How to Blog Better

One of my favorite bloggers, Penelope Trunk, made a video about how to blog better.
I like.

Age Matters: Why Being the Youngest Lingers

Los Angeles, May 2010







My friend Lira (featured above, off of Santa Monica pier) mentions Gen X references in various conversations. Every time she does I think to myself, 'what the heck does she mean? Gen, what, the what?' My friend's cool. Timeless cool. There is a difference between cool and timeless cool. A lot of things I encounter are just cool. How a person smells to me currently is cool. Black nail polish against a kashmir sweater is cool now. A certain scent from a certain body wash is particularly cool now but I wonder for how long, and Jared Leto is cool. No doubt about that. And then there's Dante cool, Larry David cool, classic aesthetics cool, true friends cool, uhm, Mac cool, you know, proper cool.

I met Lira my first day in school. There we were. Both 14 and in a different environment. She was standing against a white wall, wearing pink shoes and tapping against the white wall, obsessively touching her hair and chewing her gum in an almost choreographed fashion. She became a favorite instantly. I mean, duh! On top of that, she liked Guns 'n Roses and Metallica and we were the only ones that gave a good damn about rock 'n roll and saw it for the thing of substance that it is: proper cool.

To me, Lira in connection to me exists outside of time. We're the same age, give or take a few months, we like a lot of the same stuff and time is always inconsequential when we relate. So, when she brings up time references I'm at a loss. What do you mean, there's younger people than us out there. So, what? We're just as with-it as they are. I mean, really, we've seen more, traveled more, been at more shows, and had more life than them. I mean, not to be too competitive, but come on! Yes, they're younger than us but only but a small number of years. We've only just embarked on a new decade, really. Count the years in one hand, that's hardly being removed from a whole generation, isn't it?

Being a word person, I tend to have some kind of reaction to most phrases I'm aware of. I know that I get irked when people resort to folk etymology and back formation and say things like, kitty-corner as opposed to cater-corner (I mean, try saying the latter, you'll get a good eye-rolling!) or "he must have saw, she must have went." You'll be happy you're not me. You're not I, to be accurate. You and I are both nominative, but who cares? (me, [I] for starters, but let's move on.)

I hear some say, "in our generation, people in my generation, we...." Wait, I think to myself, are they precluding me?! How dare you preclude me! "In your generation, you don't care about this and that, or your generation does things this way and that way?" I'm, what, 4 years older than you?
Or, sorry, yes, I'm antediluvian! I'm six years older than you. I couldn't possibly understand the existential dilemmas of Snookie and The Situation.
Mannaggia la miseria!

A few months ago, when we were about to see Bill Maher's Real Time live at the CBS sutdios on Fairfax Ave in Los Angeles and I was frantically trying to find a parking place so that we would not be late to get to the studio I distinctly remember getting mad at time. For moving so quickly. Or maybe I was mad at L.A.'s impossible traffic. Or both. Why does time have to move so fast?!

And then we're in the studio, siting in the second row. Dude, there's Salman Rushdie right there. And Sarah Silverman. There's Maher, a few steps away from us. Wait, how can it be over just now?! Didn't we just get here? Has it been an hour already?

I feel the way I feel after the first date with my person of choice. I'm acutely aware of time and I don't want it to move the way it tends to move in Bri-landia. I take in every single detail, the fabric of the shirt, the way the hair looks, the scent, the way the hands move when a photograph is being explained, and so forth. I want it to slow down so that I can remember it, a snapshot at a time. But then again I don't want to give the impression that I want to linger as I tend to take pride in the fact that I can always leave. Most expeditiously.

I didn't want the show to end. I wanted us to stay on longer. But we couldn't. We had to go, grab some Italian food, reminisce about what it meant to be in our 20's and I couldn't help but feel weird. I mean, dude, our 20's just happened. Good heavens, some of my clichéd indie outfits were purchased when I was in my 20's. I was just in my 20's. Being in the early 30's isn't so bad. I mean, think, we can travel more. We can say, "Yeah, let's meet up me in L.A., we'll go see Maher and then hang for a day. Or four."

I've given this some thought over the past few months. Thing is, I seem to have always had a rather particular relationship with time. I'm acutely aware of it on a small scale. Apparently, one of my high frequency phrases at home says, "I know what __AM/PM feels like." I do. I know what every minute of the day feels like. I have a clear relationship with time on this basic level. However, I do get rather confused, actually, I deeply resent, phrases like, 'it's a young person's thing, or old person's thing, or generation this and that thing.' What about, it's a human thing? Leave time out of it, people.
I think I know why I'm a bit testy about time.
I'm the youngest of three. My siblings are closer in age. I'm years behind. My whole life I was the late addition. I took time to come. And when I did come, my state kept being one of constant hurrying. And then my language contains phrases like, 'I was in haste when,' 'I seem to have fallen out of time,' 'Time's doing a number on me,' and on and on.

Being the youngest meant having the kinds of freedoms and access that the older siblings didn't get to have. I always did my thing and everything I wanted. When I wanted. Being the youngest also came wrapped up in a rather unique fabric of 'allowability' and accountability.

I don't know if it's my genetic makeup that primarily feeds my accountability. Some think it is. Maybe it is, maybe it is isn't. My allowability, however, i.e., allowing myself to jump, take any freedom I want to take, and experience things my own way and on my own terms (often without terms at all, I am told) is what renders my existence interesting to me. This, this 'allowability' thing, is what I find is utterly age-free. And it is utterly non-negotiable.

So, I wonder why I get so annoyed by phrases like, 'it's a young/old people thing. Our generation does this, you see?
Being the youngest of three and always being referred to as 'the young one' does play a role here. I've often factored age in my self-identity so I don't see why it should matter to me now.

I am proud of a few things I've accomplished at a younger age.
I was able to learn to function well when I was sent away to school at the age of 14. I did well in the new environment. I mastered it intellectually and socially. Then I was sent away to college. In an entirely different continent, which as luck would have it, also happened to be the one geography that ever spoke to me on a fundamentally honest level. I could just be in it.
Then, the achievements came.
Here I was.
28. With a doctorate. Dr. Ribaj, this and Dr. Ribaj, that.
And Dr. Ribaj took her and hers to rock shows with the same gusto she took them to see Verdi's Aida. She skipped while walking the way she would when roaming on a rocky beach.
Age does not matter.
I don't know why it bothers me. I mean, what does one mean when one says, "it's a generation thing, you see?"
No, I don't see. What, you get things better because in six years you'll be my age and I'll be embarking on a new decade all together? I mean, what? I move fast, faster than many more often than often, I've lived in different continents, I take active steps in 'changing it up,' I go from the business world to the academic world and back to the business world with the same effortless I go from Kings of Leon to Beethoven. I know 23-year-olds who are older than a 60-year-old and 60-year-olds that are, to quote a fellow 34-year-old, "hella cool!"
So, no, it's not a generation thing, it's a human thing.

Maybe being the youngest comes with a sense of entitlement.
I want attention but I demand anonymity and yet I've never not drawn attention to myself. Ever. In every setting. Whether I'm lecturing on Greek aesthetics and why Alexander was keen on Hephaestion or discussing the merits of The Killers 2004 album Hot Fuss. There's always going to be someone who will react positively to the words. And I'll always hear at home, "well, that's what you get for being "interesting." Because, of course, being interesting, it turns out, is more of liability (or maybe responsibility?) than anything. And it seems to an age-free one at that. Well, at least I have that. I'll have that.

So, no, age means nothing. I can relate to a 25-year-old the way I can relate to my best friend, a 34-year-old because I know what it means to me when it's 8:04AM and 9:07PM. I know exactly what time feels like, whether it's dawn or dusk. I get it. It doesn't do much to me. Yes, I started college when Nirvana was dominating the airwaves and I graduated when all the THE bands made it big, you know, The Hives, The Strokes, The Bravery, etc.

In sum, all the 'gen' talk is making me rather tired. And it's now 6:45AM and I know what that means to me. It means shower and hair straightening and driving up north and hoping that I don't get a ticket for wearing my seat belt underneath my arm as opposed to over the shoulder. But I digress.

Portland: Riches of a City

I'm about to board the plane to head to Portland.
I just had a realization this morning about a new show on IFC called Portlandia. A friend made me aware of it a few weeks ago and since then I've been counting the days to see/discuss it in person with another favorite person in one of my favorite cities, Portland, OR.

I'm about to approach my gate when the following thought hits me: "Wait, that's Carrie Brownstein! She's in Portlandia" Wonder why I didn't become aware of it when I first saw the clip. Hmm. Brownstein developed the show with Fred Armisen. Duh! I absolutely love Brownstein. She gets music! And she most certainly gets the West, the Pacific kind. How did I not make the connection earlier?! It's funny that I'm able to do so only as I'm on the way to the very city the show portrays.

I scratch my head trying to think of when it was that I read her inspired piece on the 'soundtrack of a city'. "I wish I could do a search on my blog right about now..." I think to myself as my hands are frantically searching for my wallet in my bag as I'm about to board. I can't believe I'm such a forgetful klutz, always looking for things as I schlep myself from point A to point B. Sigh....

Relief!
I find my wallet. I stand before my gate, go to my blog site on the iPhone, do a search on 'Carrie Brownstein', pull up a reaction I wrote to her reaction piece to music, put some Magnetic Fields on, and start re-reading a piece dated December 20, 2007. I was feeling similarly to now back then. My Februaries tend to resemble other Februaries, not Decembers. Not this time around, however. I wonder why.

I read some of the comments on that 2007 piece and a note by my friend and musician Liam, rings especially true. Liam, a fellow Portland lover who also lives in another Western city, gets things similarly. I was transported to a chat we had when sitting under some tree, sipping some hipster java in the Western city where he currently resides and I used to call my own as we discussed sociality, independence of spirit, life and, of course, music. We see some things fundamentally the same way because we see music's impact on life fundamentally the same way. Again, all roads lead to music.



...
I'm told I usually quote past experiences only when about to embark on new experiences. I reckon, I am told the truth. There's no real reason to revisit the past, as far as I'm concerned, unless it helps shed some light on the present.

Experiencing, as Henry James puts it, a 'sense of visitation' is inevitable when in the presence of strange familiarity. That's exactly what the city does to me. It makes me feel strangely at home even though I always saw it as a great place in which to knock off my boots and fall off the grid for a few hours and nothing more.

I'm about to consume a rather large amount of art in it this weekend. I'll be seeing the new exhibit at the Portland Art Museum (PAM) with my best friend then we'll head over to 12th Ave. and Glisan St. and have some fantastic crème brûlée.
Twice.
Once is never enough.
I'm not a foodie, but, by Jove, when crème brûlée is done right, it needs to linger in your mouth, slowly as your mind revisits any and every great memory worth revisiting, and your taste buds are about to reach the full purpose of their creation.
Yuuuuuum!
Twice!!

....
I'm having a hard time deciding what to watch during the flight.
Odd, because when on flights that last between 1-3 hours, I usually opt for the following bundle:
1) Entourage, usually episode 7 of season 5, "Gotta Look Up to Look Down."
2) Curb Your Enthusiasm's episode "The Therapists."
and
3) The last 15 minutes of Steve Martin's Shopgirl.

Then the pilot will inform us that we're about to land and my ear buds will take leave of the laptop and will latch themselves on to the iPhone as I go to my contacts, hit the phone icon, and utter: "oy, I'm here!"

In a matter of minutes we'll be heading to Powell's, order some java, exchange some proper 'hellos', talk about the exact same things we have been talking about in the not-so-distant past, comment on new hairstyles, eyeware, travels, why Lucky's makes the best-fitting boot cut pants, and consequently tackle something of actual substance like HBO programming, new writing, when we'll be brunching the next day, and whether we should have others join us as we see the new exhibit at the PAM called Riches of a City.

I'm not keen on having a crowd when looking at some art but then again, Warhol kind of, sort of begs for some crowd attention, right? It's not like Caravaggio who begs for solitary admiration, after all. Warhol's work is meant to be discussed by more than just two people. It's only apropos, after all, that an attention seeker be given just that, attention. And the more unusual the bunch, the better. But then again I'm not in a Warhol frame of mind these days. Last February I was. A whole lot. Then again this February is nothing like the last one. It's not flat here anymore. My new geography has curves. And the ocean.

I have yet to say 'no' to a Portland trip. I remember my first experience in the city rather vividly. It was eight years ago and I was on the PSU campus marveling at the dewy flowers on the immaculately kept side gardens. The air felt crisp and I couldn't sense any worries at all. I remember skipping while walking and the reason I provided for such an activity was quite simple, 'I skip because I'm digging it here, 'k?'

This is how I define space. If it makes me feel at ease so much so that I can skip with no worry in sight then the space is good. If there is no possibility of skipping, then the space won't get to have me. Simple as that. After that first trip, the place kept calling me and one thing's certain, I'm completely powerless to siren-type callings. I can't say 'no' to it. I can't even say 'no' to a dreadfully boring 6-hour drive through the Nevada dessert, let alone ignore the possibility of scoring some class A crème brûlée. They truly rarely make it that good elsewhere.

I kept going back to Portland every few months for years. It also happens to be the place where my best friend hails from and currently lives. Another reason to make this a place of high interest and high frequency. And yet, I'd never live in such a place. Some places are meant to be visited and taken in small bites like a perfectly made crème brûlée.

Separate Togetherness Takes Much Conditioning

"Why do you have to go?"
"Because I'd like to be alone for a bit."
"Why? What will you do?"
"I'm just going to the beach. I'll sit on a bench. I'll look at the ocean for a while. I'll first grab some Starbucks on the way there. I'll drink it there. Then I'll be back."
"Why can't I come and be alone with you?"
"You want to, uhm, be alone with me as I sit on the bench, say nothing, with the sole intention to look at the ocean as I ascertain the milk temperature in my Macchiato?"
"I won't say anything. You won't even know I'm there."
"Uhm. I mean. Ok."

I tend to fail to understand why one is constantly offered sociality when one specifically wants its other sibling: solitude. "Well, why can't I come along and have solitude with you?" Because solitude comes from 'solo', i.e., alone, hence.... I've struggled with this. I struggle with this. Thing is, I can enjoy solitude with a few others, too. The number is quite emaciated, however. My best friend and I can read together and not talk for hours at a time. We have this 'separate togetherness' thing down to a science. Other friends of ours crack jokes regarding our use of public space. We could be at Starbucks reading a few chapters of a book or writing a half chapter of one, share a table, order the exact same drink, and not talk during the entire time as if we are perfect strangers. But then when the laptop is put away, it's like the rest of the world does not exist and it's socialization on steroids.

You can only have "separate togetherness" with the truly strong at heart and secure, however. It takes ontological security to feel safe in silence. Chatter can be comforting to many. Silence, on the other hand, takes guts. Another thing that silence needs to have in order to be is true intimacy. Actual intimacy, be it familial, social, romantic, et al., is an active ingredient of good silence.

Whenever I want to work something out in my mind, I'm, for some reason, transported back to a childhood memory involving a Mediterranean beach. I suppose that time and place is where the core of my personality took roots. Or something. I'd never really gotten why my mind always takes me to a beach from my past when I'm having my daily breaks of 'quiet reflection.' Till now, I mean.

Thing is, I've been on other beaches since. In different continents. With many different people. Some more appealing than others. Some more intelligent than others. What sets this particular beach apart, however, is the fact that my memory involves nobody else but me.
And I'm a social-ista.
People are always around me. I'm rarely solo unless I make a concentrated effort to be. I'm simply stating something here. Being solo is something I greatly love. And crave. Deeply. Always have. And yet, being solo has always been a state of being that's under constant threat of colonization. The funny thing is that I've never had a compulsion to colonize anyone. Ever. I've simply never had the need. I guess, as in much else, we are conditioned to privilege certain positions over others.

Now, the memory looks like this:
I'm wearing a white shirt and my favorite summer shorts. My mother dressed me well. Always. (And I always managed to put holes in my clothes in a matter of days by playing rough on the playground but this is somehow removed from how I remember this particular childhood snippet.)

My outfit looks pristine even though I'm getting on the rocks of this particular Mediterranean beach inspecting anything from odd-looking shells to random sticks.
The sun is scorching hot. It's around 3PM. Everyone is having their afternoon nap. Everyone but me as, of course, insomniacs are not just miraculously made in adulthood. It takes practice to be a true insomniac and if you want to debate me on this don't even freaking try. You'll lose. Trust.

Back to the memory.

I'm on a hot, summer beach. I am missing nobody and nothing. I think about the last chess game I had with my Dad and how he check-mated me just as I was thinking of moving my rook so that I could check mate him (odd, the particular details the mind can recall!) and I feel my smirk showing up on my face. I say something akin to 'crap!' I squint as I have no shades on, examine the shape of a funny-looking shell, and continue thinking about everything and nothing, feeling absolutely fine with my existence.

I'm relating to the rocks, the loud clashing of the big ocean waves, and the piercing cricket sounds. I'm not interested in playing with my new beach friends nor do I seek them out. Come to think of it, I never sought them out. They just happened. Sort of the way they just happen now when I'm minding my own business, thinking about the next chapter of the new book, rocking to some new indie band, wondering what the next chapter of existence will bring with it and how much or little it will resemble my immediate past and current life.

Then I start walking on the edges of the rocky beach thinking of how great it feels to be surrounded by the elements and how annoyed I'd be if my new beach friend, Landi, whom I liked ok, decided to show up all of a sudden and invite me to play soccer with him. 'That'd suck.' I think. But I'll still go and play because I know I can always re-visit the feeling of blissful solitude later. I play along as playing along always happens to me. I'm there. And it occurs. And when I'm in it, I want to win it.

Ha. It's no different from adulthood, I think this morning at 4:30AM when I wake up. The only thing I hear is a very slight non-vexing snore but it doesn't bother me. It sort of resembles a Kings of Leon song. It's still quiet, though. Silencio.

I decide to get to a solitary place so that my typing won't wake up the sleeping. My mind takes me to the rocky beach on the Mediterranean where I swam so hard that my parents would be on the verge of a nervous breakdown as I'd refuse to come out of the water for hours and hours at a time till my bottom lip would virtually go black. The beach where I met the cool new friends who were decent at dodge ball and to whom I promised I'd keep in touch but, of course, once back in the city, never did. The beach where I'd listen to Hit Parade tracks and feel so good about my "coolness factor," how in-the-know I was about so much, and how flipping much it rocked that my brother dug my music sense. The beach where so much looked so good and was so aesthetically pleasing and I took some pride in the fact that I could be there.

The beach where being alone made sense the most. Life felt not only doable but good. I meshed with the elements, the rocks on the beach, the funny-looking shells, the random sticks, the piercing crickets and all. The beach, where being in the company of my self offered some kind of relief that I seemed to show I had when on the playground generally winning at dodge ball, hugging my friends, and laughing it up with my kind.

So, the realization that came to me this morning at 4:30AM is rather clear to me now. I am still and unequivocally the same creature I was on that hot, dry Mediterranean beach. People. Life. Love. Interestingness. Challenges. Chess losses. Sociality. All of these things happen almost exactly the same way they happened when I was a child with a keen penchant for music who loved exploring things solo when everyone else was indulging in a little afternoon nap.

Sociality is doable, even enjoyable, only when I give in to my natural urge to explore things on my own and my own terms, uninfluenced by dodge ball rules, ice cream cone distractions, rooks and knights, and Landi, the boy on the beach with the new, shiny soccer ball who's always keen on grabbing me from the rock so that I can play soccer with him instead.
What a veritable Virgil!

My Encounter with the Terrifying Sublime

Well, it was bound to happen to me, too. I had to cross paths with the terrifying sublime. And I did. Tonight, between 8:46PM and 1:03AM. The terrifying sublime came in the form of an ice storm on the highway.

I don’t usually make it a habit to inform the internets that/when I get scared. Or that anything really has too huge an impact on my personal Weltanschauung. Tonight, however, I experienced what Kant might have meant by the experience of the ‘terrifying sublime’.

I’ve always had a bit of a hard time when faced with the question to define the ‘terrifying sublime.’ It's not that I lack some experiential knowledge of it because I most certainly don't. It's that I can do a much better job interpreting it cognitively. It feels easier and somewhat safer. I also find it easier to interpret what my inner circle means by their own definition.

What I like about true and honest sociality is that, at the core, it’s about self-exploration and a better knowing of the self. I found this to be true as a child when interacting with my childhood pal, Alexander, and sharing with each other that sweet little nothing every little 7-year-old would love to hear on the playground: “Bri, you’ll always be my number 1 pick for the dodge ball team.” And then he pulled my pig tails, stuck his tongue out, and said, ‘whoever runs to your house first, gets to buy ice cream for both.’ I don’t think I’ve had better ice cream since, by the way. Victory always tastes sweeter. Whoever doesn’t agree must know very well what it means to always come in second. But that’s another post. I digress which, incidentally, is a most dexterous way to avoid having to deal with definitions of the ‘terrifying sublime.’

Back to my account. I left work around 8:35pm and started driving South in the direction of my house which is in the city. The work is not. The work is about an hour drive to the North. I don’t mind driving too terribly as I get to do most of my better thinking when behind the wheel listening to my self-selected playlists, and seeing how the Pacific looks in the company of capricious mountains. The way I describe my drive to my people is the following: “My eyes get made love to when I’m driving North.” I wonder why I’m tired after the drive but it truly is a pleasant, placid feeling after spending about an hour on the freeway looking at the sporadic islands and the meeting points of the ocean and mountains. It's a good tired. Sated tired.

So, tonight, while listening to the Arcade Fire’s track “Neighborhood #1 “Tunnels””, I started decelerating as traffic got awfully slow. A man in uniform started asking drivers to roll down their windows so he could share some info. He comes to me and says: ‘Due to severe weather, some cars ended up on a ditch. Yeah. So, the towing trucks are trying to get them out of there so that we can open the road. It’ll be about a half hour.’

Crap. I’ll sit here till 9:15pm. I’m tired. I want some tea. And a bath. And some more tea. Then I want to watch Shopgirl and maybe have a chat about absolutely nothing of consequence.

I keep listening to the Arcade Fire. My phone rings again. My house wants to know if I’m anywhere near home. I say, ‘yeah, not likely. I have not moved an inch since 9:12pm.
“Are you serious? You haven’t eaten since 4:14pm. It’s now 10:30pm.” Food is the last thing on my mind. And time is right after it.

The same uniform-wearing man comes to my window and informs me that they have detected a few more cars in a topsy-turvy situation in the freeway. Yikes. I like the phrase ‘topsy-turvy’ but no in the highway sense. He says it’ll be another half hour. Which of course means, it’ll be close to 1.5 hours.

I’m getting restless. I’m tired. I just want to go home and talk very little about things of little consequence so that I can finally unwind and go to bed. Instead, I’m stuck in the car, the Arcade Fire is playing, and my mind wanders to Kant’s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime (Beobachtungen über das Gefühl des Schönen und Erhabenen) and his definition of the ‘terrifying sublime’. Then my mind revisits conversations I have had with people regarding definitions of the Kantian ‘terrifying sublime.’ My best friend defines it as waking up next to a person who has all the features of one’s love but smells like a stranger. Another one defines it as driving through Kansas. Poor Kansas! I wonder if it knows that it’s someone’s definition of the ‘terrifying.’

My definition would be something like, ‘Getting stuck under much snow while on thick ice. Listening to the Arcade Fire’s Funeral while the brain is exhausted, sensing no way out when looking at the watch. Stop. Kein Ausweg! You’re stuck on a one-lane freeway, sandwiched in-between two vehicles.’

Then I see myself let out a ‘hmm’ by way of a smile. I guess smiling is one of those involuntary reactions the brain has concocted as a way of dealing with unknown variables, hazardous weather conditions, sensorial overloads, and general feelings of confusion. And, wait, I choose to listen to the Arcade Fire’s album Funeral when processing all of this stuff?! What, does masochism need to be defined in real life, too. So, then I turn to another playlist. I pick Death Cab for Cutie instead. Because, of course, when you want things to start looking up you always go for Ben Gibbard’s voice.

Assorted Links

1) The Neuroscience of Music. Gripping article. A bit says: "Why does music make us feel? On the one hand, music is a purely abstract art form, devoid of language or explicit ideas. The stories it tells are all subtlety and subtext. And yet, even though music says little, it still manages to touch us deep, to tickle some universal nerves. When listening to our favorite songs, our body betrays all the symptoms of emotional arousal. The pupils in our eyes dilate, our pulse and blood pressure rise, the electrical conductance of our skin is lowered, and the cerebellum, a brain region associated with bodily movement, becomes strangely active." You can read the rest here.

2) Napoleon Dynamite, your ligers are real, apparently! Read here.

3) When scientists drink on the job, discoveries are made, apparently.... This is good! Read here.

4)My first reaction upon reading this was what, what?!' The name of the product is Crown Jewels: Condoms of Distinction. The new product was inspired by Prince Williams & Kate's upcoming nuptials. A bit says: "Combining the strength of a Prince with the yielding sensitivity of a Princess-to-be, Crown Jewels condoms promise a royal union of pleasure. Truly a King amongst Condoms."

No, I'm not joking. Read more here. Tip of the hat to Tyler Cowan for the pointer.

Lost in Translation and Nostalgia

I'm into George Orwell these days. I don't know why I want to revisit 1984. I guess it has something to do with the fact that I was reminded of a smart student I used to have who used to wear a black t-shirt with '1984' on it. I remember wanting to smirk every time he made comments. My word! He was so original and so wise. And every time I had to work so hard to resist my usual reply, 'How does one get to think like you? You're brilliant, brilliant.' Instead, every single time and without fail, I would simply and much professorially say 'hmm, interesting point. Thanks.'

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm proving myself right yet again when it comes to my often too tedious a point that good sociality can only occur when surrounded by those who share a number of cultural references. To feel gotten we need to expand our circles regardless of how great we think they are. But back to the black t-shirt boy.

Other classmates would ask him whether '1984' was his year of birth and annoyingly he would say 'NO!' thus, in a way sort of leave it at that. I remember wanting to divorce myself from objectivity for a quick second to interject some kind of answer about the contextual meeting of his t-shirt. Luckily, in hindsight, I didn't. It's best to just observe a few things and let them happen while resisting the urge to 'improve.' Some things are meant to be left untouched and/or unedited.

I'm watching Lost in Translation tonight as I do the other favorite activities of the evening. As much as evening sociality comes with its perks, my favorite part of the day is that space at night when all I can hear is the sound of my own thoughts mixed with whatever indie rick band I'm playing in the other room(s).

I often revisit Lost in Translation as it's filled with a number of important texts in my own existence. When it first came out, I remember resisting watching it. One of my grad school friends, a fellow nerd with a strong sense of high fashion, kept insisting that I watch it. However, I kept saying, 'Yeah, let's not.' I don't know why I resorted to that kind of puerile response but I guess we're bound to revert to childhood patterns regardless of how smart and informed we think we may become. However, after my friend relented, I did watch Lost in Translation. I didn't just like it. I felt gotten while watching it. Having lived in different countries much of my life, I felt I got the essence of the film.

Granted, my experience doesn't mirror that of the characters' as I've never lived in Tokyo. What I still have in common with the film is the way it captures the poetry of sadness that disconnectedness brings with it. There's no way to capture disconnectedness by words. I truly believe that you can only capture it via a commonality of experience.

Lost in Translation used to be the kind of film I would watch as a way of curing my insomnia. It would relax me, sort of like Wonder Boys and Tootsie can. This time however, I can sense quite a bit of creative fecundity while listening to traces of music from the other room, taking in the dialog of the film, and thinking what the heck transpired during the day today.

I don't know why I keep going back to my usual things. It's always Dante, Lost in Translation, J. M. Coetzee, or Schnitzler. And yet, my fascination with novelty does not get weaker by time. On the contrary, the older I get, the more I crave for more of it. I suppose it's a way to combat repetitive patterns. Repetition, is a double-edged sword, after all. It not only leads to expertise and enhanced ability but also boredom. And the latter is the one thing that manages to scare me almost as much as Inferno 5.

And yet Lost in Translation could never bore me. It, much like the beginning of a great connection and human story, gets better and more appealing with time. Every time I watch it, it brings me back to 2004, the year of the beginning of my actual self-actualization. And how could such a text ever become inconsequential?! Not anytime soon. At least not till nostalgia and immediate memory still have some clout. And they do. A whole lot if it.

2010: A Year in Review

What a year this was!
I like to review the end of the year by looking at the pictures on my iPhoto that I took during it. Even though my natural pace is a fast one, reviewing the photos made me go: 'Whoa, Nelly!, that's a lot of year, Bri!'
Last January, I remember reviewing 2009 the way it looked in music. You can revisit that piece here. Incidentally, that piece is also the one that attracted the largest number of traffic to date.

This time around I decided to go through it in picture. Most of this year up to late Summer, I was in Ohio, writing away, teaching courses in my area of expertise, and presenting at academic conferences. I got another article published, gave presentations on a few campuses, and, last but not least, managed to score some tickets to the Real Time with Bill Maher show out in Los Angeles.
Seeing Maher live was as much fun as presenting my latest article on 500 Days of Summer and how I see it as an example of suburbia's almost innate ability to whip most things into submission including punk art. But I see that I've now embarked on a non sequitur and this is not that kind of post.
Summer time had me traveling out West, the land that I love, then back East, the land that holds many of my special people and loved ones, and eventually out West again. This time to live and work in it.

I got to learn how to milk a cow, feed a calf, take a picture with an American Idol out by Rodeo Dr. in Los Angeles, and what else, ah and of course, I went to a bunch of concerts but that is not necessarily report-worthy again as it already got a good chunk of my attention here as well as in my quotidianity. This is not a post about music, neither.

So, what was the theme of this year? Well, the theme would be a soup of light and heavy. Sort of like 'light pop sauteed in substance'. Lightness and severity need to get mixed up, after all.
And the one picture that would do justice to this last paragraph as well as the year in general would be the one featured here taken in May in Los Angeles with me and Casey James, the singer of American Idol fame. No, I don't watch American Idol. Yes, it's the perfect visual of a year where light and heavy coexisted almost too beautifully.

Happy 2011, everyone! What better wish can I have other than to take it as it comes and do the best you can with it....

Gaga-fied?

I've been living in the Pacific Northwest now since Summer. I've always maintained that the pace of the Northwest is much in tune with my own pace. What makes the Pacific Northwest particularly gripping is, and there's no other non-trivial to say this, music. I love the music scene from this neck of the woods. I especially love the text of music here. Music just feels different here. I illustrate. While driving South, Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" pops up on my iPod. I don't know how Gaga managed to creep into my playlist. It's a mystery. It's as much a mystery as Gwen Stefani's Love. Angel. Music. Baby. I don't know how it got on my iPod but it did. I took a glimpse of my Dad in the back seat and he was clearly digging Gaga. In shock, I turned around and said, 'wait, you like this?' He says "I do. It's catchy. Yeah, don't change it. Let it play"
Deep down I'm thinking, "dude, my Dad's into Gaga?!" But then she kind of sort of grows on me. Maybe it's because those around me are sort of inclined to like her. No, I'm not going all the way Gaga. Can't see it happening anytime soon. I've got too much new music to explore around here.

What's gripping about music is that it allows you to reconsider where you stand vis-a-vis your tastes and what the world has to offer. Music makes one more adaptable, even flexible. I'm not saying I'm morphing into a Gaga fan anytime soon. What I'm saying is that music, like few other things out there, has the power to make one revisit choices and attitudes.

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Hmm. You Want a PhD in the Humanities?

My good friend just sent this to me. Alas, much of it is true. It's especially interesting if one has a graduate degree, is a college professor, and has had countless conversations with students who come for advice whether or not to go to graduate school.

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