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!

Impact

Life surprises me sometimes with delightful beings who leave a lasting impact. I wish this happened every day, though lately it has been happening frequently each week thanks to interviewing sources for articles. 

Last Friday I chatted with Paula Goldman, a wonderful woman and gifted photographer. Her voice echoed Hudson's aunt's voice, warm and wise. We chatted for about 45 minutes, exploring tangents, sharing laughter and ending the conversation with a brief discussion of frustrating life in sprawling Los Angeles. Among the many things she said that grabbed my attention, I really liked this: "That's where all the work comes from, right? Just from life. Part of it's decaying, part of it's kids, part of it's laughing." She splits her life, not sure how evenly, between her work and family. Some day I will understand how women do it. How they juggle it all and keep everything in motion. Life is chaos as-is. I am unable to fathom adding a dependent being into the equation and come up with an answer. It all amazes me, this extraordinary mess we call life...

But back to Paula!

Please swing on by the west side before March 27th and check out her exhibit at The G2 Gallery. Her work is so unique as is the gallery's mission. My beat is environmental arts; G2 is sort of my haven. They donate all proceeds from art sales to various environmental groups. Paula's opening reception is this Friday, so if First Fridays on Abbot Kinney is your thing, definitely go! You'll get to meet the lovely Paula and immerse yourself in her work and live music. Go ahead, indulge.

You can read my article on the show here.

Your Oscars Buzz: Best Picture Cocktail Pairings

With thoughts of the Oscars swimming around in my head last Wednesday night, I had an idea. Why not pair a cocktail with each movie nominated for Best Picture? Planning to attend a friend's Oscar party, it seemed like the perfect guide for hosts. The next morning I pulled all four of my trusty cocktail books from my bookshelf, dusted them off and started flipping through the pages of libations and mocktails. Shortly thereafter I had my first list of pairings and pitched the article to my LAist editors. They loved the idea, and by Friday afternoon the piece was ready for publishing. You may indulge here.

I must admit, I indulged a bit too much during Sunday's party, mostly because I was joined by a fun group of fellow celebrities (I may have been wearing my bridesmaids dress from my brother's wedding last June and pretending to be Cameron Diaz) and partly due to my recent research.

Though I didn't catch every speech from last night's show, I witnessed my darling Natalie win a well-deserved Academy Award. I slept soundly.

One question still remains: Where was James Franco for most of the night? I assume he was backstage taking bong rips, but seriously, Hathaway carried the duo. All the more proof that women are superior.

Harlan Ellison - Paid to Piss

I love this 3.5 minute rant by Harlan Ellison on the lack of funds bestowed to writers. This video is almost 3 years old but still sadly relevant.

"I sell my soul but at the highest rates. I don't take a piss without getting paid for it."

Blunt but honest, Harlan.

Vagina Art

Karen LeCocq, a feminist artist, lecturer and activist, is not particularly fond of the term "vagina art." After chatting with her last Thursday, I understand her stance. To refer to feminist art in this way, as many people do, undermines the entire second-wave of the Women's Movement. Feminist art shocked our nation and plowed through boundaries that, without female fists, might still repress women today. Karen spoke passionately yet playfully about how we, as a society, tend to ignore the past. I agree that we must learn from the past in order to not repeat it, to appreciate the present and to anticipate the future. My respect for her and the other women who ignited the feminist art movement in the 1970s grew considerably while listening to her stories.

This elation intensified while crafting the article on her lecture, which took place this past Sunday at Craftswoman House in Pasadena. It lasted through Saturday afternoon until I read a disturbing article, courtesy of MoveOn.org, listing ten disgusting Republican proposals affecting women's rights. Striking and  destroying my jolly lady power bubble, the list opened my gates and in flooded worry. I panicked for our future. But the knowledge of how much we've accomplished for women's rights and how undeniably strong and capable we are quickly replaced my fears with a wonderful sense of empowerment.

Republicans, you have waged a war on women. You have attacked our basic rights to own control of our bodies. You are a mindless mass of ignorant bodies, devoid of compassion, unworthy of being called humans. You wish to test us, GOP? Bring it. We will fight you to the death. And we will win. We are civil soldiers armed with tenacity, vigor and good ol' fashioned intellect. We will destroy you.

Recent Articles for Circus Lovers and Contemporary Art Enthusiasts

I love writing for LAist. I've been doing so for the past month, and I've never felt so creatively fulfilled and proud of my work. All topics I've pitched, they've accepted. Recently granted access to their posting platform, I won't need to bug my editor quite as often, plus I feel like a part of the family.

A large portion of my research is interviewing subjects. Since I'm still a gimp, I've been forced to rely on phone interviews. Don't get me wrong, I love doing them and they're much more convenient than actual rendezvous, but I like people. I enjoy talking to them, face-to-face, noting their quirks, their style, their treat preferences, all those delightful traits to which I'm blind when conversing on the phone. 

Having recently discovered Google Voice, phone interviews are much more enjoyable now. I'm no longer pounding on my keyboard in a desperate attempt to capture every word and quote. I love quotes. And with this system, I record all conversations for reference. No typing as I'm interviewing means full engagement in the conversation. It's quite wonderful. One thing - Google Voice, you really need to upgrade your system to record received calls. I can't complain much since this system is free, but it's not ideal to call someone, then ask them to call you on a different number. But c'est la vie. I'll go cry in the corner since there are no other issues plaguing the world.

My most recent interviews and articles inspired me greatly. I chatted with Patrick, the owner of C.A.V.E. Gallery in Venice to gain more insight into the gallery's newest collection, 'Outside, Looking In,' which opened last Friday. He's a warm man with a giant heart for art. I cannot wait to meet him. Checkout my article here.

The other event I covered last week was 'Behind the Striped Curtain,' an insane circus art exhibition at Rothick Art Haus in Anaheim. I interviewed Michael White, the featured artist. Our chat consisted of much laughter, as he's quite a funny lad, and great amounts of information on his inspirations, life and excitement for the show's opening. Never able to include all the tidbits, I'll save them for the next piece on White. You can enjoy my coverage here.

If either exhibit interests you, they're both still on display. In fact, they both better interest you, or I haven't done my job. Or you're boring.

Polenta Pie with Wild Mushroom Filling

Sounds tasty, doesn’t it? I know it does. That’s why we chose it as the dish I will conquer this evening to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Currently an avid calorie counter using MyFitnessPal, I began entering in the teaspoons, tablespoons, ounces, cups, sprigs and pounds of ingredients into my food tracker to create the recipe and determine how many slices of savory pie I can enjoy tonight. Hopefully the result > 1. While building the list, I’m thinking about Valentine’s Day, remembering the days when I was single and bitter, hating on this annual commemoration, agreeing with the many others who refer to it as a “Hallmark holiday,” a sad excuse to stop being a lazy lover and neglecting your loved one for a day, a slap in the face reminder that YOU ARE SINGLE. NO ONE LOVES YOU. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE ALONE. So sad. So solo. I recall plans to steal my father’s bow and arrow, hunt down Cupid and maliciously prick his chubby white ass. Several times. But now these thoughts are just silly. One mate always outlives the other. You run the risk of dying alone anyways. Someone has always loved me. And so what if I was single? I was never more independent in my life.

As I typed “extra-virgin olive oil,” I started thinking about sex because that’s just how my mind works. I began to really appreciate this romantic day. Admittedly, I am quite the corporate-hating petition-signing activist who just wants the world to be a better place. And if there’s a time when I can hate on an event, a commercial farce that’s become a multibillion dollar day which wastes resources, promotes the creation and selling of paper cards and wrappings, fosters the sale of blood diamonds, encourages supporting flower farms where violent labor abuses transpire, Valentine’s Day is it. But I don’t hate this day. I actually love it. Hudson is my first and hopefully last love, and while we’re a pretty kickass team, there are days when I should grab him a gift just because. I should cook dinner to thank him for taking outstanding care of me since day one of this year. I should make dessert, too. But sometimes I just forget. And we’re all a little guilty of lacking in habitual romantic gestures.

In my opinion, February 14 is a needed reminder to stop and think about the one who has claimed that once empty chamber in your heart. The one person you go to for everything. Your best friend. The one being who knows everything about you, probably too much. The man or woman who sees you for everything that you are and still loves you - who sees you, studies you, arranges you into neat little sections and scrutinizes those and still decides you are worth his or her love, time and life. In a world where we’re racing through life, sometimes failing to LIVE life, reminders are good. Reminders are great. And if you celebrate Valentine’s Day efficiently, where, in my opinion again, you send an eCard or recycled paper card, you buy local flowers thus support your local florist, like from my wonderful friend, Bubba AKA Adriene, you purchase handmade jewelry, you choose chocolates from a local sweetery, why not glorify today? Or don’t buy a thing. Just say “I love you” too many times (which is impossible) et donnez des baisers all over your beloved.

If you don’t have a mate, you must have a friend. You must have family. There is someone out there who you at least like. Call him. Write to her. Do something to show your appreciation of that person. If not amorous, it’s at least supportive outreach. Make someone feel special, even if society is practically forcing you to do so.

Tonight, I award my love with the awesomely vegan dish titling this blog entry plus not-quite-vegan but healthy-ish homemade truffles. A big production for a woman who rarely squeezes into an apron and mitts, it is oh so worth it.

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Laguna Art Museum with Love

Yes, I titled my most recent LAist article after the second James Bond film starring my favorite Bond, Sir Sean Connery. Yes, I'm quite Bond savvy. And for that I thank my brother.

Chatting with Bolton Colburn, Director of Laguna Art Museum, on the phone yesterday, I learned a great deal about the museum and particularly this year's art auction. Appropriately themed "LOVE" and taking place just two days before Valentine's Day, the auction is not only a highly anticipated event that brings the community together with artists, collectors and museum staff, it also helps support this non-profit learning institution. What I was unable to detail in my article due to length are the impressive educational programs that the museum runs and how it's generally funded.

One of the museum’s educational programs welcomes third and fourth graders in the Southern California region to visit the museum and study primary objects that deal with the regional and state history curriculum they are currently learning. Additionally, a gallery within the museum circulates artwork from creative classes in Orange and Los Angeles Counties. How awesome is that?

Producing between ten and twelve exhibitions each year, the museum benefits from fundraisers like the art auction to help fund these displays. Existing as a prominent non-profit establishment, Laguna Art Museum relies heavily on individual gifts, grants, corporate support, major fundraising events and admissions prices, according to Marni Farmer, Director of Communications.

Click here to read my LAist coverage. Click your seatbelt and head to the auction this Saturday!

Writing Warmup

Once a week my writing partner, Gaby, and I rendezvous at a nearby cafe and join forces. Admittedly we chat for the first 30 minutes, sometimes about writing-related topics, but then we snap to it. Our sessions are productive, and Gaby comes armed with a writing warmup. They help energize our creative muscles, exercising both hemispheres of our brains. It's like speed walking that first song of your running playlist before picking up the pace. It's very necessary.

Last Friday's warmup was a fun one. We were to think of 3 or 4 of our earliest memories and construct a scene using all of them. We had 15 minutes. And this is what I wrote.

To this day my mother still regrets moving from our house at Lake Wynonah. While we only lived there until I was about 5, I have a few wonderful memories of it and attribute part of my love for the outdoors to my life there. My brother, Ryan, and I explored the great Pennsylvania outdoors every day. Surrounded by nature and very few humans, we made friends with bugs, animals, sticks, leaves, trees, wild berries and, of course, each other. Siblings develop a strong love for one another during those early years that sometimes darkens into something resembling hatred once the teenage years begin. Usually, hopefully, this is just a layer clouding that love, which evaporates as both siblings mature. Thankfully this was our case. There weren’t many other houses around ours at the lake, which my mom loved. My dad probably loved the seclusion, too, but that’s a question I’ll never be able to ask him. Tromping through the fallen brown leaves, Ryan pointed to a tree, excited about a bug. Straining my eyes, I failed to see it. What this a trick? Probably. But as he pushed me closer, as older brothers love to do, love to test, I saw it. Stealthy camouflaged as tree bark perched the stick bug. Its body was similar to a praying mantis, and I think for that reason I wasn’t afraid. And Ryan’s presence certainly calmed my fears. If alone, I would’ve ran screaming back to the house, probably tripping over a rock. Oh the bruises, scrapes and gashes my knees and elbows endured due to my recklessness. Not to mention stubbed toes. My skin still displays some of those scars.

During another adventure we stumbled upon a field of wild strawberries, plucking and dropping them into a bucket. Perhaps it was just a small patch of them, and maybe they weren’t even strawberries, but I remember their juicy, red appearance, existing free of human destruction. That is, until a 4 year old and a 6 year old discovered them. My parents may have been there too, but I mostly remember Ryan. About seventeen years later I’ll befriend a man named Doug and find that we were neighbors at the lake. He, too, will remember the strawberries.

I wish so badly that I could better remember my father. But no matter how hard I try, how hard I close my eyes and try to recall life with him, I can only produce a few moments, those of which were mostly at our last house while he was alive, between the ages of 5 and 9 years old. I can still hear his voice, jolly and loud. Full of life and a proud York County twang. My brother sounds like him.

The one early memory I do have of my father is vivid, though the rest of my family claims it was a dream. But I know it wasn’t. It was real. I was 2, I think, possibly younger. I was still sleeping in a crib. My room was down one level from my parents’ bedroom. I awoke, peered at the open bathroom, and to my horror was a blue martian. Electric blue, glowing in the night, enjoying our bathtub. I stood up, staring at this creature. And then I started to scream. MOM! DAD! I needed them now. I needed them to see this. And I needed them to lift me from my cell and carry me away from harm. They flipped on the lights and came rushing down the short flight of stairs, their faces wrinkled with worry. I pointed at the martian, but as soon as the lights went on, it disappeared. My mom comforted me as my dad checked the tub. No martians here. I assured them I what I saw. They said it was just a dream. I assured them it was not. Who knows what else they told me to calm my fears, but I didn’t believe them. And to this day, about a quarter century later, I still don’t. I saw a blue martian in the bathtub at the house in Lake Wynonah.