Watching TV Is Not An Exercise

11 Sep

I worry about my brain.

Yesterday I wanted to pour coffee on my salad even before I sat down to eat it (maybe lumping that in with brain malfunction is a little presumptuous since I was eating tofu and spinach, and really who wouldn’t want it to taste like something, anything else than what it actually is?). Nevertheless, I was having visions of doing this act while reading/eating in Barnes & Noble across from my office. Am I forgetting my vitamins?

Photo by John Baird

I don’t have cable TV. I have TV, I just don’t have the multi-channel surf wonderment that is 150 channels of digital information at its best, with the exception of all gaming options of Tomb Raider (only you, Lara). Anyway, thanks to my empty pockets, I won’t pony up the funds to pay for the 145 channels I will never watch, even with the option that I will get to watch Showtime’s Dexter Season 3 (I love you Michael C. Hall!) with a $80 dollar upgrade (I don’t love you that much). So, with just 28 channels of network TV, 20 of which are in Spanish, I’m left with two choices, KCET’s channel 15, or Fox’s channel 11. Fox loses because The Simpsons are not on, and therefore, at 8:30pm at night, I’m left with KCET’s public programming. Lucky me, it’s about brain fitness and rightly called The Brain Fitness Program hosted by a former famous actor, whose name I can’t recall. Where are those vitamins?

Photo by M.S. White

Dr. Jason Karlawish has a lot to say, so I’m listening intently, but as all programming goes, they cut to commercial and I realize they’re hocking a Brain Fitness Video (Like Brain Age? Um, no. I imagine Richard Simmons – Fitness for Your 50’s). I was watching based on the promise of educational content; free unencumbered access to it (where’s my tivo?). I’m out. I think I’ll stick to chess, I hear that can be good for your brain too.

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CK

4 Sep

Photo by Chloe Scheffe

Chuck Klosterman uses words like abject, schism and ungulate. I sulkily admit I had to look up their meanings. Reading a half hour of Chuck Klosterman’s disquisitional essays in A Decade Of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas is mind-blowing on this level. I assume a well-thumbed thesaurus is always with him; but I have no proof beyond his particular, intellectual and varied, speech staccato peppering all his work. I’m in awe, but not in love.

I’m alone in my lovelessness – there are those who are head over heels: two friends of mine are crushing on Chuck because, as Lauren Salazar from Daily Intel put it, he’s got a ‘nerdy hotness’ about him that makes you sympathize with his wistful fictional characters (he says that “No one ever has sex in his books because he identifies more with people being rejected”) and quirky personal real-life stories. Just select a piece from Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, a running commentary on pop culture and its icons – an extension of his comprehensive work – and you’ll find a man colored by hilarious juvenile tales and a keen awareness of how to translate what happens around him into a contextualized concept.

When asked if he had a critical aesthetic, which sounds to me like a question about his particular brand of presentation, he says, “I don’t know that I have an aesthetic, really. If I do, it would be that I think there are people who want to think critically about the art that engages their life, and I think you can do that with any kind of art. There’s this belief that some things can be taken seriously in an intellectual way, while some things are only entertainment or only a commodity. Or there’s some kind of critical consensus that some things are “good,” and some things are garbage, throwaway culture. And I think the difference between them, in a lot of ways, is actually much less than people think. Especially when you get down to how they affect the audience. So when I write, I don’t think it necessarily matters what I’m writing about. I think it matters the way I think about it. The chord changes, and the lyrics on a record have value, but their real value is how they shape the way people look at their own lives.”

Although Chuck states that no one can really write an objective piece because it’s based on the author’s “subjective objectivity,” he nevertheless strikes a chord with partakers of pop culture; I think that chord is a collective sense of cynism. In his own words, “I think there’s an element of cynicism in my writing, but I’m an optimistic cynic.”

Photo by Ellen Choi

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Fly Away

21 Jul

On Saturday night I was irritated by a fly. I have no idea how it got into my apartment, and I’m wondering if I have a hole in a window screen somewhere. I unsuccessfully tried to kill it with a roll of paper towels – for half an hour. The fly made dinner making more complicated, as it kept hovering over my chicken bits and veggies, coming within millimeters of my about-to-be-devoured meal. Then I lost the fly’s location and decided I had hit it enough to knock it unconscious and send it flailing into some dusty corner.


I woke up on Sunday around 9am. Intent on meeting a friend at the Pasadena Descanso gardens, I hurriedly got dressed, cooked up a breakfast of eggs and bacon, and heated yesterday’s coffee in the microwave. I got dressed, ate breakfast and finished my coffee with the exception of one gulp remaining. I grabbed my keys, my purse, put on my shoes and reached for my cup. With the last sip, a clump of what I thought was coffee grinds hit my lips. I stopped and looked into my cup to investigate the confusing dark mass. Guess that fly got the best of me – it had been steeping its flavor in my cup o’ joe. Looking back at me, there it was – dead, on the cusp of my cup.

How many diseases do you think I just inherited?

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From The Streets

7 Jul

Ingenuity is often the result of dire straights.

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Late Night Theatre

14 Jun

Boom! Pfizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Whiz! are the sounds of streamers exploding around me in the dark.  I sit with 10 others in a diminutive theater as a man playing an organ, as if in an old western, slowly descends into the floor of the stage in front of us. The music, the soundtrack to a full length feature drama, swells and lights flicker in the displays on either side of the stage, highlighting the faces of plaster cast replicas of characters from Narnia. The organ player drops completely out of sight, and the heavy velvet curtain is quickly pulled upward as previously obscured stage props, in the form of a thick forest overgrown with moss, appear.

The stage ignites and theatrics ensue with the appearance of a man in knightly costume who mysteriously appears, leaps onto a stone wall and draws his sword. He rushes around the scene, he is alone and in search of something. Suddenly, the denouement erupts in a dramatic fury of his arm as he brings his drawn sword upward and points at a floating stone that says ‘NARNIA.’ The lights dim and the feature presentation begins.

This is the opening scene for the movie <em>The Chronicles Of Narnia: Prince Caspian </em>at El Capitan Theatre. The place is a merry go round of Disney infused aspiration. Props displayed everywhere, walls covered with fake brick walls, synthetic moss leaking out of cracks, large signs with chalk-written directions pointing the way, and a low ceiling to consummate the cozy atmosphere; all with the intent to take you to an imaginary place once you’ve stepped inside. I can see why El Capitan draws the under 10 crowd. At first, I thought my hubby and I had bought tickets for a play, instead of the feature length film. </p>El Capitan is across from Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a perfect pit stop for entertaining tiny adults and their older counterparts in need of a rest. The theater only showcases one feature at a time, with accessories to match and smiling staff to point the way to your velvet covered seat. Their particular presentation effectuates a riveting cinematic adventure by providing its viewer with a sensory experience and hopefully, a story to tell your friends.

When I leave at 2 o’clock in the morning with the other theater patrons, I am greeted with a waving white-gloved hand and a cheerful ‘goodbye.’ Steadfast to the end, the staff acts out an exquisite bravura conclusion to the nights performance.

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Stranger To Me, Stranger To Them

8 Jun

Once every two weeks or so, my sister and I turn to each other and automatically know that what we need at the moment is a gigantic burger surrounded by mannequins dressed as cowboys and cowgirls alongside a ‘smoking’ campfire and a bull ride to match. Thus is the state of our local watering hole and tourist trap, Saddle Ranch. The best spot at this place is outside, as the inside is dark, crowded and for some reason, always smells like apple pie. Nothing wrong with that, but the real draw is the people watching. Sunset Boulevard is just a few feet away once you’re on the deck of the restaurant. You can catch an eye-full of the camera-toting mid-western troupes, crowding in atop a double-decker, or pitifully shitty bus, gleefully driving by as they gaze with thoughtless looks at their surroundings. They stare at us and we stare right back, give our heads a tilt, and laugh. We are all on the same page at the moment, we are all tasting the superficial sights and sounds of Hollywood. These conspicuous traveling groups triapse around Hollywood in sneakers and hawaiian tees, visiting every man-made contrivance known as a landmark, including Saddle Ranch (Sex and The City anyone – look it up). Tourists are hilarious.


You can watch tourist group think all over Hollywood. Driving past the Chinese Theatre is a good start, especially during a premiere! Mostly pudgy, sneaker clad tourists push themselves together and crowd the streets, trying to get a peek at any celebrity they can. On days where there are not premieres, an emaciated Spider-man poses outside the theatre, next to a very chubby Marilyn Monroe, a demon on stilts, cinderella, Chucky and a frozen golden man. Sometimes Spongebob and Homer Simpson join in alongside a a tree on stilts as he tries to blend in with the flora so he can bend down to scare passerbys. I imagine these charactes make a pretty penny from all the photos (you’re supposed to tip!) they work for each day.


In all my years traveling across the U.S. and living in two of the top tourist destinations, I never once remember actually making a point to go on the duck tour (Miami – look it up) or ride on a bus destined for celebrities homes and the Hollywood sign while sitting next to sweaty strangers as we bump along the Sunset Strip. I always prefer the less traveled route and local coffee shops. So why the bus? I will never understand the draw, except on the most basic level of knowing that these patrons are foreigners and simply need something convenient. I imagine that one of these days, I’ll decide to test out and visit the tourist traps; Everyone should see a bit of the characteristic traits of their ‘hometown’. Till then, I raise my beer to those who add to Hollywood’s extraordinary atmosphere and chose to brave the masses and rub elbows with all those fellow tourists before me!

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Dead Birds and Cold Feet

8 Jun

One breezy Sunday afternoon, my hubby and I made the time sucking drive to Malibu in hopes that we might secure a nice spot for a sunset walk on a relatively secluded beach. With little fanfare, we find El Matador State Beach and drift into the hidden dirt parking lot, pay the $4 dollar fee for our time there, and practically slide down some scarily steep wooden steps down to the sand. The wind was gusty and very cool, matching the temperature of the water and it’s viscious waves slapping themselves against immense craggy bedrock and splashing inside small caves located at the base of the cliff and the end of the shore. The people here were lounging quietly, and I manage to bump into a woman carrying multiple composition notebooks (must be a writer). First we head South and come upon a wedding taking place. They are crowding together to take photos, and the groom picks up his bride in his arms to save her from the fray. Adjacent to the merry group, what looks like a magazine photo shoot is in session (tall model, photographer, lighting assistants, etc.) and beach goers are pleasantly watching the scene. we walked on, our feet sinking into cold sand with each step.

The shore is not very long, its width superficial, as in high tide there seems to be no beach to walk on. El Matador is very rocky, making it more fun to dodge the rushing water and giant seaweed balls, but resulting in stretched toes and sore heels. I almost feel as if I’m visiting a shivery stony beach in San Francisco. I need a thicker jacket.


Within a matter of minutes, the beach ends and we turn to meander towards the Northern Shore. It is far less rocky and broader than its counterpart. More domesticated, it is covered with private homes, their children and parents out playing ball or attempting to surf in the waves. After passing a saddening lifeless bird, and what looks like clear gobs of what must be jellyfish, we decide to head out.

Once more we turn, and the view is breathtaking. The waves have splashed up enough spray to illuminate the large rocks on the southern end of the beach in an illusion of mist, the low sun spreading its rays in sparkles across the water and casting a filmy glow. The cliff stands firm in the background, it’s moss and tentacled flora reaching down to the cream colored silt. Imagine the setting of an Irish folktale.


Finally, I arrive at my first exclamation – such a magnificent panorama cannot be accurately pictured by yours truly. You’ll see I’m no picture pro, but the outline of the reality still shines through. As far as secluded beaches go, we’ve yet to test this beach on a hot sunny day when crowds are at their worst, but it looks like this beach may be more a local spot than tourist traveled. Clandestine beaches are hard to come by, but El Matador appears to fit the bill. With this in mind, the next sunny day that requires a bathing suit will take place at this discrete destination.

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Save Me

23 May


With all the bills I racked up during college, I sometimes wonder if it was worth it (of course it was). Maybe I could have been more fiscally responsible (that’s a big maybe), after all, my parents never were the ones who espoused the benefits of saving. That’s beside the point however, except to say that I’ve learned a lot since then and in just a short time, I’ll be debt free, and doing this: CLICK HERE

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European American

15 May

What would Americans do without their imitation European cafes? Sitting among grossly expensive imported items and white linens, served by snobby waitstaff, and ordering off a pricey menu whose items manifest in servings the size of tuna cans (no, smaller). Americans, and Angelenos can maintain some level of denial that what they are experiencing is a small slice of foreign European bliss, at home. Such is the destiny of The Little Door, a tucked away cafe off of 3rd street. French accoutrements abound in the form of bright cobalt blue walls, menu’s written on chalkboard and mirrors, waitstaff in crisp white shirts or striped tees (think your local venice canal boat guide), canned homemade jams, an assortment of organic teas, coffees and plenty of pastries and colored macaroons. There is an outside covered patio, shrined in leafy vines, and small vases of fresh wildflowers sit on each table; while the inside is awash in white light from outside and the back wall showcases a selection of available wine for you to purchase. The effect is a cafe that is both old world and modern, and very charming with all its European references.

The upscale clientele buzzes; with lunching ladies, business meetings, and the interruption of model-esque women running through to pick up a quick bite to eat at the deli. This cafe is obviously an enjoyably secluded spot. I’d say the patrons are as charming as the gold filigree detailing on the teacups.

My disappointment showed up in the form of the succint and only slightly titillating menu. There is very little to say about the menu, hence the reason I left out mention of it. The Little Door offers organic helpings – among them, ginger salad, Quinoa and Salmon. I decided to order the chicken salad however, hence the cautionary note on healthy. The chicken mixture is a little heavy considering the mayonnaise they put on it, and topped with a white roll, I’m pretty sure it’s resting place will be in my arteries.

I enjoyed the atmosphere and the cafe’s lack of pretense, but a cafe really hits the spot when the food is as enjoyable as much as the atmosphere and energy. A future visit will not be planned, but if I end up here again, I hope the bad taste left in my mouth will have gone the way of the dinousaurs.

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A Man Among Strangers

14 May

The Emigrants destiny: The foreign country has not become home, but home has become foreign.

~Alfred Polger


I almost choked on tears when I came across this thought by Mr. Polger. Nothing truer could be said to those who’ve traveled far and now reside in stranger places than those where they were born. I believe that it is far greater to leave your home and add experience to your character, than to never change and never wander far from the things you know; as leaving home is sure to change you in ways you’d never believe. It’s like hating onions your whole life, and then suddenly loving them.

Mr. Polger brings up a point that is all too familiar to me now, as it is with disbelief that I feel I couldn’t live anywhere (for the moment) except L.A. My love has grown for the city’s quirks and ambitious atmosphere; the hungry wolves and sun-tanning beach bunnies, dirty bars and bum friendly Hollywood Boulevard. It is a far-cry from my somewhat wholesome small town beginnings. Home will always be home, but it’s comforts don’t offer much to me now.

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