Plush Parade

Last November through January 2011, I took an online class via MediaBistro to bone up on my journalism skills - Boot Camp for Journalists. I absorbed a ton of new knowledge in just a few weeks and managed to sell one of my pieces and just recently revamped one to post on LAist. My first assignment was to craft a profile. Lucky for me, I know a lot of interesting people, a lot of interesting local artists. I chose friend and, at the time, coworker Trish Tatman. I never sold the piece, and it's lived happily on my laptop for the past year. Today I unleash it to you to enjoy. I really like this one.

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Scraps of felt, bags of polyfil, spools of colorful thread and scattered sewing needles surround artist Trish Tatman as she lays out her latest plush creation. Currently gearing up for Zig Zag, an event for designers showcasing handmade crafts for children, she spends all of her free time churning out simple plush animals, foods and accessories as well as her more complex doll designs. At the ripe age of twenty-five, Trish is an impressive force within the plush community. She not only has the gift of craft but a keen business sense, too. Her dream – to have her own art gallery in five years.

Miss Melanie McMinn the Moose Girl

Plush toys, born in Germany in 1880, thrive among craft shows in Southern California and all over the world. If you are in the market for something cute and cuddly, look no further. These creations, typically made from felt, fleece or other soft fabrics, are stuffed with polyfil then stitched shut. Trish typically uses the running stitch as it leaves little evidence. Plush dolls are adorned with various materials, such as buttons for eyes, and also use an array of fabric to dress them. She also makes plush foods, like “KC the Carrot,” “Berkley the Banana,” “Chicken Wings and Drums” and “Super Plush Sushi Two Pack.” Her buyers really do eat them up.

If her next show is distant, she welcomes her design chops and sketches new characters at her worktable. Each year she develops about four new designs, along with modifications to existing ones. Next to her worktable is an inspiration board covered in colors, fabrics and interior design samples. A plush concept is born from a series of about fifty drawings, evolving through several different body shapes, colors, types of fabric, noses and sets of teeth and eyes. This is the most time-consuming part of her process. She then cuts the fabric, laying out/designing the doll. “Trish works extremely fast, and when she has an idea, she is really focused and can finish a doll in two nights if needed,” says Justin Parpan, an L.A.-based illustrator. Cutting and laying out/designing a simple monster, for example, takes about one hour. The next hour and a half are spent sewing while watching TV. Her larger, more complicated designs can take days, spaced out in two to three hour bursts. “My largest plush, a four foot long red squid, took two hours to cut, one hour to layout and nine hours to sew.” She shudders slightly.

Her favorite doll shape is “oval with long, dangling legs.” She grabs the sugar shaker from our table at Joe’s Main Street Diner in Santa Monica, illustrating this beloved build. Smitten with her favorite creation, Cyclops with hipster jeans, her hands explain the little bits that complete her precious one-eyed monster. Each doll is brought to life by Trish’s adoration, naming and photographing each one in unique poses and locations for her Etsy store, Plush Parade. Dolls also come complete with short biographies and detailed physical descriptions. Zelda Fitzgerald, a hybrid female human and deer, sits comfortably on a window ledge and is “great to have over for fine tea and finer conversation.” Who knew?

Cloff G Hoffernoff

According to Justin, Trish’s deer girl line is a big seller and a huge success. He notes that he knew the line would do well, adding, “The proportions and cute/jaded expression on the faces of the deer girls were really humorous to me.”

As a successful illustrator, Justin also juggles a full-time job, busy online store and frequent shows. Always coming to his rescue on the business side of art, the “extremely organized” Trish handles the money at all of his shows and helps manage his online store. He admits, “I'm a guy, so multitasking doesn't come easy!” Her ability to prosper in both the creative and business worlds is very rare for an artist.

Though currently based in L.A., Trish spent her youthful summers in small-town Indiana with her grandparents where her craft was born. Following the instruction of her grandmother, she first learned to fabricate sock puppets. “It was very simple, but I felt like I accomplished a lot,” she says of her first sock puppet. Using one of her grandpa’s white socks, she sewed on button eyes and a small squiggly line for a nose. The puppets entertained her for hours.

During her junior year at Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota, Florida, Trish witnessed an inspiring illustration by a fellow student. After receiving permission to create a plush bunny based off the cute characters in it, she spent an hour with white linen and paint. Trish proudly displayed the finished product at school on her work desk. Another student requested her own plush bunny, and suddenly Trish was buried in orders. Holding up her hands to demonstrate size, Trish recalls that the dolls were small and sold for $5-$8. “I thought, oh cool, food money!” she remembers. “People basically forced me to sell them. I kind of fell into it.” Ringling’s art show organizers soon received news of these fabulous plush creatures and asked Trish to create some for an upcoming show. The word was out.

Super Sushi Plush Set

Flash forward two years, we find Trish describing herself as “lucky” and “grateful.” Picking off gooey globs of cheddar from her grilled cheese, she beams while explaining her busy schedule of working full-time and managing her Etsy store, blog and upcoming shows. Rising around 7am each day, she makes the time to fulfill her creative outlet and plush orders, and of course to eat breakfast. “Meals are very important to me,” she tells me, dipping a curly fry into dollop of ketchup. My assumption that she must rely on caffeine to power her through such long days is largely incorrect. She survives on her impressive, rare natural energy, a trait that most of us would burn down a Starbucks to possess. When a plush show is approaching, she spends her mornings doing inventory and preparing for the event. This woman has her plush together.

You might be helpless against grabbing your wallet while visiting Plush Parade. Ecstatic compliments in all caps fill the page, while pleased customers refer to their new plush dolls as “cute,” “amazing” and “wonderful.” Trish also welcomes commissioned projects and appreciates those who are specific in their orders. A great example, she says, is “a purple bear with big sharp teeth. I know exactly what to do.”

Plush Parade is featured on the event flyer for Zig Zag, which takes place December 5, 2010 in Encinitas, California. Having learned much about kids through her work, Trish incorporates bright colors, recognizable shapes, child-safe adornments, soft fabrics like felt and fleece, and plenty of “huggable items” into her parade. She will haul her entire stock to the show, about thirty-five dolls, as well as her smaller creations for the children. How many she will sell depends largely on the audience, but most times she sells between ten and twenty dolls.

Trish’s dream gallery would promote her plush dolls, foods, brooches, hair clips, key chains and also the work of other independent artists. Constantly researching this goal, she is well aware of where her money situation needs to be to bring her gallery to life. She has been taking the necessary steps, like saving, to organize and prepare her finances. Judging from the shredded napkin in front of her, Trish is equipped with the energy to do whatever she wants. And she has the right attitude, too. Amidst “felt, fabric, buttons, pen, paper and thread,” one of her favorite materials is “fun.”

Adventures in Raw Foodism

I love food. But I also love (and need to be) losing weight. I'm the type of overweight gal who goes on workout and diet kicks until an obstacle steps into my master plan and knocks me off my physique horse, setting me back for weeks. When I'm on, I'm ON. I keep up with the skinnies around me, sometimes outdoing them while spinning my ass off during an intense 50-minute spin class. I usually eat pretty healthy, shunning processed foods and animal proteins. But my problem is portion control. It's not that I'm stuffing my face constantly, but to maintain a healthy weight, you HAVE to watch what you eat and exercise. Unfortunately for me, there exist those times of the year when I do none of the above. Which is one of the reasons why I dream up extreme diet plans to kick my ass back into gear, back into health, back into happy.

On Monday, November 7, I embarked on my first raw eating adventure. For 5 days I would eat all raw. I would lose weight. I would feel great. That relentless bulge in my midsection would shrink. Those jeans wouldn't cut off circulation. My mind would clear. And it all did.

Eating raw, which involves only ingesting food and drink that has not been altered by heat in any way - uncooked and unprocessed - has a host of benefits. Raw Food Stylist, Melissa Henig, who I met at the Venice Farmer's Market and absolutely adore, describes these benefits on her website. "A diet containing raw food leads to more energy, clear skin, easy digestion, Alkaline body, less cravings for sugar or processed foods, more nutrients, vitality, and natural weight loss." Adding to those benefits, Henig includes a more detailed list of benefits in the "Why Raw?" section of her site, which I've pasted below for your curiosity convenience.

1. Energy

2. Improved skin conditions and healthy glow

3. Weight loss naturally

4. Enzymes- Great digestion and clean colon

5. Reduced risk of heart disease(a raw food diet contains fewer trans fats and saturated fats)

6. Full of anti-oxidants

7. Body alkalinity

8. Hydration

9. Fiber

10. FLAVOR

11. Oxygen rich environment

12. Nutritionally dense food

13. Contributes to a healthy planet

I want to reap from all of those improvements, and I assume most of you do, too. Henig defines a raw food diet as "eliminating all processed and cooked foods and eating fresh fruit and vegetables, sprouts, nuts, seeds, avocado, coconuts, raw milk, raw bison and sea vegetables." I'm not sure about "raw bison..." Henig should be tapped for further explanation, but as a non-meat eater, it doesn't quite concern me. Heating food above 110 degrees "destroys the life in food," says Henig, including killing enzymes and depleting minerals and nutrients.

I told friends and family about my plan, most of whom claimed they could never do it. But seriously, folks, it was very simple. It was boring because I lacked creativity in my spontaneous raw diet. But I had two secret weapons that kept me going through the fruit and veggie salads - NUTS and AVOCADO. Stock. Up. I'm a pescetarian who rarely eats fish and hates salads, except those that are prepared for me by someone else. But slap on half an avocado and that salad will sing. Nuts were my prime source of protein - raw, unsalted cashews, pistachios and almonds. But plants also offer protein. According to Henig, spinach and broccoli are 30% protein. I did not thoroughly research nutrition specifics before starting my diet as it was short term, so if you plan on going raw for more than a week, definitely do your research to make sure you're getting all the proper nutrients. I probably should've taken a multivitamin, but hey, I forgot. I've never been much of a pill popper.

Day 1 began with a big fat fruit salad, a dish that I quickly became addicted to and kept very simple.
1 banana
1 apple
1 handful of mixed grapes
*Very tasty, very filling.

For snacks, I noshed on a 1/4 cup of cashews (yes, I measured my nuts), sugar snap peas and then a banana before heading to my spinning class. Surprisingly, this grazing method kept me full and energized without a heavy lunch.

Dinner time begged me to use the overwhelming amount of veggies I'd crammed into my fridge. Let's take a look at my first dinner salad:
herb salad mix (Trader Joe's) and baby spinach
micro greens
heirloom tomatoes
cucumber
1/2 avocado
1/2 yellow bell pepper
onion
sliced raw, unsalted almonds

Most store-bought salad dressings are not raw, so I made my own.
cold-pressed sesame oil
balsamic vinegar
apple cider vinegar
cilantro

Oh, and I drown my innards with lemon water throughout the day. I peed A LOT.

I awoke on Tuesday sans the usual groggy weight pulling me back into slumber. I felt great. Throwing off my covers, I hopped onto my scale. The results were gratifying and motivating - down 3.7 pounds in 24 hours. Granted, a lot of this (maybe all of this) was water weight, but I felt the difference.

Below I'm sharing my treats for the rest of the week just in case any of you out there want to give raw foodism a go.

Day 2
Breakfast: Fruit Salad
1 banana
1 pear
1 handful of mixed grapes
1 orange

Snacks: 1/4 cup cashews, 1/4 cup pistachios


Dinner: Salad
herb salad mix and baby spinach
micro greens
heirloom tomatoes
cucumber 
1/2 avocado
1/2 yellow bell pepper
onion
homemade dressing

Day 3
Breakfast: Fruit Salad
1 banana
1 pear
1 handful of mixed grapes
1 orange

Snacks: 1/4 cup pistachios

Dinner: Salad
herb salad mix and baby spinach
micro greens
cucumber 
*This time, in lieu of homemade dressing, I made guacamole (avocado, onions, tomatoes, lime juice from a fresh lime). AMAZING. I highly recommend this, especially on day 3 when stomaching yet another SALAD seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

SIDE NOTE: I'm constantly daydreaming about pizza, tofu and sandwiches.

Day 4
Breakfast: Fruit Salad
1 banana
1 pear
1 handful of mixed grapes
1 apple

Snacks: 1/4 cup cashews, 1/4 cup pistachio, 1 orange

Dinner: I snacked a little extra during the day, and after an intense yoga class, I (shockingly) wasn't hungry!

Day 5
Breakfast: Fruit Salad
1 pear
1 handful of mixed grapes
1 orange
*Ran out of bananas. They were sorely missed.

Snacks/Dinner: I decided it was time to reward myself on my final day, so I hopped over to the Venice Farmer's Market to visit the Raw Food Stylist. I scored a few Breakfast Balls, Kale Chips & Collard Wraps with Papaya Mango Chutney. I should've taken photos, but amidst my treating glee, I neglected to do so.

And that was it! I followed my raw diet into the next day while en route to Vegas to meet up with Mama Lloyd then indulged that evening. Everything tasted extremely salty to my tongue, and I was stabbed with a tinge of regret as a mouthful of pizza dumped into my happily cleansed tummy. "Sorry," I told my body as I reached for a glass of wine. I know what you're thinking: pizza and wine to break a cleanse? Let me explain. I didn't have much choice with dinner considering I was forced to select from a menu that offered one vegetarian option: pizza. I was pleased to find that my appetite had drastically decreased. A salad and two tiny pieces of pizza pie, and I was stuffed. Good. Great. Excellent. Keep it up.

I felt much lighter during my raw cleanse, both physically and mentally. Typically, the mornings are my enemy. It takes an embarrassing amount of energy and bitter taps on the snooze button to yank me from my dreams. I love sleep. But I was a changed woman during raw week. I awoke each morning with ease and a happy tummy. My skin felt smooth, though it did break out a bit more than usual. This may have been a side effect of the cleansing combined with me being a woman. Additionally, the mucus that usually plagues my body and disrupts my workouts vanished by the third day. I realized how much cleaner my sinuses and lungs felt during a spin class when, to my delight, I wasn't constantly clearing my throat and wiping my nose.

As for weight loss - drum roll please - I lost a grand total of 9.2 pounds in 5 days. Sure, I was netting way too few calories due to a low caloric intake paired with daily spinning, which burns around 500 calories per hour, but I felt like a million bucks. The above is not a long term diet plan - far too boring and not researched - but I highly recommend it if you need a good cleanse or want to drop significant weight in a short amount of time to kickstart permanent weight loss. I'll do it again, and when I do, I'll be a bit more creative with my raw recipes. And I'll buy that juicer I've been eying for years. If you want to go raw for long term, do it! Just make sure you know what you're doing to stay healthy.

Post-raw diet proved to be the hardest part: keeping the weight off and losing more. I know exactly what to do. It's common sense and simple: diet and exercise. But that's much harder than it sounds. Once I master that beast, I'll let you know. Until then, let's just be healthy and tune in to our bodies. Stop to listen. You'll be surprised what that stomachache, headache, joint pain, etc. is telling you.

Lucky in Love

Hudson and I celebrated our five year anniversary on October 2. We spent the day sweating - no, no, not from heavy petting - from slaving in the backyard of our cabin in Running Springs. Though it's more so Hudson's cabin, as he's the investor, he granted me permission to call it "our" cabin. As I forced my shovel into the rocky, impossible soil, I watched Hudson as he climbed on the top of the shed he and his father were building. A dude project at its best, they worked on it for three days straight. Hudson is a doer, and that's one of the reasons I love him. He doesn't waste time. He lives. He dreams for a short time then acts. Not many people do this. They think and they dream and they plan and they make lists but they never really accomplish, well, anything. On the morning of our anniversary, I slept in while Hudson and his parents drove down the winding mountain highway for more shed supplies. I opened up my laptop for the first time that weekend and embraced the crisp morning air, the back porch - breathing deeply, watching birds dart among the treetops. And I wrote the below blog post with the intent of posting it that morning. But the Internet failed, and I allowed weeks to pass before finally spilling my heart and mind into the blogosphere. Here we go.

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Five years ago tonight I kissed a boy at a Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert who has since then tolerated my deviant behavior and loved me despite knowing me better than anyone, even myself. Happy half decade, Hudson B. Wise. 

I consider myself lucky in love, and I hope many of you out there echo this feeling. I’d never been in love before I met Hudson, hardly even dated. I’d move into the entertaining details of my elementary and middle school flames, my intense high school crushes and my reckless college interests, but my mom or your mom could read this, and I’d rather spare them the horror that once was Lauren Ashley Lloyd.

I love me at 28, and for that I partially have Hudson to thank. He is the most genuine, kindest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve learned from him that sometimes dissecting people and zeroing in on their strengths and faults only makes for a very agitated, unhappy social life. However, this is very difficult for me given that I’m a writer and excel in people-watching. He’s also taught me a thing or two in the kitchen – recipes are not always needed to create an incredible dish. From Hudson I’ve also learned to surf, and although I will never be great or even good, I stood up on the board twice for a nanosecond each a couple weeks back in San Onofre and am still feeling that rush of excitement and calm of accomplishment. And he’s taught me how to love.

John Lennon was spot-on when he penned “All You Need Is Love.” C’est completement vrai. Hudson and I have had countless high highs, minimal and forgettable low lows and often enjoy that comfortable middle ground that develops once you’ve been in a relationship for a considerable amount of time, once you see and love the same extraordinary being almost daily for years.

Sure, we’ll probably buckle down and succumb to societal tradition and marry, have children and buy a house along a California shore. Okay, so that last step is just a fantasy combined with the narrow possibility of winning the lottery. But for now, I love to love, and my left ring finger is content sans gem. Weddings are, in my world, a waste of time and money. Keep it simple. Save your money. Go see the world instead of inviting a drove of family and friends - some of whom you may not even love - to see you. To me, typical diamond engagement rings, while undoubtedly gorgeous, are just pieces of overpriced jewelry, advertised to society as the material item necessary to prove your love and commitment to someone. I don’t need a ring. And I especially don’t need a gem that originated in a land of corruption, slavery and murder. I’ve seen “Blood Diamond,” I know. 

I just need an honest compadre, someone with whom my guard is down and being "on" is unnecessary. Someone who will love me for me, who will disagree when I call myself "fat." Someone who makes me feel at peace, at home, at ease. That someone is the man who became my first friend in California, my first love, my Hudson. 

Activism on Wheels

A couple weeks back I was pedaling along 7th Street in Venice on my way to Whole Foods. Focused on my mission at hand, I wondered what types of Pinot Grigio they were carrying and if they'd have any of those cute wine gift bags in stock. Suddenly, something stopped my important thoughts. A sign. Not a metaphysical sign - an actual sign, finger painted in black on a white piece of paper and affixed to the back of a rugged RV. As bare at the visual was, the frank message prompted my fingers to clamp down on my handlebar brakes. Stopped. Staring. Feeling bad about life. The sign read, "STOP VIOLENCE AGAINST THE HOMELESS."

What a simple, smart way to make a statement. Activism assumes many methods. And this handicapped SoCalian decided to post signage on his/her own home (presumption). I studied the handmade sign and the belongings tied to the bumper. A ladder, a folding chair, a blue box and other random items were fastened to "Lindy." Every single tangible piece of this person's life exists in this cramped space. Several rooms in which to pile useless things and meaningless stuff are not available to this person. He has his home on wheels, and that is probably all. Of course, I'm making assumptions, but judging from the countless mobile homes parked along the streets of Venice, or as some say, wrecking the streets of Venice, I think I'm fairly spot-on.

I wondered who lived inside. A man? A woman? Multiple humans? A family? Did they own pets? Did the inside smell? How long had they lived in Lindy? And are they staring back at me through the small back window? I then recognized my blatant disrespect, my cheeks warming slightly. But honestly, I had so many questions. I speculated the proceeding events should I knock on the door. I just had a few questions. This would make such a compelling, unique story that I could post on LAist the following morning. Thousands of readers would absorb my words, inciting a revolution for homeless people everywhere. Thoughts of Kelly Thomas, the mentally ill homeless man who was beaten to death by the Fullerton police in July, flipped my stomach. I sat back down on my padded, worn bicycle seat. I shouldn't impose.

I remained impressed by their activism, no matter how small the signage, the message was bold. Stop. Violence. Against. The. Homeless. Remember now, humans, homeless humans are humans, too. But I think that fact is one that we often neglect to retain. We're all the same race. We're brothers. We're sisters. It doesn't matter if we live in a camper with dirt staining our skin. It doesn't matter if we can count our possessions. In my opinion, life's better that way - simple. Yet we commonly treat homeless people like dirt. Not all of us and not all the time, but we do. I've done it. I still scowl when I see "bums" littering my front steps. I admit, I see them that way. At first. Thankfully compassion quickly awakens and floods my temporarily brainless mind, pumping blood back into my skull, reviving the knowledge that those are people. Those are people who live rough lives. They know what it's like to be starving. Don't ever say you're "starving" when you're hungry. Most times you are not. And you never will be. And you waste food and take life for granted. Life is hard. We know this. But there are ways to lessen the strain, the stress, the long faces.

As sappy as it may sound, start with a smile - it has a lasting, powerful impression that can lighten even the darkest of souls. I'm not saying smiles will end homelessness. I'm saying it's a start to elevate not just yourself but everyone around you. Then educate yourself. Research the homeless population in your neighborhood. How many shelters are available? Is there anything you can do to help? Surely there's an upcoming volunteer event that would love to have your helping hands. Share your mind muscles and experiences with others. Dig and uncover the violence that taints your neighborhood. What can be done? My hope is that once people can wrap their heads around what it's like to be without, well, anything, that they'll own a warmer heart, grow a bigger brain, wear a wider smile and widen their embraces.

"Neighbors Share!" Declares The Drunken Seaman

Last weekend Hudson and I lathered up our sea legs (with SPF 45, of course) and set sail from San Pedro to Two Harbors, Catalina Island. Battling the chilly, choppy Pacific for nearly 4.5 hours, we reached our destination in impressive time. And I only yakked once. Friendly tip: Come armed with Dramamine no matter how tough you think you are.

We moored on a stringline in The Isthmus' shallow waters, surrounded by fellow boaters, the sea and the shore. I expected several things from this trip: sunburn, dehydration, tasty grilled eats, QT with the man, hikes along the steep cliffs of Two Harbors, run-ins with native animals (fingers were crossed for buffalo), day drinking, ample time to read an entire book (almost finished with Naked by David Sedaris), relaxation and disconnection from the world. What I did not expect was a lesson in neighbors.

Friday afternoon encouraged a lazy victory over our sail paired with my recuperation from a violent tsunami of seasickness. Just as I was giddily settling into my read, a ship of presumed fools glided towards Hakuna Matata and snatched up the stringline to our left. Several middle-aged men - free from their mundane lives at home with their wives - shared playful jests and stories, guffaws exploding from their crowded deck. I studied the overwhelming display of manly bonding, my jaw dropping slightly when a bottle of 1800 Select Silver Tequila appropriately appeared among the camaraderie. These men are clearly excessive and cutting more than loose this weekend, I judged. 

On a normal day I would've leapt from Hakuna, landed in the dinghy, paddled the few feet to their vessel and joined them as they took turns swigging from the bottle. But Friday was far from normal. I felt strangely anti-social, wishing we'd moored in our own private cove. This was probably due to the fact that I'd just endured three hours of Hell and wanted nothing more than to press rewind, gobble a few pills of Dramamine, and restart our crusade. This not being possible, I decided to just ignore the rowdy bunch until they made it impossible to do so. And they did this within a matter of minutes.


"Want some tequila?" one of the men asked. We politely declined. "How about some beer?" We turned them down again. After all, our cooler was packed full of icy Simpler Times Lager.


And then the revelation hit.


"We're sharing! You know, because that's what neighbors do. They share!" explained one of our new neighbors as he took a seat on the edge of the average-sized, blue and white fishing boat, wiping liquor from his chin.


Neighbors share. Neighbors. We have neighbors. How silly and reserved of me to regard these gentlemen as strangers. Leading a cynical life, in my opinion, will direct you into a seclusive, sad world of bitterness, darkening any light that once warmed your soul. Neighbors.


Sure, we have neighbors in Venice. Fourteen units comprise our courtyard-style building. Are any of these people my friends? No. Have I ever shared with any of them? Actually, yes. A recently departed couple lived next to us for a year and a half, and I offered them two of my prized Halloween cupcakes last year as well as a tupperware brimming with fresh CSA produce that we couldn't finish before Hudson's birthday trip this past July. I share with my neighbors, sure. But these connections were, unfortunately, few and far between. I admit, my cheeks reddening as I type, that I don't know the names of any of my neighbors. There's the Bimmer enthusiast, entertained by my 1985 325e, with whom I greet in passing about once a week. But his name I have failed to retain. And I think the new girl's name might be Lindsey. I hardly see or hear from anyone. 


The fisherman stirred within me a longing for companionship, a self-inflicted accusation of selfishness and pointless privacy of which I planned to shake myself free at that very moment. 


We're all human. We're brothers. We're sisters. We're friends. We're neighbors. Awkward moments need not occur between us. We make them awkward by telling ourselves, "That man is a stranger! Don't look him in the eye! Don't break your stride, or you'll be forced to talk to him! Oh, the horror!"


My advice to myself and to you is to embrace those in your life who are friendly and genuine. You can never squeeze your arms around too many friends, too many neighbors or too many bottles of premium tequila. That last bit is extremely false, but I'm just making sure you're reading.


Won't you be my neighbor?

Rows of neighbors at Two Harbors, Catalina Island

28 Going On 28

Universe, say it ain't so! Am I really turning, gasp, 28 tomorrow? Have I actually reached my late twenties? It's okay. I'm feeling good about this one. My twenties have treated me quite well so far, besides the occasional "what am I doing with my life???" crisis. I've set a wealth of goals for myself over the last few years, and I can happily say I've conquered many of my major missions.

But I'd like to refrain from discussing my goals today, as I have quite a few more before I turn the dreaded 3-0 (I don't think it's particularly healthy to set goals by age, but hey, it works for me!) I want to talk about what I DO NOT want to accomplish before I turn 30. Here's my list.

Marry - We have our whole lives to get married, settle down, build a life, start a family. Why rush? I have zero desire to plan a wedding at this stage in my life. If I had to plan a wedding right now, it would be the simplest, most laid-back wedding in history. Then again, it will probably match this description no matter when I plan it. This desire to not marry in no way reflects my feelings towards Hudson. If he asked, I'd jump up and down and comply, under the condition we maintain our engaged status for a ridiculously long time.

Breed - I know my biological clock is ticking, blahblahblah, but I'm not ready to shoot out a being who will depend on me for the next few decades. I'm still figuring out me. Let's not bring another me into the equation just yet.


Buy Property - Seriously, who am I kidding? Graduate to California Homeowner? Hilarious. The only places I could afford are places where I would never, ever want to live. Plus, I'm not trying to grow residential roots just yet.

And I guess that's about it. Those are the biggies. If you ever hear me claiming to have baby or diamond rang fever, please slap me in the face. Twice.

Scant Concentration

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm back. Back on land. Back in L.A. Back to the grind. It's a fulfilling grind though, creatively fruitful, challenging and overdue. I'm drilling into my noggin's word bank, massive word Word doc, typing skills and tech-savviness. A common realization slapped my apples when I returned home from my trip at sea and immediately, without flotation, dove into a new writing/editing job. It might've even hit me as early as powering on my cell phone in St. Thomas after several days of digital dearth.

The Internet strips humans of the ability to focus and ultimately enjoy life's essentials. Certainly, the meaning of life and its values differ for every individual, but I'm even referring to life's basic necessities: food, shelter, water and air. And love. Let's be honest. Without a little love, your inner scrutiny could seize your soul and swallow you, completely.

While at sea, happily unplugged besides the occasional iPod track selection, my mind was at rest, soaking in the island scenery. An incredible flush unclogged my noodle. Never have I acquired such a peaceful sense of clarity. I reunited with nature, marine and land creatures, humans and myself. I connected with the weather in a way I'd never imagined. I truly tasted and enjoyed food (and drink). I breathed deeply. I devoted my full focus to every moment of my travels. I wrote in a journal. I used a pen. I inked on paper. My thoughts wrapped themselves around individual musings, not around the hundreds of emails and social media feeds vying for my undivided attention.

Shortly after reuniting with the digital world, these coveted feelings vanished instantly. My head, once poised upon my loose shoulders, grew heavy, sinking into my body, luring my shoulders to my ears.

Admittedly, while writing this blog post, I'm bouncing back and forth between Gchatting, checking two email accounts, posting on Facebook, people-watching, beefing up my Google Reader and, of course, sharing my thoughts via this post.

I lack substantial weapons to combat this dizzying disarray. How do you maintain clarity in a world that commands constant mental, physical and emotional overload? Riddle me that, readers.

SixSixSix

Friends, family, strangers - six months. We have six months remaining in 2011. We have six months to continue pursuing the year's goals. We have six months to turn our lives around and dream big. Six months. It's actually a nice chunk of time. Summer is alive and lightening spirits across much of the globe. Following the warmer months, which will indeed pass too quickly, comes fall, introducing a touch of chill to the air and some of the best fashion trends. Then there's winter. Dreaded winter. Seems far off, right? It is. Take this time to reconnect with your resolutions and strive to be that better woman or man. It's never too late. You're never too old, or fat, or skinny, or ugly, or pretty, or weak, or single, or married, or broke, or child-rearing, or depressed or happy to lift that chin higher and open a few windows.

2011 has been a year of windows for me. It began with a blessing and a curse - a broken foot. While healing, I practiced some serious soul-searching. What I found motivated me to elevate myself on all levels. I've never been happier or healthier in my twenties, and I'm turning 28 in a month. My love for Hudson, my manfriend of 4.5 years, has grown immensely after experiencing his selflessness and willing to be my slave while bedridden. I've lost 30 pounds since January 1st, and I intend to lose 30 more. I abandoned practicality once again and left my secure job at JibJab to follow my dreams of becoming a writer. Freelancing has proved challenging but creatively fulfilling, and I was just offered a full-time position as an editor for LAist, an L.A.-centric blog which I've been volunteering with since January. Perseverance paid off, and I am so pumped to join the team. Did I mention I get to work from home? Tres cool. Loads of other positive happenings have occurred this year, and I can't wait to see what's next.

Speaking of next, I'm gearing up for a red-eye flight to St. Thomas (with a stop in Miami) for Hudson's Dirty Thirty Birthday Adventure. Along with his jet-setter parents and aunt, we're chartering a private 42-foot catamaran and sailing the seas of the Virgin Islands - U.S. and British. I can hardly believe the trip is here, tonight, departing in 20 minutes for LAX.

Take care, dear readers, and I wish you the best of times.

Los Angeles, Je T'Aime

We love to complain about Los Angeles -- traffic, smog, industry, deluded mindsets, pretentious psyches. But I think underneath it all, most of us really love the sprawl. The action is here. And if you're tired of it, you can easily slip away to a quaint beach town or secluded mountain top for a weekend.

Enjoying my recent trip back east, I had zero time to grow L.A.sick, racing around to visit as many family members and friends as possible. After a hellish United flight home, I sunk into my couch, fondling the fibers, missing its touch. (I spend a lot of time on my couch as a freelancer.) I smiled at my bamboo plant sitting on my living room table, my desert succulents sunbathing on my kitchen sink windowsill, my everlasting yellow daisies swimming in their blue vase on my kitchen table, the roaring Venice Boulevard. The realization of how at home I feel in Venice shocked me slightly, though a tinge of SoYoCosickness stabbed my stomach.

The events of my first day home delighted me. Without planning, I found myself at places I had missed after just one week. Revolution Fitness in Venice, Wednesday's Santa Monica Farmer's Market, Trader Joe's, Firefly on Abbot Kinney to buy my fancy French soap and Intelligentsia for a heavenly cappuccino topped with a frothy heart. Each of these stops made me incredibly happy, hugging my heart, thanking me for returning to a land which I once loved, then loathed and now love once again.

Though I may not reside in L.A. forever, California has stolen my heart and soul, just as I knew it would years before I uprooted and moved my life to an unknown, coveted coast.

Ladies & Gentlemen, This Is Your Captain Speaking

Traveling enlightens the mind and soul. I love traveling. It's my spending priority aside from food, green products and rent. I've developed a routine before traveling which varies depending on my destination/s. Tonight I'm braving a red-eye flight from LAX to BWI with a final destination of York, PA. Sounds exciting, doesn't it? It's not. But the people I meet (new nephew!) and visit (friends and family!) are. In my usual fashion of needing to escape my hometown after one day, I'll be strapping myself into my step-dad's mother's hefty Chevy Lumina and driving about 100 miles to Philadelphia, my beloved stomping ground from 2001-2006.

So what's this routine of mine?

A standard stream of musings flood my mind a couple weeks before a hometown trip. Here's a taste of the scatter.

• What kinds of treats should I request be fully stocked in my mom's kitchen upon my arrival?

• Did I buy treats for the niece and nephew?

• Who do I want to see?

• Who do I need to see?

• Who can I avoid?

• Who will undoubtedly message me to hang out that I must avoid at all costs?

• How can I avoid attending any bars?

• How can I avoid the mall?

• How can I avoid the grocery store?

• Which one of my friends will host Lloydpalooza this time?

• How will I continue my diet and exercise regimen while away from home? (That answer is easy: I won't. I will return a few pounds heavier and need to spin every day, twice, to undo the horrors I've done to my body in one week.)

• Will Grandpa Denzil remember me?

• If Grandpa Denzil doesn't remember me, who should I pretend to be?

• How will I handle humidity? 

Tasty. After those important queries, I ponder packing. Then I start making lists.

Obviously, I'm only carrying-on luggage. I refuse to: 1) Pay to check my luggage. 2) Wait in line to check my bags. 3) Wait in line to retrieve my bags.

• How many pairs of underwear should I pack? Will I need extras? It is going to be humid...

• How many pairs of leggins should I bring?

• Sleepwear? Jeans? Dresses? Shirts? Shoes? Sandals? Socks? Jewelry?

• Workout wear? (I typically bring two outfits which I may use during the first day or two of my trip. I don't see them again until I'm packing to leave.)

• Should I bring my own all-natural, toxin-free toiletries or brave those supplied to me?

My list becomes very detailed, identifying the exact number of everything I should bring, right down to the undergarments. It's helpful, organized and responsible. And maybe a little overkill.

On the day of my flight, like today, I begin dreading the possible monstrosities I may encounter on the plane. The Farter. The Crier. The Back of Seat Kicker. The Vomiter. The Constant Pee'er. The Talker. The Fatty. The Shower Hater. The Active Sleeper. Which one will I enjoy tonight and into tomorrow morning?

Fingers, toes and eyes crossed that tonight, as my window seat beckons my heavy head, the seat to my left is empty, the air a comfortable temperature and free of human stink, sleep consumes me and I awaken just as we touch ground to be greeted by my brother and niece.

Judy Garland Makes We Wonder...

I would've never known had Tribeca Film Festival not posted about it on Facebook, asking their followers, "How many times have you seen the Wizard of Oz?" This prompted me to wonder why we continue to celebrate the birthdays of those who have passed.

My father passed away 19 years ago, yet I still pay homage to him every November 27, just 22 days after the anniversary of his death, which I not so much celebrate but mourn. As a member of the DDC - Dead Dads Club - I've healed and feel comfortable making awkward jokes about my loss. I'm fairly certain my Nana and aunt (his mother and sister) continue to gift his grave with fresh flowers every November 27, too.

Is it odd to celebrate birthdays of the dead? Feed me more examples, please.

I'm Judging You

Remember when the human race fell victim to a harsh deity judgment and some of us went along with Sir Divine and others with Sergeant Hell? Oh right, that never happened. These hyped up rapture events always seem silly to me, but when OnlineRock asked me to cover Saint Motel's Judgment Day event at The Roxy on May 21, I couldn't resist. Reverend Childs, the "boss" behind Project Caravan, preached the momentous occasion until bewilderment set-in as the clock struck midnight. I wish his reaction would have been more dramatic, but it was amusing watching him sweat. 

While the event failed to impress me due to press overhype, the music absolutely did. I missed Queen Caveat due to sluggish service at Hugo's, but The Hundred Days, Vanaprasta and the headliner - Saint Motel - killed it. My companion, Nita, and I snapped as many photos as possible. The show offered exceptional practice shooting action in low light. Check out some of my photos here. And give my OnlineRock article a read here if you're interested in finding out what went down on that not-so-fateful night in May.

So when is the next Judgment Day? I've seen October 21, 2011, and of course the well-known December 21, 2012. We either have 5 months or 19 months. Hopefully more events like this will ring-in the rapture. 

Lessons in Humanity

Be nice. Be polite. Be fair. Put yourself in his/her shoes. I believe if you follow these morals and those similar, you will live a happy life and also make others happy. This year I'm focusing on being more selfless and just being nice in general. I'm a nice person. However, we all have our moments. I am trying not to have these moments. (Though the gypsy Tarot card/palm reader on Venice Beach did call me out on bossing around Hudson...) I'm trying. And my efforts paid off. Literally.

I broke my foot on the first day of this new year. It was a blessing and a curse. A blessing as it forced upon me healthy eating habits and productivity. The curse portion is obvious. I won't go into detail. I left my full-time job mid-January to pursue a career more focused on editorial opportunities. And with that freedom went my health insurance. COBRA proved ludicrously expensive. Blue Cross denied me due to my pre-existing condition. I, of course, blogged about that experience here. Luckily my orthopedist would continue to see me, and luckily I met Josie. Josie works in the accounting department and is an angel. With my tail between my legs, I smiled and explained my situation. She understood. And with each check-up she shaved a few more dollars off my bill. While her scornful job-related comments convinced me that she enjoys nothing about her job, she always remained polite and pleasant. And apparently I did, too.

My last appointment was Wednesday, May 25. Confident that my foot was healed, I hopped onto the x-ray table, laughing at the technician's usual joke before he snapped a shot: "Smile!" The doctor entered my room with a smile, and I, resisting the urge to put down my People magazine, returned his expression. My foot was healed. I could hop. I could jump. I could run. I just had to ease into it. I skipped towards the exit, turning right into Josie's open-wall "office" and told her the good news. I thanked her again for all of her help over the last few months. I wished her a great rest of her week. She told me she'd mail me the check, as usual.

When I called Josie to pay my final installment of "The Metatarsal Trust," I thanked her again. And she said something like this. "You are always so polite and pleasant. I don't help everyone, but when someone is as nice as you, I am happy to reciprocate." That felt good. That felt great. That felt phenomenal. She made my day, my week and possibly my year.

So there you have it. Be nice.

Cupcakes & Comedy

I know. This combo sounds too incredible to not be merely imagined. Thankfully, it is real. This show, created by Adria Baratta, hosts its second installment next Sunday, June 5, at, you'll never guess... A BAKE SHOP! Sweet E's Bake Shop, no less. After Adria approached me to cover the event, I, an indulger of cupcakes, lover of comedy and supporter of talented ladies, quickly agreed.

I will regrettably miss the show, as I'm retreating into the mountains to focus on creative writing (and a book review). A few much needed days away from the wonderful hubbub of the sprawl can prove wonderfully productive.

But back to C & C... Learn more about this event by reading my article here. Mangez bien!

Underbellies

There's something amazing about photographs of sharks in their natural habitats. Never would you have the chance to view the underbelly of a tiger shark unless provided by a talented, fearless photojournalist like, say, Brian Skerry. And if you happen to score this view without the help of underwater snapshots, that most likely means you're swimming under one of these monsters and are going to die. It's funny how deathly afraid so many of us are of sharks. Yes, they are ocean predators. Yes, they have been known to bite and kill humans. But hey, we're on their turf. If you saw a shark flopping along the sidewalk, what would you do? Welcome it into your home? Imagine it thinly sliced and snugly wrapped in cute little sushi rolls? You might throw your latte at it. Maybe chuck your keys at its face? You would defend yourself. Or if you're one of the few who are not afraid, you might pet it then run for help because it's surely going to die.

My most recent LAist story posted this morning and details an amazing photography exhibit currently displaying at my favorite gallery, The G2 Gallery. Brian Skerry's work in Ocean Wild will pry open your jaw and weigh it down to the floor with very little effort. I experienced his collection yesterday at the gallery, inspired by his talent and ability to showcase the vulnerability of marine life. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, making for a wonderful visit, as always. G2 is an absolute must-see on Abbot Kinney in Venice. The gift shop downstairs is perfect for unique prezzies, too.

Find out more about Ocean Wild by reading my article. Click here.

New CSA Location On Abbot Kinney

first CSA California bag & meal, August 2010

We did it! No, I'm not referring to surviving "Judgment Day." Gaby, friend and writing partner, and I organized a CSA pickup location at The G2 Gallery on Abbot Kinney Boulevard in conjunction with CSA California! After months of developing and coordinating this project, it has finally grown to be an actual event! Well, almost. Now we just need at least 40 participants in order to "activate" our location. With the help of G2's newsletter plus Gaby and I's social media persistence, I think we'll have our group secured in no time. And if that does not suffice, we'll hop right into the Venice community, possibly with fliers in hand. Who doesn't want to enjoy fresh, local, seasonal fruits and vegetables at a great price? Anyone who does not, please bring them to me so I can explain the numerous benefits of enjoying such treats and supporting local farmers.

A quick lesson in CSAs in case you're unfamiliar. CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture. It gives people the chance to buy seasonal produce directly from a farmer. Local Harvest offers helpful information on this topic here.

If you're interested in joining our pickup location, you may sign up here. If you're not a Venetian but care about our cause, please help spread the word! Next time I see you, I'll buy you a locally grown veggie or fruit of your choice. Promise.

Lessons in Humanity

One of my 2011 resolutions is to be the most positive person I can be. Naturally optimistic, this isn't the most challenging feat, but it is a quality that I want to improve. And I have. And I want everyone out there to join me. I've grown tired of hearing the complaints, the whining, the claims that "the universe is against me" and "I've tried everything to lose weight, but I just can't." Don't blame your metabolism. Chances are it's completely normal. We are ultimately responsible for our happiness. Outside factors affect us, no doubt, but if there is something wrong in our lives, we can change it. Hate your job? Quit. Tired of America? Move. Sick of tugging on those love handles, muffin tops, grandma arms and flabby inner thighs? Eat healthy, decrease your portions and exercise. It's all very simple. But for some reason we choose to complicate things. We live outside of our means. We choose the fancy car instead of the sensible option that will allow us to enjoy life instead of work to support our possessions. It's fine if you want to own fancy things. But don't sink yourself into debt and cry about it. That's your fault. Deal with it. Work harder. Do more. Think.

My solutions are as follows: Live a simple life, speak with reason, embrace a cause or dozens, follow your dreams, live your life and find something to be thankful for every day. Trust me, I'm not a doctor or a politician. Today I am thankful for the ability to spend the morning writing with my writing partner at a cafe in Santa Monica. It's afternoon, and I'm still here, pounding away at my thoughts and keyboard. Yesterday I was thankful to celebrate the birthday of one of my favorite ladies. Wednesday I enjoyed an hour-long facial in the early afternoon. My skin is thankful, and I think I'll indulge more often rather than go several years sans facial pampering.

Perhaps we should think in the grand scheme of things before letting the corners of our mouths sag. Will a certain moment matter tomorrow? Maybe not. Distressed about an upcoming event? Just think about it in terms of time. It's just a tiny chunk out of your entire life. It's going to be ok. It will pass. Have a bad day at work? That's ok. There are 225 days remaining in 2011. Surely those days can and will be better.

Look up, friends. It's warm and sunny up here.

Alexander Calder, My Homie

"Bird" by Alexander Calder. Image courtesy of OCMA.

I cannot pinpoint the exact year when I was first introduced to Alexander Calder, though it was during my high school days. English, French, Psychology and Art were my most favored subjects. Oh, and lunch. Mind you, I do not excel in visual creation. My creations form within my imagination and bleed through my fingertips in the form of words. I loved his work, not just the famous mobiles - all of it - the stabiles and sculptures, too. Mesmerized by his dedication to handwork and mastery of balance, my heart gladly skipped a few beats whenever I experienced a new piece. His 34-foot white mobile, "Ghost," stretches across the ceiling at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. In college, while studying English and Filmmaking at Temple, I'd visit every so often, quite possibly just to watch this creation rotate slowly in the air. Hence, I jumped at the opportunity to write a review of his current exhibit at Orange County Museum of Art for OC Arts & Culture. You must check out this exhibit if you are an L.A. or OC local. And you must read my review here then shower me with compliments. Merci!

Buying Local & Taboo Tales

There's nothing taboo about buying local. Unique LA is the largest independent show of its kind in the country, and it conveniently takes place right here in L.A. I interviewed Sonja Rasula, Unique LA's fabulous founder, and crafted an LAist post to help promote the event. Though I was watering flowers, ripping moldy bathtub tiles from the walls, sucking up cobwebs and spider corpses, birdwatching and hiking in Running Springs all weekend, I still felt like I was a tiny part of the event. You can read my coverage here.

Now let's talk taboo. What's taboo to you? We all posses embarrassing feelings towards certain topics; those which we never discuss with others, that make us cringe, that we feel are beyond conversation or mention. My friend and fellow writer, Laurenne Sala, along with Corey Podell, a writer and comedian, founded Taboo Tales last year as a safe haven to approach these subjects with a heavy dose of comedy. I attended my first Taboo Tales in March and am stoked for tomorrow night's show. The event is effective. I laughed as a woman, healed from her horrific past, described her childhood memories of being raped by her alcoholic father. Yes, I laughed. Why? Because she made me. With her comedic writing, timing, wit and impressive presentation, I could not help but laugh with her, though at some points, I definitely felt uncomfortable. After the show a feeling of liberation warmed me. I felt like I could discuss any and everything with those around me. Checkout my coverage here. And most importantly, checkout a show! You will not regret it. If you experience a similar elation as I, you might just be inspired. And that's a wonderful feeling. Run with it.

Recent Reviews

Coachella rocked on so many levels--mind-blowing musical performances, the chance to see as many bands as you could handle in three days, interesting artwork erected throughout the venue, booze, friends, strangers--I felt like a kid again. But instead of running around in the grass playing games, I danced around in the grass enjoying some of my favorite bands, allowing the magic of live music to soak my soul. I've never felt better, more alive, happier to be alive, finally LIVING. It's hard to explain, and soon I may possibly try to explain it in a personal essay. Music affects. It's addicting. And it feeds something inside of you that begs for fulfillment and enrichment. I cannot wait for Coachella 2012. I will be there, but perhaps I'll shell out the extra hundreds of dollars for a hotel room instead of braving desert camping. Though that was an essential part of my amazing experience this past April. We'll see how free-spirited I remain at 28.

Another Coachella bonus was the opportunity to write reviews for three of my favorite bands to be posted on OnlineRock's blog. And they're up! Checkout my reviews for !!!, Delta Spirit, Arcade Fire and Mumford & Sons.

In other review news, last week I attended ST Residential's opening of their Marina del Rey Gallery Lofts. You can read my LAist review of the event here.

Mama Earth

Last Friday, April 22, the world celebrated Earth Day. One day out of three-hundred-sixty-five when we are asked to recognize our planet's selflessness, our selfishness and to act on our own selflessness. I hugged a tree. I recycled. I walked into town instead of driving. I planted four different types of perennials: Lavender, Georgia Blue, Coreopsis 'Early Sunrise' and Jackanapes. While digging in the dirt and apologizing to various underground bugs for disrupting their afternoons, I wondered why we only recognize the earth once a year. It's wonderful that we do, but why can't we celebrate monthly? We should be giving back to the environment on our own every day, and many of us do. We purchase reusable bags and beam while telling the cashier at Trader Joe's, "I brought my own bag." We participate in trash pickups. We volunteer to clean beaches on Saturday mornings. We leave our cars parked and ride our bicycles. We carpool. We take public transportation. We compost. We recycle. We use cloth rags instead of wipes and paper towels. We drink from canteens instead of buying cases of bottled water. We turn off the water while brushing our teeth. We use energy-saver light bulbs. We install solar lights along our home's exterior pathways. We do what we can to reduce waste and reverse enviro-damage. But we can all do more.

Lavender

I'm an Angeleno. I've been one for the past 4.5 years. While I still fantasize about living in Paris, writing at quaint sidewalk cafes on Boulevard Saint-Germain, I do love my current city, especially the west side, specifically Venice. But like the rest of the sprawl's 9.9 million inhabitants, I'm tired of the smog. I'm tired of looking out on my city after a hike and being blinded by that disgusting brown blanket. This is not every day, but when the temperature's high and the winds are wrong, this is the typical scene. L.A. is the fourth most polluted U.S. city by short-term particle pollution, the third most polluted U.S. city by year-round particle pollution and THE most polluted U.S. city by ozone pollution, according to the State of the Air 2010, a report conducted by the American Lung Association.

In honor of Earth Day, I have pledged to do more for Mama Earth every day. I also urge Angelenos to do more throughout the entire summer in my latest LAist post. You can read it here. After researching numerous local green events, I rounded up the ten most interesting finds.

Jackanapes, Coreopsis 'Early Sunrise' and Georgia Blue. And solar light.

Embrace your inner treehugger. There's nothing wrong with taking responsibility for your planet. There's everything right about it.

Edward Scissorhands

The number of times I watched this film eludes me. It released when I was seven, and though I cannot recall how old I was when I first experienced it, I can tell you the entire film, from start to finish, from every snip of Edward's scissors, is unforgettable. One of my best friends, Bubba, and I had a habit of constantly watching the same batch of "favorites" while devouring "Italian" offerings from our local Dominos. Sure, the weather may have been just right for play, but we had cinematic worlds to explore. Plus we'd probably already been outside for most of the morning and afternoon, poking around in the neighboring creeks, practicing field hockey passes in the backyard (once accidentally hitting my collie's frail ankle with the ball), throwing sticks onto Powder Mill Road and exploding with joy as cars crushed them with their wheels at a safe, suburban 40 miles per hour, turning over rocks, stalking my brother and his "hot" older friends or rolling tea cigarettes. FACT: York, PA offers an abundance of activities for minors. FACT: York, PA offers an equally impressive list of things to do for adults. HONEST FACT: I escaped as soon as I finished high school and will never move back.

Justin Parpan: Coming Home

My recent LAist coverage details an upcoming exhibition which features artworks based on the film, some of which were submitted to Sebastien Mesnard's Scissorhands 20th blog. I highly recommend following to receive updates on all amazing submissions. Unfortunately pour moi, the opening reception takes place this Saturday while I'll be roasting in the California desert at Coachella, but I cannot wait to visit Gallery Nucleus upon recovery to be transported by the 50+ pieces in the show.

One other reason for my excitement about this particular project is that my good buddy, Justin Parpan, created a piece for it. See the image to the right. Spectacular, oui? Justin is an immensely talented illustrator enamored by creatures - monsters, Bigfoot, reptiles, dinosaurs - you name it.  Remember the late-eighties movie, The Wizard, starring Fred Savage and Jenny Lewis? Remember the scene when they're in the desert with a giant dinosaur? That dinosaur still stands in Cabazon, CA, about 25 miles from San Jacinto, Justin's hometown. Understand his fascination now? If you ever have the privilege of meeting Justin, ask to see the tattoo on his wrist and ask him any dinosaur queries you may have. I'm 99% certain he'll have an answer for you.

Shoe Awareness & Mindful Manners

My two most recent LAist posts are very different and provided much insight on two awareness topics - shoes and etiquette.

I did a quick 10+ minute phone interview with Blake Mycoskie, Founder and Chief Shoe Giver of TOMS Shoes - very laid back and brilliant fella. While I was unable to participate in One Day Without Shoes last Tuesday, April 5, due to my still healing broken foot (I'm not taking any chances, people), I still feel very close to the cause. Checkout my coverage here.

On Thursday I participated in the Hammer Museum's Greeting Committee, an interactive experiment teaching guests lessons in etiquette. I can now give the perfect handshake. Come see me, I'll show you. If interested, you still have today & tomorrow to experience this project. Read my article here.

Look What the MySpace Dragged In...

Upon returning from my second weekend of Cabin de Wise fixin' uppin', I failed to muster up enough brain power to be truly productive. Tomorrow. So instead I decided tonight is the night to cancel my MySpace membership. Why? Because I haven't used it in years, and it just seems silly to leave it out there, floating online. But before I laid to rest that impressive profile I'd spent so many hours perfecting, finding the perfect layout and most relevant song for that time in my life, I had to backup all of my photos. And then I decided I had to read all of Hudson and I's conversations, since our relationship began on MySpace (special thanks to Mortek). I giggled at our early stages of courting one another, sometimes sounding like we do currently, though sometimes sounding like completely different people. After 4.5 years, we both are very different people. But we're still together. We do not, however, flirt with each other via social networks any longer. What a shame. We should resume. As I backed up those earlier chapters of my life, I couldn't help but read through my MySpace blog posts, minimal in their content and number. One of them really hit me, effective in its honesty and sense of self-actualization. My skin grew cool, and I shivered, remembering that feeling of true independence and happiness.

Dated December 9, 2006...

"Capacity Perceptions"

So I've discovered a way to gauge if I'm ready for a move, for a new city, for a green land. One day in Philly I was driving along the Schuylkill, and I looked over at the skyline and suddenly felt bigger than the city. Its capacity no longer overwhelmed me, no longer left me curious about its inhabitants, its contents. I could map it out in my head, picture the streets, any mystery had been replaced by familiarity and almost a warm sense of boredom. It's nice to feel comfortable in a place, to know every corner and crack. But the feeling that encompasses me as I drive to work every morning and stare to my left at the Downtown LA skyline is thrilling. I feel small and overwhelmed, almost minute, and I fucking love it. I have no clue what lies in between those buildings. I have some clue of the surrounding LA/Hollywood/Beverly Hills land, but not enough. That feeling rushes back to me when I drive home from work and the Long Beach skyline appears. It's refreshing. It's awakening. It has made me feel alive again, young but more mature, affected, affecting, genuinely ecstatic about my life in California. And the best part is, I'm never bored. There's just too much that remains unknown, could keep me occupied for years...

Overmation Neglect

While scanning my daily Upod digest yesterday, I spotted a message sharing this stirring quotation: "We systematically overestimate the value of access to information & underestimate the value of access to each other." - Clay Shirky at SXSW 2011. Who is this Shirky fellow, you ask? And why does he have the privilege of making such astute, honest and perceptive statements? The Internet's effect on society is his bailiwick, that's why. Check out his creds here. 

Quilled Fail Whale by @allthingspaper

I read over his remark several times, each time agreeing with it more, despite a lack of context. 

A limitless amount of information is at our calloused fingertips (and carpal tunneled wrists). Past generations referred to more limited but perhaps higher quality sources of information, like encyclopedias (remember those?!) and people (remember them?!?!). If I want to learn something, I grab my MacBook, iPhone or sometimes iPad and ask Google. Google is a noun and also a verb. "Google it." Voila! Thousands of results! But which ones contain accurate information? Which ones can I trust? With so much animosity buzzing around so-called content farms these days, I'm beginning to raise an eyebrow on what I read on my screens. Yet when I open up a book or magazine, I trust that information. There is hardly a shred of doubt in my mind that the world's greatest editor hasn't fact-checked the information multiple times. The sources in those publications are surely legit. And of course I trust accredited information sites alike. 

What is Shirky really commenting on when he says "access to each other?" Should we confide in our neighbors more often? Maybe we should listen more intently during conversations? Perhaps when my mother, who's been a nurse for thirty-five years, suggests a remedy, I should obey. Maybe he's more so referring to our neglect of the people in our lives. Our loved one walks in the door after a long, draining day of being an adult, and we barely look up from our electronic world to greet. I am absolutely guilty of excess QT with the laptop and not enough with the BF.

So tonight, my friends, unplug and snuggle up next to the PEOPLE in your lives. I promise you will  meet not a fail whale but open arms.

*Note: I experienced an instance today (4/3/11) where I overestimated Google and underestimated a person. Seated at a breakfast joint in Running Springs, we wondered what the "adobada" sauce was. Instead of asking our waitress, I reached for my iPhone. Tsk-tsk.

Philanthropic Parlour

This Sunday's tribute to crafty women sings to my inner feminist. Yes! Let's celebrate creative women! Yes! An event dedicated to the handmade scene! Yes! Smart lady hands! The Pink Parlour Festival, for its third year in a row, takes place in Arcadia, CA from 11am-7pm. Want more details? Of course you do. Checkout my article here.

Last week I had the pleasure of chatting with Seth Borden, the event's co-producer. Andrea Perez is the female half of this truly selfless duo. Both philanthropists with an incredible passion for the arts, they dedicate the bulk of their year planning for this event. Once the annual festival does turn a profit, their mission is to donate to various nonprofits, the City of Hope and the Children's Hospital of Orange County. What a man. What a woman. What a mighty good team.

A reminder, dear friends, to do good.

Sore Throat

Since I was 9 - an age where the reality of life swooped me into its cold grasp, turning my world and I upside down and shaking us violently, for years, until coping with losing my father became bearable - writing has been my outlet and therapy. I rarely confided in family or friends to discuss my feelings. I bottled them up inside then spilled them onto inviting pages of scrap paper and word processors, exhausting my emotions and hands. Today I still practice this technique. And today I am angry and brimming with questions.

What good is your voice if no one listens? Do you continue to shout? Or do you admit defeat and accept silence? How do you force someone to listen, to care, to respect your advice? How do you not feel insignificant when you are ignored? How do you not become angry? Why do some people always trust the advice of their parents and no one else? Why care?

Because I cannot stand being ignored. And though I pose these questions, I know that silence is never the answer. Keep shouting. Keep screaming. Keep singing. Gather any and all ears, dig deep into your belly and bellow until it hurts. Only stop when you're physically unable to continue. Exhaust yourself for the sake of yourself. Only then can you say you did everything you could. Fight the good fight (with your mind, not your fists). Tell surrender to fuck off.

Amiable Virgins

There's just something about islanders. You know what I mean. They're always on "island time," always smiling, quick with a salutation, seemingly free of worries. What's wrong with them?

I'll tell you what's wrong with them - absolutely nothing. They've got it all figured out. Their priorities are admirable. Their lives do not focus on the heft of their wallets or accumulation of material possessions. They value life. Living life. Being happy. Enjoying friends and strangers alike.

I recently returned from my first trip to the United States and British Virgin Islands. I'm notorious for sinking into a deep post-vacation depression, claiming I want to move to my most recent vacation destination, picking apart my homeland, generating a list of solely cons about Los Angeles and America. And yes, it's happening now. I returned home on Sunday. It's Wednesday. I spent an hour tonight lying in my bed, eveningdreaming about how I could make it work. How I could move to one of the islands and write for a local magazine, possibly a travel magazine like Destinations. I read the latest version from front to back on the plane to St. Thomas. I reminded Hudson, for probably the fifth time, that we could buy a boat and sail tourists around the islands. It all seems so doable. Not simple. But possible. In fact, people do it all the time.

Several locals with whom I chatted said they'd come down to visit and stayed, they were staying for an indefinite number of months or the plan from the start was to reside for a set period of time then someday venture somewhere new. Jeff, our favorite bartender at our resort, plans to leave St. Thomas in six months, head west to South America then brave the brutal Alaskan climate. Jeff is from Michigan. And I could have his itinerary all wrong as I was 2 or 3 double rum and cokes deep on our last night. What is it like to be a nomad? Is it lonely? Fulfilling? Do they document their experiences via journals, photos and videos? Do their families come visit? Do they never plan to settle? Without roots intact, does a person feel completely liberated? These are all questions I should've asked. But after a day of sun and rum-infused cocktails, the journalist in me had retired pour le jour.

The islanders really are amiable. One unforgettable interaction that particularly grabbed my attention, made me giggle and ignited my animosity for Americans was at the ferry station in St. Thomas. Cathy, a good friend of my mother, walked up to an attendant and, without greeting, inquired about the approaching ferry. He answered, "Good morning." My mouth dropped. I laughed. I watched them interact. Cathy is a warm woman, very friendly and full of life. But she just forgot to greet the man as a human, as a friend. I would have forgotten, too. There it was. That much needed knock in the noggin begging us to Slow.Down. I feel like society has completely eradicated any sense of humanity, any sense of brotherhood and sisterhood. We are the same species. Sure we may have different origins, opinions, beliefs, appearances, intellects. But when you boil it down, we are the same. And we should be friendly towards one another, just like the ferry attendant was to Cathy. We should communicate as friends. This is the idealist in me clawing its way through layers of pessimism and cynicism, ambushed by an overwhelming optimism for life and all beings.

There's a wonderful sense of community on the islands. It feels like a small town with regulars and friendly small talk. Recreational fields provide land for athletes. A barista in Charlotte Amalie knew Jeff, and we shared a moment embellishing a man that I hardly knew and with whom she spent a lot of her free time. Friends.

Animals are respected on the islands, which is a custom I happily witnessed in Costa Rica, too. Wildlife mingle with tourists and locals. No hands, feet or mouths are shooing away the iguana who approaches you as you slam down, in my case, a breakfast burrito on St. John (the first of three bbs consumed during my trip). Roosters and their chicks roam the land without reprimand. Leash-less dogs trot along the beaches. Cats roam the resorts. It's beautiful.

In late June/early July I will return to the Caribbean to celebrate Hudson's big 3-0 with his mother, father, aunt and hopefully her boyfriend. He's a lawyer, hence he schedules all vacations as "tentative." We won't be aboard a cruise ship, because we are not cruise ship people. And we are not staying at a resort, though this is always an excellent choice. Instead we are chartering a catamaran. We will sail from island to island, experiencing life on a boat in one of the most gorgeous places on earth. Soaking in the sun, the sea, the life. Who knows if I'll return...

Trees & Tutus

I'm escaping L.A. in just a few hours to meet the wonderful island of St. Thomas (yes, I am bragging). But I could not depart without posting about the other two wonderful events I covered this week.

TreePeople needs volunteers! Once my foot heals, I will be one of them! They're coordinating a massive effort to replant severely burned sections of the Angeles National Forest. Remember those wildfires in 2009 that could not be contained? Well, they massacred thousands of acres of gorgeous conifers, hence the above noted effort. Checkout the article here.

Buzz around Black Swan continues to hum, and MOCA Pacific Design Center just unveiled "Rodarte: States of Matter." The two sisters who run Rodarte, Kate and Laura Mullheavy, designed the black and white tutus worn in the film. The exhibit not only displays those costumes but showcases garments from three of their runway collections. The installation is insane - an absolute must-see. It's on the top of my list once I return. Read more here.

Au revoir!