A Humble Request

Hello Dear Readers--

For one of my grad school classes, I'm working on an article about Generation Y and why those of us in our twenties seem to have trouble becoming fully functioning grown-ups. (I'm sure my interest in this topic has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I'm turning 27 this week and am currently in the throes of a raging quarter-life crisis. But more on that later.)

Anyway, I need to interview a few twentysomethings out there about your experiences...what you define as adulthood, do you feel you've reached it yet and, if not, what's the hold up? And what better place to find interviewees than to turn to the Internets? So, if you are between the ages of 22 and 30, are not a personal friend or acquaintance of mine (since that would be journalistically unsound) and have something to say about this subject, drop me a line at GEM0216@gmail.com.

Also, the plan is to hopefully get this published somewhere so don't tell me anything you wouldn't want to see in print.

Thanks, and Happy Friday!

Meghan

Have a Super Tuesday!

I like to think that elections--while often bringing out the worst in the candidates and the media--tend to bring out the best in the rest of us. Everyone has an opinion, everyone takes a side and for a few heady months we're an engaged and passionate citizenry. And it's certainly been an unusually exciting primary season full of drama, intrigue, unlikely heroes, cold-blooded villains and Ron Paul. It's been so riveting, in fact, that it's almost made me forget about the writers' strike that has left my TiVo as empty and barren as Dick Cheney's heart.

Also, since I'm no longer a reporter I now have the luxury of being as openly partisan as I want to be. In that spirit, I took myself over to UCLA on Sunday for the big Obama rally.

It was sort of an awe-inspiring display--thousands of people cheering, waving signs and stomping in unison. There were whites, blacks, Latinos, families with young kids and lots of women. There was Oprah! And Caroline Kennedy! And Michelle Obama! (Who was impressive and inspiring and altogether lovely). There was an awkward moment when Stevie Wonder took a spill getting to the stage. And for the grand finale, Maria Shriver strode onto the stage and announced her support for Obama to an ecstatic crowd.

The sight of these four rather extraordinary women together effectively made the underlying point of the entire event--that it's o.k. to be a woman and vote for Obama. I think it's a difficult decision for any Democrat (and particularly any female Democrat) to make when faced with two ground-breaking choices. But I tend to agree with Oprah in that, instead of seeing a painful choice, voters should see a moment when they “are free from the constraints of gender and race" to make the best decision for themselves.

It would be nice if, instead of talking about the division between the two candidates, we appreciate that either one will represent a historic moment. However things fall today and during the next few weeks, I was impressed by the diversity and passion of the people who came out in the rain, on Superbowl Sunday, to support their candidate.

Finally, although I realize there are few things on this earth more annoying than over-earnest celebrities during an election season (not that I don't appreciate phone messages from Snoop Dogg encouraging me to do my civic duty), I found myself sort of moved by this video that was shown during the rally.

Well played, will.i.am.

This Is What Happens When You Don't Pay The Rent

We all have certain things--movies, books, plays, whatever--that we loved so much when we were young that, even when we outgrow them, they remain inextricably linked to a time and place in our lives. Which is why I felt a twinge of sadness when I heard that "Rent" will be closing on Broadway after 12 years. You could make the argument that the musical, for all intents and purposes, ended a while back when Joey Fatone assumed a lead role. But the play will always hold a special place in my heart.

It's hard for me to express now, or even to fully recall, how deeply this show affected me when I first saw it at the tender age of 16. It an awakening to a world that was passionate and exciting and so different from everything that I had ever known or experienced. They were bohemian artists! Who were gay! And had AIDS! (Well, that last part never struck me as particularly glamorous.) Nonetheless, I longed to throw off the shackles of my benign suburban existence and join them in that gritty urban wonderland known as the Lower East Side.

Because I didn't have the cash to pay bourgeois theater ticket prices, I only saw the show twice when it came through Chicago. But I played the soundtrack on a loop for a year. Or for 525,600 minutes. One way to measure a year is by the number of times you listened to the "Rent" soundtrack when you were 16. My friends were similarly obsessed, and we sang the music everywhere: in the car, at the lunch table, during press nights for the school newspaper. Even when I went to college, I first bonded with one of my best friends over how much we both loved the show. (She was one of the original "Rent-heads" in New York and to this day will not reveal to me how many times she's seen it.)

But time has a funny way of tarnishing the idols of our youth. When the movie version was released a couple of years ago I went to see it, partly out of nostalgia and partly hoping to rediscover what I had loved so much about it. Instead, I found myself slightly irritated by the whole production. While the characters on-screen were singing about artistic integrity and living La Vie Boheme, all I could think was, "Why won't you pay your rent? I pay rent. Everyone I know pays rent. Get over yourselves already and pay your damn rent!"

On a side note, it probably wasn't the brightest idea to have most of the original cast reprise their roles in the film version, considering they are now well in their 30s. There comes a point when squatting in an abandoned warehouse ceases to be an act of youthful rebellion and just becomes vagrancy. Also, as Matt pointed out when we left the theater, Mark's movie kind of sucks. It appears to be just random shots of his friends mugging for the camera. No wonder he and Roger couldn't even afford a space heater.

Even though its cultural moment has ended, I suppose that the show will still live on in some form. Something in its message about breaking convention and the desire to create a niche for yourself in the world will always resonate. However, I don't really know what the current generation of youngsters will make of "Rent" in a world where AIDS, while certainly still a very serious disease, doesn't have the same life-shattering implications that it did in the mid-90s. Where being openly gay no longer has the same power to shock the wider culture (even my grandmother liked that "Will and Grace" show), and if you want to be an avant-garde filmmaker all you have to do is upload videos on YouTube from the comfort of your parents' home.

Ultimately, I suspect that the phenomenal success of the show was emblematic of a specific time and place, just as I will always associate it with a specific time and place in my life. But if there's one thing that "Rent" has taught me over the years, it's that we all need to grow up sometime.

These Were A Few Of My Favorite Things

I know that we're already well on our way into 2008. But while 2007 is still fresh in our minds, I wanted to take a look back at some of my favorite books, movies, TV shows, etc. from the past year. I should note that not all of them were new in 2007, it just happened to be the year that they were new to me.

Movies:

-Once
This was hands-down my favorite movie of the year. Such a lovely and understated romance that felt hauntingly real. And the music was amazing, of course.

-Atonement
I'm a sucker for sweeping romantic epics, particularly sweeping romantic epics set during times of war. It's also a wonderful adaptation of a wonderful book that seemed like it would be really hard to adapt.

-Superbad
I really can't remember the last time I laughed this hard at a movie. Between this and Juno, my age-inappropriate crush on Michael Cera is undeniable.


TV Shows:

-Friday Night Lights (Season 1)
Let me state for the record that I hate football, and that living in a small Texas town where high school football is regarded as the reason for living is pretty much my idea of Hell. But the first season of FNL definitely stands as one of the great discoveries of 2007. It's a beautiful portrayal of just such a town and the people who inhabit it. Season 2 has been a disappointment so far (the Landry storyline? Really?), but Season 1 is an almost flawless work of art.

-Chuck
It's been a pretty disappointing season of television all around (damn you, Hollywood executives!), but Chuck was an unexpected surprise that has emerged as my favorite new show. It's fun and clever and every scene set in the Buy More makes me laugh. Josh Schwartz continues to indulge his self-referential streak, but I'll forgive him because of the awesome Halloween episode homage to "The OC."

-How I Met Your Mother
I'm a season behind on this show, having just finished Season 2 on DVD. It's such a genuinely funny show with characters that you wish you knew in real life. Speaking of which, I recently found myself standing behind Jason Segel at a coffee kiosk at the mall and it was all I could do not to start singing, "Let's go to the mall...TODAY!"

Books:

-The Year of Magical Thinking (Joan Didion)
Such a beautiful and heartbreaking depiction of love and loss.

-Special Topics in Calamity Physics (Marisha Pessl)
Part murder mystery and part coming-of-age story, the writing is a bit overblown but the book is a lot of fun to read. I can't quite explain why, but I've always been a big fan of stories about precocious adolescent girls who solve crimes.

-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (J.K. Rowling)
Great read and a solid finish to a fantastic series (except for that irritating epilogue).

Music:

-Bishop Allen
I'm not very good at writing about music, but Bishop Allen's second album "The Broken String" is a perfect blend of smart, infectious indie pop. Flight 180 is probably my most played song of the year.

-Wolf Parade
An awesome band introduced to me by my friend Sarah, who is a devotee of band member Spencer Krug. Worth seeing them live just for a demonstration of Krug's aerobic keyboarding.

-Once soundtrack
See above.

Overall, a pretty good year in the annals of pop culture. Feel free to holler back with your favorite movie, book or celebrity meltdown from the year that was.

Blogiversary

It's occurred to me that my little blog is a year old this week. To commemorate this small milestone, I've spent the past couple of hours at work reading over some of my old posts. I've never kept a diary (despite a few half-hearted attempts when I was a preteen, which mainly consisted of writing about boys I had crushes on and how my parents were fascists for not letting me watch R-rated movies), so it's a new and interesting experience to have a written record of a year of my life.

I suddenly remember very clearly where I was and why I started this blog a year ago. Basically, I was stuck. I was tired of my job and of writing articles I didn't care about for people who didn't much care to read them. I was tired of suburbia and maintaining a semi-long distance relationship. I was also soon to be homeless, as my wonderful roommates were all moving on to the next stages of their lives. I needed a creative outlet, and I was hoping that the New Year would bring a much needed change; something to shake me out of the lethargy I had fallen into.

And did it ever. In the past 12 months I: began a new job, moved to L.A. and into my first apartment with Matt, started grad school and got engaged. And somewhere, in the midst of night classes and learning to color coordinate home furnishings and talking about wedding plans, something shifted inside me--I could actually feel myself growing up and moving into a new phase in my life. It's been a little scary at points, and I certainly don't have it all figured out yet. But mostly it's been pretty great.

I can't say that starting the blog directly led to any of these changes. But maybe it made me a little more optimistic, or changed my perspective and helped me to look at my world in a slightly different way. Sometimes when you don't know what to do, it's best to just do SOMETHING.

So here's to The Notebook. Even if I sometimes neglect it (see the month of December), and even if my readership is small (yet unerringly loyal, thanks guys!), I have a real affection for my humble little corner of the Internet. And I can't wait to see to where 2008 takes us!

Back To The Future

I'll be the first to admit that I don't exactly live on the cutting-edge of technology. I was very slow to embrace online social networking until I discovered the addictive joy of cyber-stalking people via Facebook. I still don't really know how to work the four remotes that are mysteriously required to operate our one TV. I didn't own an iPod until a year ago. Hell, until about 2002 I was dragging a Walkman with me to the gym. Not even a Discman, people. A WALKMAN.

So it might just be the non-techie in me talking here, but I just do not get this new Kindle contraption. Apparently, the great appeal of the product is that it's a wireless, hand-held electronic reading device that's approximately as small and lightweight as...wait for it...a book! Books, I might add, are also wireless, hand-held reading devices.

According to Amazon, it can instantly access more than 90,000 titles and store up to 200 books at a time, which I admit would be pretty handy for traveling. But it also costs $399. I mean, think about how many actual books you could buy for $399! For someone who reads at a steady pace of about a book a month, it will take at least a couple of years for the Kindle to start being cost effective. (Hey, I just did math!)

Who knows. Maybe digitizing books is what it will take for people to start reading again. The AP reported a few months ago that 25 percent of adults didn't even read A book last year, which is sort of horrifying. Maybe it's all that archaic paper and exhausting page turning that has been holding the literary world back.

Still, I have my doubts. In my experience, book lovers tend to hold onto their favorite tomes like treasures. As Jo March from Little Women once said, "Some books are so familiar, reading them is like being home again." (She might have just said that in the movie version, but it doesn't make it any less true). It's hard to imagine a Kindle evoking the same kind of response. Books are meant to be loved and dog-eared and displayed on shelves. And let's face it, if you slogged your way through Ulysses or The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire than, dammit, you want everyone who visits your home to know it!

And then there's the whole issue of the name. I'm not quite sure what they're going for by calling it "Kindle." Does it mean that they're hoping to ignite the general populace's love of reading? Or that we should all run out and burn our old books now that the Kindle has arrived?

It's hard for me to imagine it really catching on, but I've certainly been wrong before. It could be that in a few years almost everyone will be reading by Kindle-light, while the remaining holdouts cling to our outdated paper and wait for books to come back as retro-chic---like people in the 70s who hung on to their vinyl and swear it still sounds better.

I guess I'm just a retro kind of girl.

In Which I Make Al Gore Cry Non-Biodegradable Tears

A few days ago, I read an article in the New York Times about how Portland has become a super bicycle-friendly city and has the nation's highest percentage of workers who commute by bike

After I read it, I felt a pang of guilt about the fact that I live in the most car-centric city in the world. The moment passed quickly, however, when I remembered that I love my car, and hate bicycle riders.

Yes, driving in Southern California can be torturous. It's ALWAYS rush hour here, and when it rains people completely forget that their vehicles come equipped with brakes. Sometimes when I'm sitting in traffic on the freeway I momentarily lose my mind and scream at the cars around me, "JUST MOVE ALREADY. MOVE! LUCIFER'S BEARD, WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?!"

But the point is that I can scream. I'm safely tucked away in my own little temperature-controlled cocoon of steel and glass, where I can listen to NPR or sing along with my awesome mix CD as loudly as I want. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help it. As much as I miss living in a pedestrian-friendly city, I do NOT miss public transportation. I do NOT miss standing outside in sub-zero temperatures in the middle of winter, waiting to cram myself into a jam-packed train full of people with questionable personal hygiene.

(For those who may not know, Los Angeles does actually have a subway. This is something I often forget, but I was reminded the other night when I caught the last 20 minutes of "Speed" on cable. I have yet to meet anyone in this city who has ever actually ridden it, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that someone built it for the sole purpose of filming a movie scene and then just decided it was easier to leave it there.)

As for my general dislike of cyclists, well the truth is that they just bother me. They pedal along, blithely unaware of all the disgruntled drivers behind them, and seem to believe that their two-wheeled dexterity exempts them from following the rules of the road. The run-ins I've had with bicycle riders over the years have done nothing to dispel my prejudice. Back in college when I was Rollerblading (remember Rollerblades?), a man who was riding behind me accused me of somehow causing him to crash and fall of his bicycle. And because I stupidly gave him my real name, he sued me for $2,000 worth of damage to his bike. Another time, while jogging, a cyclist running a red light smacked into me and sent me sprawling into the middle of the busiest street in Boston.

Need another example? My friend Neetu (who is an avid cyclist, but I forgive her because she has many other admirable qualities) once took a nasty spill while riding her bike around the college town she lives in. While she was lying prostate on the sidewalk, a man with a hook for a hand attempted to administer first aid to her. Which just goes to show you that nothing good ever comes from riding a bike.

So, my apologies to Al, the lovely, outdoorsy people of Portland and Plant Earth. On this particular issue we're just going to have to agree to disagree. When it comes to my little blue Toyota, my attitude isn't very green. In fact, it's more of a smoggy gray.

Ballroom Blitz

Bet you thought that after I got engaged my posts would be full of sappy declarations of love and dreamy visions of my upcoming union. I kind of thought that too. But after only two months of engagement bliss and being mesmerized by the sparkling addition to my left hand, reality has sunk in.

Being engaged means there will be a wedding. Which means we have to plan a wedding. Which means we have to figure out to pay for a wedding. And when you have two large sets of Irish Catholic families anticipating a full and robust bar, a sister who is morally opposed to bridesmaid dresses, and a mother who is a rabid ABBA fan--well, the task of putting together an event that will make everyone happy becomes quite daunting.

We took our tentative first steps a few weeks ago when we went to Barnes & Noble to pick out a wedding planning guide. There were literally hundreds of books and planners promising to deliver the crucial advice needed to achieve the wedding of your dreams on any budget. One particularly unhelpful guide recommended that to save money we should forgo the open bar and just buy a keg. It also suggested choosing an inexpensive yet memorable venue--like the Minneapolis City Zoo!

As I looked at Matt across the stacks of bright pink books full of pictures of happy brides, I could see the rising panic I was feeling reflected in his eyes. If we couldn't t even commit to choosing a book about wedding planning, how were we going to plan an actual wedding?

So this is where you, dear reader, come in. To anyone who's ever planned a wedding, had a wedding or even ever been to a wedding, I'm pleading for any advice or guidance you can give me. In exchange for your assistance, I promise not to turn this blog into a forum for my bridezilla-esque rantings.

Unless, of course, you've long harbored a desire to visit the Minneapolis City Zoo.

Delurk If You Love Jesus!

Ok, so I'm a day late on this. When have I ever been on time for anything?

The point is that now is the time to come out of lurking. If you're just stopping by, or if Google--in its infinite wisdom--brought you here by accident, drop a line and tell me something about yourself. Like, what's your favorite Jeopardy category?

If you're a regular commenter, post something anyway. I need validation, damnit!

You Are What You Watch

Last week was a very eventful week out in the world. Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (that's pronounced "I'm in a dinner jacket," thanks Katie Couric!) visited Columbia University. Bill O'Reilly made an even bigger ass of himself than usual. Some truly awful stuff went down in Myanmar/Burma.

And, oh yeah, Tyra Banks demonstrated the proper position to assume whilst receiving a bikini wax on national television--thus heralding the beginning of another Fall TV season.

I was a little bummed when it occurred to me that I wasn't particularly excited about any returning show. My beloved Veronica Mars is gone, off to solve the mystery of why we should care that The CW even exists. I've declared this season of Grey's Anatomy Dead On Arrival, and Battlestar Galactica doesn't come back until the winter. For the first September in a long time, I was sans appointment television.

Then, I realized that this is really an opportunity for a fresh start. My Season Pass function is a blank canvas waiting to be filled. So I decided to treat the new television season as if it were all-you-can-eat night at the Schezwan Palace--that is to say, stuff myself with little bit of everything and then see what brings me back for seconds.

So here for your viewing pleasure is a quick run-down of the hits, misses and first impressions from the past week:

Heroes: Unlike the rest of America, I didn't really fall in love with Heroes last season. I'm giving it a second shot to suck me in, mainly because Kristen Bell is joining the cast. The real battle this season will be to see who emerges as the most adorable, blond super-girl on the show. (My money says Veronica Mars kicks the cheerleader's ass).

Gossip Girl: I figured that if it was even half as fun as the first season of The OC it would be worthwhile. So far it seems trite and over-the-top soapy...yet still better than seasons 2-4 of The OC. I doubt I'll stick with it. Could it be that I've just gotten too old for teen dramas? (Nah....)

Chuck: The nerds have indeed inherited the earth. Or at least a bunch of national security secrets. The pilot was fun, we'll see how it goes.

30 Rock: The new season hasn't started yet, but I'm planning on bumping this up to Season Pass status. I adore Tina Fey. I kind of want to be her.

Dirty Sexy Money: I decided to check this one out because it starred Nate from Six Feet Under. The money part is accurate, but I'm not really sold on the dirty and the sexy. (On a side note, Dakota Fanning's little sister is on the show. She looks so much like her older sibling that I'm really starting to think there's a factory somewhere in Hollywood that mass produces Fanning children.)

Moonlight: Watched this one because V.M. alum Jason Dohring is in the cast. Instead of playing the bad-boy high school love interest, he now plays a bad-boy immortal vampire, which is like three steps up the bad-boy ladder. But still, a show about a vampire who fights crime in Los Angeles? It's already been done--and byJoss Whedon, which automatically means it's been done better.

How I Met Your Mother: I recently watched the first season on DVD after hearing some good things about it, and I was totally charmed. The show is sort of like Friends' cooler, more down-to-earth cousin. And if his appearance in "Harold and Kumar" wasn't enough to renew your all-encompassing love of Neil Patrick Harris, his performance on HIMYM will. It might even be leg-en-dary.

That's all for now. If you have any suggestions or recommendations feel free to pass them along, although it looks like my plate is going to be pretty full. Also, sometimes I like to, you know, read stuff.

As Time Goes By

Matt and I were 18 when we met, which I admit is a ridiculous age to meet the person you're going to end up spending your life with.

We were Freshman in college, and we lived on the same floor in our dorm. Matt says he remembers seeing me at the floor meeting on the day we all moved in. I remember that meeting too...I was terrified and excited and, if I'm not mistaken, I was wearing my hair in pigtails (probably my idea of dorm fashion at the time--cute but not trying too hard). Icebreakers and pigtails are a ridiculous way to meet the person you're going to end up spending your life with.

Over the next few months, I don't exactly remember how, he became my best friend. And then he became more. I won't subject you to all the details of our eight-year relationship, but suffice it to say that along the way there were break-ups and break downs, long-distance drama and moments of uncertainty. When people ask me how we've stayed together through all of our tumultuous young adult years, my stock answer is that it hasn't always been easy, but it's always been worth it.

Sometimes I think our entire relationship can be summed up by our first subway ride together. One night, very early into that first fall, we decided to take a study break and head over to Tower Records. It was only a few blocks away, but we were new to the city so we jumped on the Green Line for a two-stop ride.

I don't really remember what we talked about on the way. What I do remember is that when the conversation finally paused, we realized we'd overshot our destination by about seven stops. Instead of heading right back, we got off the train and walked around the Boston Common; the first of probably a thousand times we'd wander around the city together, just walking and talking. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but that night became a blueprint for all the nights that would follow--never running out of things to say to each other and never wanting the ride to end.

So now, we are engaged. In some ways it feels like everything has been happening very fast. After all, just six months ago we were moving in together, picking out our couch and stressing about the $700 price tag. Now we're talking about planning a wedding (talk about escalation). But really, we've spent the better part of a decade getting here.

And what a ride it's been.

Climb Aboard The Funship

I've been thinking a lot lately about the paths we choose in life--probably because I recently underwent a career shift and am also going back to school for the first time in more than four years (scary).

In college, I majored in journalism. It's hard to remember now whether I chose that because I deeply wanted to be a journalist, or because I wanted to get paid to write and reporting seemed like the best way to accomplish that. Either way, that's what I did and eventually--after a prohibitively expensive undergraduate education, a few non-paid internships and a brief stint of unemployment--I landed a real reporting job at a newspaper in Southern California.

Journalism is one of those jobs that look extremely glamorous and interesting on television and in the movies, but which in reality consists of more drudgery than you could possibly imagine. I'm sure it's quite a fabulous life if you're a New York Times columnist or spend your days in the White House press room, but I was a city reporter at a mid-size regional newspaper, and therefore spent most of my time at city council meetings listening to officials harangue over land use zoning and whether to allow another Wal-Mart in town.

Not to say that the job was all bad. Even the most ordinary lives and places have extraordinary moments, and occasionally a story would come along that was truly interesting and inspiring. But after a while I just burned out on it--the long hours, the crappy pay, the nightly deadlines, living in the burbs and wearing my car into the ground by chasing down stories through two counties.

So a few months ago I took a new job and went in a different direction. I still work in media and still write for a living, but it's a totally different experience. Now, my days are structured and relatively low-stress. I work with great people who promote a healthy work-life balance and bring in a salary that keeps me above the poverty line.

Day-to-day, I'm so much happier and less bitter than I used to be. But there's this small, nagging part of me that wonders if maybe I've robbed myself of something by taking a path that's smoother and, in some ways, less challenging.

My friend Susannah has this great word for experiences that suck while you're going through them, but which you remember fondly once they're over. She calls it "funship," which I assume is an amalgam of Fun and Hardship. Funship is the trip you take where everything goes calamitously wrong, but which provides you with the best stories to laugh over and share for the rest of our life. (And really, who remembers the trips where everything goes swimmingly?) Funship is the battle scar you end up being grateful for, even thought it hurt like hell at the time.

I realize, in hindsight, one thing that I do miss about the daily news grind is the funship--like the time shortly after I started the job that I was sent into the mountains to cover a wildfire while wearing open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. (What I learned from that experience is that a reporter always carries jeans and an extra pair of sneakers in his or her car). Or the afternoon I spent staking out a goat farm where the father of a wanted man was purported to be living. Or when, as a lowly intern, I was sent out in the middle of the night to investigate the reported appearance of the Virgin Mary in a hospital window.

At the time, I cursed the job and the gods of news for putting me in such ridiculous situations. But now that I have a little distance I'm grateful for those years at the newspaper, even if I have no real desire to go back to them. They challenged and shaped me; at times they pushed me out of my comfort zone and tested my limits.

It seems like sometimes we try so hard to insulate ourselves from funship--not just in our jobs, but in our lives as a whole. I guess it's natural to crave security and a life free of frustration. But why is it that, when we look back, it's the unexpected adventures and the minor catastrophes that enrich our lives and make us more interesting dinner conversationalists?

Whatever path lies ahead of me--whether it's straight or crooked, rocky or well-paved--I both hope, and fear, that it's full of funship.

Hip To Be Square

One of the more interesting aspects of life in Los Angeles is the ability to observe hipsters in their natural environment. Of course, the species* can be found in virtually any major metropolitan area, but in L.A. they seem to flourish like hothouse flowers.

Because I enjoy indie music and movies, and have several friends who are wannabe filmmakers, I occasionally find myself hovering on the fringes of hipster culture. But even after four years in Southern California, I still feel more like a cultural anthropologist than a member of the tribe. Maybe it's because my bangs--despite being carefully sculpted by a Beverly Hills stylist every six to eight weeks--never seem to fall quite right. I've tried the leggings under an oversized shirt thing a few times and, while I thought it looked rather fetching, I still walked around all day saying to myself, "good God, I'm a 26-year-old in tights!"

Alas, unhipness seems to be coded into my DNA, like the Midwestern twang I've never quite shaken and my inexplicable love for Kenny Loggins (who, I have on good authority, is dead sexy in concert).

While I can take solace in the fact that I would probably be the coolest person at a Kenny Loggins concert, such is not the case in my daily life. Still, living in the epicenter of tragic hipsterdom does have its moments--like when you're at a Los Feliz bar (which, incidentally, is located next to a cafe called the "Bourgeois Pig") and a group of people in funky hats at the table next to you break into an impromptu script reading. Or when you show up at a concert in Echo Park and see Santino Rice from Season 2 of Project Runway standing outside the venue

(I fear I may be going overboard lately with reporting my celebrity sightings. But then again, what's the point of living in the superficial cesspool that is L.A. if you can't regale people with stories of bumping into the enfant terrible of reality television outside of Echo Park clubs?)

When I saw Santino, resplendent in skinny black pants and a hot pink bandanna underneath a fedora, I suspected I was a little out of my coolness league. Surely enough, the Bishop Allen show was chockablock with waifish twenty-somethings sporting stovepipe jeans, black-rimmed glasses and artfully sideswept bangs.

Still, my lack of the proper accoutrement did nothing to damper my enjoyment of the show, and Matt and I even decided to splurge on t-shirts to advertise our love of all things Bishop Allen. Matt was at first reticent, fearing the t-shirt would suggest he was trying to acquire a false geek-chic aesthetic, when his look is really more straight-up geek. But I talked him into it and, if I do say so myself, he looks dead sexy in it.

On a side note, if you get a chance to check out the band, they're pretty great. I stalkerishly feel like I have a connection to the two frontmen, who formed the group while living in Boston in the early 2000s. (The band is named after the street they lived on in Cambridge.) Also, they have both been featured in this guy's movies, who used to work with Matt's friend Kate at the Trident Bookstore on Newbury Street.

As you can see, me and the band are practically BFF.

Anyway, midway through the show I noticed a guy standing near me who appeared to be even more out of place than I felt. The poor sod was at least 40, and was wearing stone-washed jeans, a button-down shirt TUCKED IN and some kind of bizarre cowboy boot/loafer hybrid upon his feet. At one point between songs he leaned over to the young Elvis Costello doppelganger standing next to him and said, rather sheepishly, "what do you think the average age here is, "25?"

Costello just shrugged his shoulders dismissively, and unhip old guy returned to his place at the edge of the group. Part of me wanted to go over to him and offer some words of comfort--something about how maybe no one ever really feels like they fit in and it's all just bullshit anyway.

But of course I didn't actually go up to him and say anything. In the end, I figured he probably just got lost on the way to the Kenny Loggins show.


* In case you are wondering if you meet the criteria to be a true hipster, you may find this helpful.

No Spoilers, I Promise

It's done.

For five consecutive nights that stretched well into the early morning, my head has been filled with horcruxes and hallows, wand lore and wizardry. And friends, I am tired.

So it's time to close the book on Harry Potter and return to the real world. As an unabashed fan of the series, I have to admit that I feel a bit of loss now that it's over. At the same time, I hope that J.K. Rowling sticks to her guns and ends it here for good. If the dreadful Star Wars prequels taught us anything, it's that even grand epics have a limited shelf life. When the story's told, it's time to walk away.

Still, it was easy--and fun--to get swept into the frenzy that accompanied the release of each book. Cultural moments like these are rare and, if ever a body of work was mostly deserving of its hype, it's Harry Potter. But as compulsively readable as the books are, I think there's an even stronger force at work behind Potter-mania.

Over the last few years, I've read the latest installment in the series while riding the subway in Boston (back when adults were still embarrassed to be reading the books in public and removed the dustjackets), in the common room of the London flat I lived in, the stifling hot Brookline, Mass. apartment I subletted the summer after college, an airy suburban California house and, finally, in my new apartment in Los Angeles. If you've been a fan of the series since early on, then Harry Potter and friends have probably been with you longer than half the people in your life right now.

It's tempting to scoff at pop culture and the over-the-top displays it sometimes inspires. The phrase itself suggests something that is disposable and frivolous--but to discount the impact of pop culture in our lives is to overlook what a powerful unifying force it can be.

Sure, it may seem stupid to bond with someone just because you both share a love of cheesy WB coming-of-age shows or, at one point in your lives, could sing along with the entire soundtrack of "Rent." (I've had lasting friendships develop from both of these things). But we live in a world where we're constantly moving--changing jobs, changing cities, changing friends and communities. Pop culture is one of the few shared experiences we take with us wherever we go.

It seems like we now tend build our communities around the things we love: the books and music that inspire us, the TV shows we slavishly follow, the movies we line up for on opening night. When something as massive as Harry Potter comes along then, for a short time, we're part of a global community.

While I myself draw the line at costumes, I can understand what drives people to don their Hogwarts finest and head to their neighborhood Barnes & Noble. Sometimes we just need to feel swept up in something much bigger than ourselves. (Unless of course it's something creepy, like the Manson Family. Or Scientology.) But if you like to go to Comic-Con in a strom trooper costume every year, may the force be with you. If camping out at your local bookstore on Harry Potter-eve is your poison, I say embrace the obsession!

Then go grab yourself a squishee and get in line for The Simpsons movie.

And the Award for Best Celebrity Sighting Goes To...

Matt K. (Although I don't know if this story can top the time I saw Ben Stein reliving his Ferris Bueller glory days. Or the time I was on a flight to Florida with Kirk Cameron and he started proselytizing the passengers. But that's a story for another post.)

Anyway, Matt (who has recently discovered his inner Emeril) was in Crate & Barrel loading up on supplies for our woefully understocked kitchen. While searching for a suitable mixing bowl, he noticed Courteney Cox browsing nearby. After a couple of minutes she turned to the woman she was with, exclaimed "$35 for a bowl!?" and walked away in disgust.

Of course Matt, not being a celebrity stalker, just continued to go about his business. Had I been there, I might have been tempted to walk up to her and say, "Excuse me, Ms. Cox. Or Cox-Arquette, or whatever your name is. While I admire your frugality, remember when you were making a million dollars an episode for that show you were on? Why not go crazy and treat yourself to that $35 bowl?"

Or, I might have just burst out with, "I loved you on Family Ties!"

Either way, I guess US Weekly was right after all. Celebrities are just like us!

Moorening Sickness

So, I recently saw the new Michael Moore documentary "Sicko." Actually, this post is coming a bit late as I saw the movie a week before it opened at a special screening in Santa Monica. (Let it never be said that I'm not at the cusp of the cultural zeitgeist.)

There is a very specific kind of audience that attends a screening of a Michael Moore film in Santa Monica a week before it opens. To put a finer point on it, it's a group that leans so far left it's a wonder the theater didn't tip over into the Pacific Ocean. Since I have a long standing love-hate relationship with Moore's films, it was interesting to watch the movie in the church of his most devout disciples.

There's a reason Moore has become such a polemic. His movies are provocative, entertaining and anything but objective. His greatest talent may be in his ability to take on Goliath-sized issues and dissect them down to a basic human perspective. It's one thing to know that the health care system in this country is broken; it's another thing to meet a man forced to decide which of the two fingers sliced off in an accident he could afford to reattach. Narrating with an air of wry weariness, Moore makes a pretty airtight case for a U.S. health system that has failed the people it's supposed to serve on every level. (With a few jabs at Republicans thrown in for good measure.)

But the biggest problem with Moore in general is just that you don't really believe him a lot of the time. It's never enough to allow the overwhelming evidence to speak for itself, he's compelled to make enormous factual leaps to hammer his point home. In "Sicko" he takes us on a whirlwind international adventure to show just how much the U.S. sucks in comparison to everywhere else.

To this end, he spends the second half of the film extolling the virtues of socialized medicine in Canada, the U.K., France, and Cuba--places where health care is universal and free to all. He makes his jolly way across several countries, interviewing helpful doctors and satisfied patients who gently mock the U.S.'s inferior system. Admittedly, it will make you green with envy to hear about free hospital stays, doctors who make house calls in the middle of the night and social services that provide live-in help to new mothers. One of the best ironic laughs comes when Moore--playing the skeptic--triumphantly uncovers a cashier window in a London hospital. Only it turns out this is not where patients come to pay for services rendered, but rather to be reimbursed for their travel expenses.

But here is where my Moore frustration really kicks in. A few years ago, I spent a semester studying journalism in London. While this hardly makes me an expert, I do distinctly recall media reports about long wait lists for procedures and patients left unattended for hours in hospital emergency rooms (sounds familiar). As we were walking out of the movie a couple of weeks ago, I overheard a woman telling her companion that her friend in Britain pays for private insurance because of frustration over the inefficacy of the government-run system.

This is not to say that I'm opposed to socialized health care or anything that would be an improvement over the managed-care system we've got now. But considering that I was confronted with evidence of an imperfect European system without having to leave the theater, it's surprising that Moore was unable to uncover even a shred of discontent on all of his travels.

I imagine it is because he is less interested in documenting than in sending out a call to action. And his main point, that we should free ourselves from the yoke of for-profit insurance agencies, is well-taken. One of the most interesting observations he makes in the film is that many aspects of American life are already socialized--education and public safety to name a couple.

Imagine living in a nation where privatized police and fire departments tried to increase their profits by expending as few resources as possible. What if when you called 9-1-1 to report a crime in progress, a board had to review your claim and determine whether it merited a response? It's a lunatic notion--but surely responsive and affordable health care is just as essential?

I guess the basis of my Moore-inspired schizophrenia is that I admire him for raising these points, but dislike the arrogance that leads him to discredit himself at every turn. He's a guy who views the world in black and white--an irritating habit that liberals are constantly berating Republicans for. In some ways, Moore really isn't that different from a neo-con, except that his evildoers happen to be Republicans.

Perfect Wives Club

I've always had mixed feelings about marriage.

When I was 18 I declared, rather impetuously, that I would never get married. But I've grown up a little since then, and I think it's a fine institution. I've been to about eight weddings in the past year-and-a-half, and all the couples seem very happy together. I'm sure that one day I'll join their ranks, and I'll like it just fine.

But there's something about the word "wife" that seems so foreign to me. How could I be a wife? It's a role that seems fraught with all kinds of cultural expectations and stereotypes. Wives cook nutritious meals, drive small children around in giant SUVs and hem things. I don't do any of those things. In fact, I have made a point of actively rejecting such practices, a decision that could probably be traced back to college when I took a class called "Psychology of the Family" to fulfill my minor requirement.

In this class, we learned about how married women are more likely to be depressed than unmarried women. One study showed that while unmarried couples who live together tend to share household responsibilities equally, married women take on about 70 percent of the household chores and child-rearing--even when both spouses work full time. So horrified was I by this bleak picture of matrimony, I determined it was in my best interest just to never learn to do these things. The result is that I'm a 26-year-old woman who can barely make spaghetti, but I'm ok with that. Fortunately, I found myself a guy who's ok with that too.

But there are moments when I wonder if I'll ever be marriage material--particularly after a recent run-in with the dreaded Perfect Wives Club.

Here's the back story: A couple of months ago, in an effort to recapture his high school glory days, Matt joined a baseball league. Every Sunday there is a game that consists of much manly back patting and yelling of things like "Atta Boy." Last Sunday was the first time I actually attended one of these games, mainly because they always take place at some ungodly hour of the morning somewhere in the Valley. (If you're not from Los Angeles, it's hard to imagine the amount of scorn that can be infused into the word "valley.") Sunday's game was also in the Valley, but at least they had the decency to schedule it in the afternoon, so off I went.

Matt had already informed me that there is a small cadre of wives and significant others who go to almost every game. Not only do they go to every game, but they bring snacks for the team and keep score and hand out candy bars to the guys who make the best plays. I encountered two of them on Sunday. They walked up to the stands--where I was busy leafing through the latest In Style magazine--carting lawn chairs, a portable stereo and a cooler full of Gatorade and candy bars.

"Oh hi," Perfect Blonde Wife said. "It's nice to meet you...finally."

Chagrined, I put my magazine aside and attempted to follow what was happening on the field. For the next eight innings, I listened to Perfect Blonde Wife and Perfect Brunette Wife discuss the following topics:

1. Who made the best offensive play (Matt, yay!)
2. What decorations to have at the upcoming end of season party (baseball themed, of course)
3. What snacks to prepare (rice krispie treats in the shape of baseballs)
4. How hard it is to get to baseball uniforms clean

At this point, Perfect Blonde Wife turns to me and says, "was it hard to clean Matt's uniform that one time it got really dirty?"

What I was thinking at that moment went something like this... How do you remember the time it got really dirty? He spends three hours a week rolling around in the dirt with it. It's always really dirty. And why would I be washing his uniform for him? Neither of his arms are broken. Even though we now cohabitate, we're still individuals capable of cleaning our own clothes as we have been doing for the past decade or so of our lives, thank you very much.

Instead of saying all this, I smiled serenely and said, "it wasn't a problem."

So maybe I'll be never a Perfect Wife. But I sat through the whole game, and even let Matt pick the movie we watched later that night--which I think makes me a Pretty Good Girlfriend.

Catching Up

I know I've been away for a while, but let's jump right in with a discussion of the series finale of "The Sopranos."

I'm sure many viewers will read lots of existential meaning into the abrupt cut-to-black that ended the ground-breaking show. I'm not one of them. I thought it kinda sucked.

Did the dark, silent screen mean that Tony has finally made his violent exit from the world? Or are we meant to believe that it's not really an end...that the movie never ends, but rather goes on and on and on and on? Maybe the tension-filled final minutes in the diner were meant to represent a kind of purgatory, and the Soprano family is destined to eat fried onion rings together for all eternity.

Who cares. In it's heyday "The Sopranos" was a brilliant, original, operatic drama. The last couple of seasons it seemed to become bloated with its own importance (sort of like Tony Soprano himself). After a penultimate episode that saw the end of Silvio's pompadour, the death of teddy-bear-like Bobby Baccalieri, and ended with Tony holed up with a shotgun--all I wanted this week was some good old-fashioned whacking. Instead, I got a philosophy lesson courtesy of Steve Perry.

I'm choosing to believe that in those final seconds, Tony went uncharacteristically gently into that good night. However, the main things I will take from this finale are a bit more prosaic:

1. That you should never trust a guy in a Members Only jacket and
2. That I'm not the only one who requires three attempts to parallel park

Moving on...

Last week, I vowed to go on a strict Paris Hilton-free media diet. After a week spent following updates on her scheudenfreude-filled trip to the pokey, enough was enough.

Why? I wonder. Why this frenzied fascination over a woman known for little more than sporting an impressive array of blond hair extensions and coining the phrase "that's hot?"

The only explanation I can come up with is that Paris is sort of like a modern-day Marie Antoinette. Anger over her shamelessly irresponsible and over-privileged lifestyle has reached critical mass, and it seems the only way to restore the balance is to chop off her head. Or, you know--since we don't do that anymore--take away her hair extensions and send her to jail.

Think it's a bit of a stretch to compare Paris Hilton to Eighteenth Century French royalty? Well, I would point out that her name IS Paris, and that both women seem to share a love of baked goods.

And finally...

If, like me, you're desperately in need of something to restore your faith in pop culture you should check out the film Once. It's a really beautiful and understated love story. I saw it this weekend, and I adored it. You will too, promise.

In Defense of Ally

Where have all the good women gone?

That was the only question I was left with after watching last week's episode of "Grey's Anatomy." Once a devoted viewer, I only catch the show sporadically now--usually tuning in just often enough to be utterly confused by the plot line. (What...Izzie slept with George?!?!) But I was kind of curious about the new spin-off, and Taye Diggs is on it, so what the hell?

The entire two hour episode of the reigning chick show fluctuated between the female characters at Seattle Grace obsessing about their failing relationships and upcoming marriages, and the female characters at the Los Angeles wellness clinic obsessing about their failed relationships and inability to get pregnant.

In the most painful scene from the episode, the main character breaks down in a hospital stairwell after successfully performing a life-saving surgery. Pouring her heart out to her potential love interest, she wails that she feels "dried up" and "barren," two phrases surely guaranteed to bring the boys a-runnin'.

Then, in perhaps the worst line of dialogue ever intended to sweep a woman off her feet, the potential love interest says, "I'm going to kiss you now. With tongue. So you feel it."

"Ok," she dazedly responds, clearly swept away by the romantic impetuousness of his declaration.

Are we really supposed to believe that we are most attractive to men when we're on the verge of a nervous breakdown? I guess it's lucky for us then that emotional distress is so easily cured with a little bit of good tongue kissing.

In a New York Times review of the episode, Alessandra Stanley laid it all at the feet of "Ally McBeal." Ally, she argues, was the beginning of the end--the cultural turning point where sex-starved basket case became the new female model.

I've always been a defender of Ally, since I was a bona fide fan of the show for the first couple of seasons. After all, pop culture has always embraced adorably daffy career gals as its heroines. Ally wasn't the first, she was just the most extreme example to date. The ladies of "Sex in the City" also took some heat for spending so much time talking about guys despite being successful career women. Again, that part never really bothered me. I have a number of extremely bright, career-oriented female friends, and I know we spend more time talking about relationships than the stock market.

The thing is that we relate to these fictional women not because they're perfect models of feminist ideals, but because (just like us!) they're works in progress. They struggle with figuring out really matters, juggling intelligence and ambition with the desire for boys to like them. They just do it in bigger apartments and with better shoes. I always felt that the best female characters possess an inner well of strength that ennobles them even while they're breaking down.

No matter how her heart had been broken or how Mr. Big had done her wrong, Carrie Bradshaw would strap on her Manolos and strut down that New York City sidewalk. Buffy didn't curl up in a fetal position after sending her boyfriend to a Hell dimension; she got up the next day and kicked some more vampire ass. Even poor, scrawny, neurotic Ally usually ended each episode on an optimistic note, rocking out to yet another Vonda Shepard song or cavorting with her imaginary baby.

The difference between those characters and the women of "Grey's" is that they never seem to get off the mat. A show that started out as a dramedy about young doctors is now about women who exist in a persistent state of distress over their annoyingly nicknamed boyfriend du jour. There's a fine line between relatable and pathetic.

Even sadder is that several of the remaining good female characters in TV land are disappearing from the airwaves. Those fast-talking Gilmore Girls will not be returning to Stars Hollow next season, and Veronica Mars' tough-as-nails teenage detective is fighting for her life. Apparently, a modern-day Nancy Drew who lives by her wits can't compete with a reality show that equates female empowerment with the ability to bend your leg behind your head.

Maybe those wannabe Dolls can find a new career path in Seattle as wannabe surgeons?

Just Don't It

During the 40 minutes or so it usually takes me to traverse the ten miles from work to my apartment (L.A. has bad traffic, who knew?), I have a fair amount of time to take in the city's roadside sights. Lately, I've been seeing ads for this new Reebok "Run Easy" campaign cropping up all over town, and I find I'm kind of fascinated by them.

Have you seen these things? The whole point of the campaign seems to be based around encouraging people not to work too hard, which is either a brilliant marketing ploy or the dumbest move ever for an athletic wear company. My favorite ad features a picture of an exhausted marathon runner collapsing by the side of the road, with the words "What Are You Doing?" plastered across it. Other gems include "Why are you hitting the wall? It hurts." and "Run + Puke +Run=Crazy"

It's clearly meant to be the antithesis of Nike's hard-charging "Just Do It" slogan, and I kind of get it. Most of us have no real aspiration to compete in a triathlon or scale Mt. Everest. If you're like me, you're proud of yourself if you manage to make it to the gym a couple of times a week and not fall off the treadmill. (Believe me, it happens). There is a certain irony to companies like Nike marketing their unattainable iron-man image to a nation of people sitting on the couch in their pajamas watching Joey Fatone cha-cha his little heart out.

But, seriously, what does it say when even our sports equipment requires only minimal effort from us?

In Boston--where I spent my halcyon student days--Marathon Monday is a city-wide holiday. Thousands of runners clog the streets, while even more drunken revelers toast the athletes as they sweat and pant their way towards the finish line. As one of those drunken revelers, it would never have occurred to me to go up to one of the runners and say "what are you thinking?"

I'm quite sure I thought it...but I would never say it.

It's a little troubling to me that even advertisers for athletic companies are deciding that it's in their best interest to appeal to our inherent laziness. Maybe I'm overthinking it, but in a culture where becoming the next Pussycat Doll is a viable career path and to win a million dollars you only have to prove that you're smarter than a fifth grader, do we really need to be instructed to lower our standards even further?

While it may not rank high on my list of life to do's, running a marathon is a huge undertaking and an even bigger accomplishment. Regardless of what the good people at Reebok seem to think, I believe that people who set goals and push themselves to excel should be congratulated, not mocked for their efforts.

Except for Joey Fatone, he totally deserves to be mocked.