puke under the kitchen table, the day was successful—beautiful weather, nothing stolen and no tickets. Woot Woot.

Now, I must work on my film paper comparing Pride and Prejudice of 1940 with the 2005 version. Oh Keira Knightley, despite your beauty I am still tempted to mess up your face. It's a weird feeling to know exactly what you have to do before you graduate in two weeks. Bah, let's just not think about it.

Until next time, title your Web sites.

-J.