that's me inside your head

The White Man's Burden: The Woody Allen Papers

2011-10-26T02:55:00.004-05:00

The opening scene is simple: A middle-aged man sits against a brown backdrop. A plaid button-down and tweed blazer cover his noticeably small build. His furrowed brow sits atop a pair of black thick-rimmed glasses and his hands move repeatedly as he tells the joke, in a pronounced New York accent:

“Two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, ‘Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.’ The other one says, ‘Yeah, I know, and such small portions.’ Well, that's essentially how I feel about life: full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”

This is Woody Allen. Writer and director, comedian and actor. This is Woody Allen’s way of starting “Annie Hall,” as he talks to the camera and outlines his character for the first minute and 40 seconds of the film.

The script for Academy Award-winning “Annie Hall” is only one of the thousands of admirable things in the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin. The center, home to the first photograph and the Gutenberg Bible, also holds archives from iconic figures like Arthur Miller and Robert De Niro. Visitors come to the center to leaf through early editions of Shakespeare or gawk at Tim Burton’s notes on Act I of “Batman.” But for the Allen-obsessed, the center offers screenplays, signed photos, articles and other memorabilia to research and maybe even begin to understand the complicated and fascinating filmmaker. Or maybe just to worship his work up close.

Many might not understand why Woody Allen’s work deserves to be at the Ransom Center. His shares the same space and air as James Joyce’s and other figures’ that are, we could say, more easily understood. Through time Allen’s work has been deemed overrated by viewers and film critics have complained Allen simply writes himself, not a character.

But Allen himself is truly a character, and through his work he revolutionized not only the way films were made and the way stories were told, but the way characters were built. He took subjects that had long been ignored or feared and brought them to light, such as human sexuality and gender and the seeming impossibility of love and happiness. His characters buy pornography out in the open, claiming to be doing a “sociological study of perversion up to advanced child molesting” (“Bananas”) and take love advice from Humphrey Bogart’s ghost (“Play It Again, Sam”).

The collection, acquired from Andreas Brown of the Gotham Book Mart & Gallery in New York, showcases Allen’s personality through bits and snippets of pop culture iconography.

There are also articles written by and about Allen, his distinctive voice resonant in each. In the 1966 March issue of Esquire Magazine, Allen and actress Ann-Margret grace the cover above a headline that reads, “What’s New In Europe, Pussycat? A ‘With-It’ Grand Tour by Woody Allen and Ann-Margret.” Flipping the pages, next to an ad for a 1966 Buick Riviera (“the tuned car”) the reader can immerse himself in a photo-tour of European cities: Rome, Paris, Munich, London. All photos with classic Woody Allen commentary about the cities’ food, fashion and traditions. The collection includes other articles written by Allen, such as Life Magazine’s 1969 “My Secret Life with Bogart,” in which the New Yorker writes about his life-long imaginary friendship with actor Humphrey Bogart. In typical Woody Allen fashion, the article drips of satire and self-deprecation and jokes about his mother asking for psychiatric help after he was suspended from school.

Allen’s sense of humor became distinctive, but never boring or redundant. Allen used sexual humor to deal with his under-masculinization and inadequacy, which his characters constantly blame on their mother and Jewishness. Allen is a product of the 1960’s, after all. He represents the sociocultural changes and shifts in political thought his generation went through. From the clothes worn by his heroines, most memorably Diane Keaton as Annie Hall, who iconicized the androgynous look, to the pessimist attitude Allen depicts in “Husbands and Wives,” his creative style came to be associated with modern U.S. practices worldwide.

When going through the collection, one can get a sense of whom Allen was. That Allen-esque, Brooklynite personality that shines through in his writing and his films. Even in still photos, that Woody Allen charm comes through. The Research Center has boxes of black and white photos of Allen in Bill Ray’s “Life Picture Collection”: Allen at Ceasar’s Palace. Allen making coffee. Allen in his hotel room, playing the clarinet, a record player resting on a stack of papers, a typewriter humming silence while he plays. The pictures give the viewer a look into the 1960s filmmaker who made himself the audience’s most popular character.

Amongst “Annie Hall” publicity stills (whose tagline was “A Nervous Romance”) and screenplay drafts of “Manhattan,” the collection also carries short stories by Allen from The New Yorker and letters from actress and former partner Mia Farrow. But buried in one of the many boxes of the Woody Allen collection, under rave reviews from Frank Rich and movie posters for “Casino Royale” is a short cartoon strip. Drawn on the faded yellow paper is Woody Allen, his head balding, plaid shirt and those black, thick-rimmed glasses under the heavy brow, framing his eyes, upon his stereotypical Jewish nose. “I have the standard liberal guilt,” reads the strip, “agonizing about the fact that the white man’s burden turned out to be the white man.”

In the hollow Reading Room of the Harry Ransom Research Center, that strip is sure to make your chuckle echo.

Texas Quidditch

2011-10-26T02:06:00.000-05:00

“Snitch, you’re such a dick!”

“Yeah, well, he’s allowed to be.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not going to yell at him!”

This exchange takes place between two black-and-green-clad Slytherins, after realizing the Snitch had pulled out one of the three hoops that loom behind the Slytherin Keeper from the grass. The Snitch, wearing a banana-yellow bandana, laughs manically as he sprints, fast—faster than anyone else on any of the four teams.

This isn’t a dream. This is just a Saturday morning on Whitaker Fields at the University of Texas at Austin. Author J.K. Rowling probably never imagined her books about a teenage wizard would become an award-winning, billion-dollar enterprise. Rowling probably never imagined the sport she invented for her wizarding world—which is played flying on broomsticks—would be played in reality, by Muggles (non-magic folk) running around with broomsticks between their legs, all over the world. But today quidditch is played in over 200 universities, all linked by the International Quidditch Association based in New York. All of these universities have weekly practice matches, regional tournaments and even, yes, a World Cup.

In that list of over 200 is UT, a university known for its subculture of pride and passion for football. But while its football team is famous, sometimes controversial and historic, the Texas Quidditch team is sweeping (pun intended) the modern world of college sports with the intensity only Longhorn Potterheads can bring.

It was Middlebury College in Vermont that founded intercollegiate quidditch, and the IQA was formed in 2007. UT was one of the last universities to register in 2009. But in the short while Texas Quidditch has been active, it’s already got enough to brag about: the team scored second place in the IQA Southwest Cup in Lubbock in 2011 and second place at a tournament in Texas A&M in 2010.

But more important than winning, many UT students love quidditch because it brings together two things they love: contact sports and “Harry Potter.”

“I love football,” says English major Alison Nitsche. “I go to all the Longhorn games and go to the OU game, but I also think quidditch is really awesome because it’s much more physical than you would think.”

The third-year UT student has been coming to watch the games since last year, when she first found out about it after a few of her friends tried out and made it into Slytherin. She sits on the bleachers, a hand over her eyes to block out the morning sun, and says people make fun of the players every once in a while.

“A bunch of my roommates and friends came out here with me and they made fun of it and laughed,” she says. “Because it is kind of ridiculous, people running around on broomsticks.”

She stops to clap and cheer as a Slytherin Chaser puts a Quaffle through one of the hoops.

Which brings up another subject of the sport: the terminology.

Rowling taught her readers about quidditch and its rules in the pages of her seven books. Matches are played between two teams of seven players riding broomsticks, using four balls and six hoops. The player positions include three Chasers, one Keeper, two Beaters and a Seeker for each team. The balls have their own names, as well: Quaffles, which the Chasers put through the hoops to gain points, Bludgers, which Beaters try to distract opposing teammembers with, and the Golden Snitch, a tiny ball with wings that is incredibly fast and difficult to catch. Once the Seeker—whose sole purpose in the match is to catch the Snitch—catches it, the match is over.

In real-life quidditch, these terms are used as well. Since the players are all “Potter” fans, the language and terms come to them like second nature. The main differences between wizarding world quidditch and real-life quidditch are, 1. players run instead of fly, and 2. the Snitch is not a ball, but a very fast—and sometimes mischievous—person.

But despite its origins, quidditch is like any other sport. Coming back to those people who may show up to matches time and again to point and laugh, every sport has its haters. In some cultures, American football has a negative connotation, associated with drunk fans and ignorant viewers. To some people, baseball is long and dull. Many deem golf a non-sport, and although soccer is known as the most popular sport in the world, its popularity has been slow to catch on in the U.S.

So being laughed at is a non-issue for quidditch players and everyone involved, who are too busy having fun and acting like people would at any sport event. The bleachers are filled with family members and fans with T-shirts that read “Weasley Is My King” (in reference to “Potter” character, Ron Weasley) and “Proud to be a Hufflepuff” (one of the four Houses, or teams). The crowd roars with shouts of “Way to go, Ravenclaw!” and “Watch out for that Bludger!” They wear their team colors, too: blue for Ravenclaw, yellow for Hufflepuff, black or green for Slytherin and orange for Gryffindor or the varsity team, which is the official team that gets to compete and go to the World Cup in November.

Others fight to get involved in any way possible, such as anthropology major Ashley Richardson.

“I love Harry Potter,” she says. “When I found out UT had a quidditch team, I was so excited. But I can’t really play because I have asthma, so referee is the next best thing.”

Richardson is a referee-in-training and stands on the sidelines to try to maintain order when the game gets a little too physical. She’s a die-hard Potterhead and was even a part of Pottermore, the “Harry Potter” fansite that will open for the general public in October, on the second day it opened for a select few. After all, if something sets Longhorns apart, it’s intensity. Even though there are over 200 universities practicing the sport, Texas Quidditch knows this isn’t only about loyalty to the world Rowling created, but bringing that fanaticism to a university that’s always on the leading edge and eager to try new things, eventually turning them into tradition.

“I know quidditch comes from England, but here at UT we always take things to the next level,” says Mariana Sada, a senior computer science major. “It’s all about showing other schools that UT dominates every sport, even make-believe ones.”

Sada speaks with the fervor of a Potterhead with burnt orange blood running through her veins. Sure, UT won’t be building a quidditch stadium with a jumbotron to capture the Golden Snitch’s every move any time soon. But the eagerness of the players and dedication of the fans, who wake up at 9 AM on a Saturday to cheer for their prefered team, makes one feel like history’s in the making at UT.

A heavy murmur from the crowd takes over and a girl wearing a “Don’t Mess With Texas” T-shirt stands up and points, yelling out, “Here comes the Snitch!”

Suddenly the yellow bandana flashes into view, the Seeker rushing after him, fast and somehow looking graceful, even with the broomstick between his legs. People from the surrounding fields stop what they’re doing—playing catch, soccer practice—and turn to look at the two quidditch players who run so fast they could trick the eye, it almost looks like the boys could fly.

My World With Harry Potter

2011-07-17T04:33:00.005-05:00

It was my mother who picked it up.

We were at a bookstore, the summer before fifth grade. I was walking through the aisles buried under a tower of books when my mother came to me, book in hand and said, “I think you’ll like this one.” I stared at the cover and just looked back at her, skeptical. She knew what I was thinking: “Sorcerer’s stone? What kinda crap is that?” But she insisted, telling me to read the back cover, saying it sounded “different.” She put it on top of my pile of books, and I decided to give in.

A few weeks later, having already read the rest of the books I chose on my own—none of which I remember, by the way—I decided to read the book my mother had pushed on me.

And so it began.

If I look back, I realize my friendship with Harry Potter couldn’t have had more perfect timing. I first traveled to Hogwarts just months before my life changed dramatically and forever. My friendship with Harry survived my parents’ separation. My friendship with Harry ignited my relationship with my best friend. My friendship with Harry supported me through my sister’s rehab, through my years in high school, guided me through the application process for college. Harry joined me in my new life in the States, has been the topic of many conversations with the first person I've fallen in love with, and Harry’s been the friend I’ve defended against many the ignorant Muggle. First and foremost, Harry Potter and the beautiful world J.K. Rowling created not only became a part of who I am today—it encouraged who I am, it influenced what I thought, and it guided me from one point to the next.

It’s true that these books pushed many people of all ages to read. Jo Rowling made people love to read. Reading was suddenly “in” again. But I’ve always loved to read. My sister has always loved to read. My father encouraged it, and my mother taught us how. So Rowling didn’t make me want to begin to read. Harry Potter isn’t the only character I know and love. It definitely isn’t the only source of literature on my bookcase and isn’t the only influence in my writing. But now, in my early 20s, Harry Potter stands next to my copies of Lolita and American Psycho. Harry Potter shares the space with Holden Caulfield and Atticus Finch. Jo Rowling joins a list of personal literary gods along with Kerouac, Augusten Burroughs and Joan Didion. For me, Harry Potter will truly live forever.

There are few things I loved when I was young that I still cherish. Peter Pan, for example, which for me is the most genius story ever written. Anything by Roald Dahl, which for me will always be crucial for a healthy childhood. And many will never understand. To many, “Harry Potter” is a story of flying broomsticks and talking spiders. But to those of us who get it, this story will always be woven into our own lives. To those of us who understand, these characters will always be true friends.

Like all (or most of) the other Harry Potter book lovers, I found myself watching the films and thinking, “That is NOT the way it happened.” I always grew impatient mid-film, wondering, “Why didn’t they include this scene?” “Why didn’t they focus on this character?” I would talk and complain and explain and elaborate on things movie-goers didn’t see, things they couldn’t even begin to imagine. But through all the complaining, I knew that even from the very beginning, the films won me over, too.

I didn’t grow up with other Harry Potter fans. It wasn’t until years later that I began to meet people who loved the wizarding world as much as I did, who took refuge in it as constantly as myself. And through the years, I have read and reread the books. My copy of “Goblet of Fire” is faded and bent and extremely beloved. My copy of “Prisoner of Azkaban” has been on airplanes and roadtrips multiple times. And “Deathly Hallows,” I’ll just say it, might as well have been a Kleenex, splotched and invaded by my heavy tears.

When the final book was released, I mourned like the rest of the Potterheads—but there was still time, I knew, because a part of me loved the films, as well. It’s amazing how committed the team behind the movies was, and I can imagine, will always be. It’s truly a series of films that grew with intensity and magic. Its music, especially “Hedwig’s Theme” by master of sound John Williams; its special effects, which captured and gave life to our favorite things, like the Thestrals and the Marauder’s Map; the mesmerizing photography and style of direction, which changed year to year. The writing and interpretation, which must be one of the hardest jobs in the world to take on. And more impressively so, the series of film featured actors who were brilliant from the very beginning and others who grew—quite literally—before us, and through time, embodied the characters we had fallen in love with and also the characters Jo made us hate (Umbridge, anyone?). These are not just movies we love because they come from books we love. They are also wonderful films that stand on their own.

A week before Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part I premiered, I called up my boyfriend in tears. He was instantly worried, and asked me what was wrong. I could barely speak. I finally told him, “I just can’t believe it’s almost over.” I joked about it afterwards. I tweeted about it, and was a bit embarrassed by how honest the call had been, how vulnerable I had sounded. But my boyfriend knew then, and he understands now, that to me, this isn’t the end of just anything. This is the end to something that for many years gave me something to look forward to. It’s true… Harry Potter will always be there. I can always go back, and I can always daydream about what it would be like to have a Pensieve or wish I could have an hour of fun with Felix Felicis. But in many ways, it’s also the end to a story that changed many lives.

Sometimes I think how amazing it must be to be Jo Rowling and still have that story running through your mind. Because I know it must never stop. This is her world, and these are her people, and in the mind of Jo Rowling, they will always keep on. Jo will see their children, will imagine their future adventures, will be there to see them die. And I think that’s what got me the most about Harry Potter… As a writer, it gives one hope. That after so many years of history, after decades of literature, there is still the possibility of an original idea. Still the possibility of a magical, shockingly intricate, original idea.

I loved Deathly Hallows Part II. There are things they had to change, there are things they had to cut out, there are things that were slightly flawed, but everything worked. And I, of course, was a mess. As soon as the movie started, there were tears. When I saw Dobby’s grave, there were tears. When McGonagall defended Harry, there were tears. When Hogwarts started defending itself, good God, were there tears. Neville Longbottom, the boy whose significance the films could never even begin to explain, made me sob. There was so much to take in. I wanted to watch the scene—that crucial scene when Molly Weasley says the one curse word in the whole seven-book series, when murdering Bellatrix. I couldn’t wait to see the Gringotts dragon or Ron and Hermione’s kiss. But throughout the whole movie, I was dreading one thing: Snape’s death. Alan Rickman made me love Severus Snape the way Jo Rowling never could. He was exceptional. He was heartbreaking and perfect.

There is not much to say about this film in particular as there is to say about the experience and phenomenon Harry Potter is as a whole.

I grew up with Harry Potter. I grew up with these kids. I read the first book just a few months before I turned eleven and have to admit, for a while there, I thought maybe, just maybe, I would too get an owl, I would too get my letter. I know. It seems silly. But the thing about these books, the thing about these movies is… they make you believe. They make you wonder. They make you think, maybe we Muggles really don’t look at anything closely. A couple of weeks ago, there was a cat standing just outside my front door. It was just sitting there and staring, and when I opened the door, it didn’t budge. It simply stared. It startled me, and someone told me jokingly, “Hey. It might be Minerva McGonagall.” Oh, don’t you dare kid, I thought. Don’t you dare kid. So after all these years, I still wonder. After all these years, I’m still in love. Even now, I find myself looking at the books on my shelf and there’s an ache inside of me. I miss everything. So, so much. And so I go back, and I’m so thankful for literature and music and film, because they all allow us to always go back. To feel what we felt at the beginning. To rediscover. Today, I pity everyone who has missed out on this experience. And of course, after all these years I thank my mom for choosing that one book and realize, Mothers really are always right.

Lying

2011-05-03T18:14:00.002-05:00

Manipulation for our own amusement. Sex for sport, lying for fun. Human beings constantly feel the need to feed off entertainment. We pull at the tight strings of social norms because we’re bored. We become enwrapped by intricate webs of lies and cover ourselves with heavy make-up, red lips, dark lids.

Our hair grows long and tangled with the desire to find another self. Only we’ve created a profession in which we can take on other roles, other selves, embody characters who seem more interesting, more complex, imaginary people who speak of and live the stories we wish we ourselves had truly lived. We jump from religion to religion, we look at different gods and hope one of their arms will reach out, one of the screws that holds them will one day come loose.

Boredom. We drown in the world of pornography to trick our minds into believing we are doing something which, in reality, we dare not do. We build cabins with toy logs and buy dream houses and drive tiny, plastic, pink Corvettes. We create our own Tyler Durdens to say what we can’t say. We live in the world of books, in the world of film, lose ourselves in the rhythm of beautiful music that makes us trust, helps us breathe. We lie to the blank pages of our journals, with the hilarious hope that one day we’ll look back and won’t remember none of it was true. We splatter paint to cover the harsh white of a canvas, and set up pictures on our walls to remind us of things and people we shouldn’t need reminding of.

But don’t think for a minute this is wrong. Don’t believe, even for a second, I’m saying this is bad. Because in the midst of lying, we create a circle that takes us back to the beginning. Because in the task of removing our make-up each night, in the process of choosing the heaviest jewelry and the perfect tattoos to cover our naked bodies, in between the lines of stories we read time and time again, and in the time we take to build that person we want, more than anything, to become…we create. Whomever once told you lying was wrong had a point. Honesty can be so much more intriguing. But while we act, while we color our worlds and dream up masterful costumes to become The Other, we are too creating. And in the hunt for entertainment, we become the humorous animal that is the human.

Realities

2011-04-10T21:28:00.003-05:00

The strangest thing happened to me a few days ago.

I’ve always had this memory...

I was about eleven, and I woke up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, but something outside my window caught my eye. It was a little boy, sitting by himself on the grass in the park across my house. I tried to look around, checking if a parent was somewhere in sight, but there was no one. I remember I thought I was dreaming, and so I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face, then went back to my window. He was still there, so calm. A child of about four, blonde hair and chubby legs. A lamp post lit the spot he sat on, and the trees that surrounded him framed only him, as if calling out to someone to notice him. Suddenly he stood and walked away, disappeared into the trees, and that was it. After a few minutes of staring at the same spot, I went back to bed. I’ve remembered it so vividly ever since.

A few days ago I saw that boy. He was the same age, had the same hair. He was standing around the same patch of trees. But he wasn’t in the park across the street. He was in a movie. A movie I hadn’t watched in years. I realized then and there that what I thought had happened to me had been just a dream-- and I mixed it with reality. Somehow what I had seen in a movie slipped into my mind and slivered into my dreams, and I thought it was my life, a part of my memories. And it was, for some strange reason, devastating. As if my memory had been cheated, as if my childhood wasn’t entirely, originally, mine. How easily we take things as our own, how easily we label them and call them ours. I created this memory around this boy who had, in fact, just been a character in a film. How do we separate fiction from reality? How do we split a movie from our life? How do we come to distinguish between a character from a perfect song and a real, flawed person from our seemingly disappointing life? We can’t. I’ve realized that there is no one world, one life, one memory. We recreate moments and people and feelings and give them a different setting. We may look for drama, or comfort or solitude, or sometimes we look forward to the moment when we’re surrounded by strangers or greeted by our oldest friends. But we create realities that can only feed us through its tiny bits of fantasy and we pretend, sometimes unconsciously, that they’re ours to live in.

And for some reason, this eerie realization has given me more reason to dream, more reason to pretend. It scares me as well, to not know what truly happened. What if I made something up, and I don’t know my life-- myself-- as well as I thought I did? What if I only know what I wanted my life to be?

Miss You

2011-03-23T00:26:00.003-06:00

You must get out, get out, get out.

“I always knew she was unusual.”

There’s this lump in my throat—stuck, and my fingers won’t move. I’m constantly uncomfortable, shifting my weight from side to side. My neck will crack three times a day, and I’ll roll over on my back and snap, and snap. My eyes tear up and it hurts to even open them when I wake up each morning. My nails bend, weak, and I dye them apple red to cover up the yellow stains.

My body is trying to tell me something. I have enough water each day, and I work and I laugh and I cry and I run and I cum. I scream. But my fingers won’t move. I feel, and I watch and I smile and I talk, I talk so much, all the time, every day. But my fingers won’t move.

She told me I was unusual, she told me to get out. I got out, but so far I’m further in, somehow. My fingers won’t move, and they’ve been tied to the same place for so long, finding no words, no dripping wax, just stale, hard, crippled have-tos. I only do what I have to, and I haven’t done what I want to. It hurts and my body’s trying to tell me something.

I miss you. I miss you like I knew you back when I thought you were all I wanted. When I was brave enough to think and dream about you, like ambition and accomplishment and truth. I miss you, I miss myself when you were in me, running through me, you made my fingers move so fast. About green eyes and cracked windows and blurry pictures and memory boxes. You remind me of the music that kept me sane and the screams that never left me. I miss you, because of you she thought I was unusual and because of you she wanted me to get out. But without you, my fingers are stuck, they bend only to fetch and scratch but not to connect. Not to speak. They’ve been silent for so long, since I got out. I got out and suddenly, they wouldn’t move.

My body’s trying to tell me something, and I think I know. I know that I have to try, have to surrender, have to stop making excuses, just make them move, make them dance, make them jump around a page, or a wall or a blackboard or a keyboard. Because I miss you, my words. I miss when words were who I was. Words are who I am. But I haven’t had you in so long, for fear. For fear of the weak, which I have been already. But there aren’t enough of you anymore to keep me alive, so I know that my body’s trying to tell me—to reach out. My fingers haven’t moved but they want to, to splurge and vomit on a dirty yellow page, just to feel relief. My fingers want the words, they need the words, and search my body and my brain and my gasping and my dreams.

You must get out, get out, get out. Words.

Dessen

2011-02-03T16:50:00.003-06:00

I was in the tenth grade when my AP English teacher gasped and asked me why I was reading what I was reading. I looked up, then looked at the book cover of Running With Scissors that I held in my hands. I laughed, and asked, “Why?” She told me it was excellent, yes, but a bit advanced for my age, no? Well. Yes, the gay sex scenes were a bit raw, and the sick and gut-wrenching psychology behind the characters that were—horrifyingly—real, were kinda hard to digest. But isn’t everything?

After that moment, my teacher got to know me and she never questioned my book choices again. The weird thing is, there are still so many books out there that I read and I shudder and cringe. Rape scenes are the worst, written with such harsh honesty that make me nauseous with fear. But I keep reading. Because we learn. Don’t we?

There are also so many books out there that I can’t manage to get through. My eleventh grade teacher still hopes, to the day, that I find some kind of space in my heart for Shakespeare (loved Macbeth, Hamlet annoyed me, and couldn’t get through anything else). But I don’t have that sort of patience.

It’s strange to see, as you’re growing up, the things you used to read. Yet there are things that remain, deep inside of me, and I reread and wonder who wouldn’t want them on their shelf. Who wouldn’t want those words in their mind, clawed into their soul, classics like Peter Pan and To Kil a Mockingbird and yes, the remarkable Harry Potter. And then I turn and pick up the latest books I’ve read, like Other Voices, Other Rooms and Rant. With more blood and underlying skepticism, creeping with violence and eeriness that only Capote and Palahniuk can deal with so majestically.

But sandwiched between classics and modern classics, I find something else. The author’s Sarah Dessen, and no doubt there are thousands of girls out there who know her from their youth. Through the years, as I’ve become drier and colder and yes, maybe a bit bitchier, Dessen remains. I reread This Lullaby a few months ago, one night when I couldn’t sleep and I needed something soothing. Even from the name, people wouldn’t believe I’d read it. It sounds so girly, and cheesy and… stupid. But so clear in her words and through the pages of her novel you’ll find truth. I don’t give a fuck, whether you’re 12 or 17 or a 21-year-old college student who loves the perfect shade of Scorsese red. You’ll still find truth in her stories. They’re simple and silly, but they’re still there, inside of me. Her characters are so stupidly real that it makes me laugh outloud. It’s chick lit, it’s easy and quick, and you take it to the beach and you’ll be done in a couple of hours. But that doesn’t make Dessen any less real.

I love to think about the things that stay the same, just because so many things have changed. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve led three different lives, and it feels nice to go through the pages of something I still recognize and that makes me feel the same. It’s extraordinary to find those little things, like horcruxes, that carry a piece of you that cannot die. However cheesy or girly or stupidly simple it may seem. It’s you.

Class Actress & Small Black @ Emo's

2010-11-06T14:09:00.007-06:00

I hate Halloween. I hate Halloween, and I’ll tell you why. Gone are the days we got to dress up as (happy) clowns and ninja turtles, (non-slutty) princesses and Power Rangers and get candy in exchange. Today Halloween is—not even a day—but a weekend of guys dressing as girls and girls dressing as, well, naked girls. I know, I know, it sounds like a wonderful occasion. But it’s not for me. So I was more than happy to spend at least one day of Halloween weekend away from the awful crowds, at Emo’s, to see Class Actress and Small Black perform. Little did I know Halloween would find a way to haunt me all the way into Emo’s, in that small and dark inside stage, where I would have no choice but to embrace the madness of it all.

The credits of “Catch Me If You Can” were already rolling on the bar’s TV when Class Actress took the stage. The crowd began forming around singer Elizabeth Harper, who, with her perfectly messy hair and devilishly flirty looks, managed to create a mood, this mood of palpable sensuality. The New York City band has songs that somehow take the best of the ‘80s—a little Depeche Mode, with the charm of a brunette Debbie Harry—and make them modern, fun and lulling.

It wasn’t a couple of songs into the set that I noticed some people turning away from the stage to look at the bar. Up until then, I’d thought the mood of the place had been perfect. Dark and intimate, dimmed red lights, smoky, with Harper and her dark lips onstage. But when I turned to the bar and saw Asian porn playing on the TV, I knew—the mood had now been sufficiently enhanced, truly completed. I don’t know how the band never got distracted. Because for what was left of their set there was so much to see, everything added to the soundtrack of the night, to Harper’s moves and musky voice. There was Marylin Monroe, beer in hand and chest hair around "her" cleavage. And there was Lindsay Lohan, with horribly synthetic-looking hair and a bright orange jumpsuit. Oh, and LiLo’s giant bag of coke, with a life of its own, following its owner around the bar.

Add all that plus necrophilic Asians on TV, and it was distracting enough to leave Small Black unnoticed. The four members were now giving more a feel of college Halloween party than neo-Victorian burlesque show. Too bad. But Small Black put on a great set, getting the crowd a little bit rowdier, dancing a little less sexy but a little livelier.

The power in both bands, especially Small Black, seemed to be nostalgia. Small Black also manages to bring a bit of the past with a twist not only in their songs, but into their energy-packed performances. Their show was bright in spark and personality, and their music hazy yet poppy enough to become a kind of colorful dream we want to live in longer.

By now, Asians had become Nazis and the porno’s subtitles were still distracting (yes, the subtitles were what was distracting), so it was true that Small Black did not really take center stage. It was somehow more of a collaboration. The funny thing was that Class Actress’ music, which kind of sounds like sex, fit the night’s mood completely. But Small Black’s work, which sounds like love, kind of stood above the crowds and the costumes and the masturbation scenes. There were a lot of audience members who had clearly come to Emo’s on a whim, not as fans of the band, and had not been pleasantly surprised. Small Black doesn’t put out music for everyone. Their show, although entertaining, had a kind of quality that didn’t match the average listener.

Personally for me, Small Black’s set wasn’t as entrancing as I had hoped. It didn’t come off as appealing as Class Actress’ much shorter set. I don’t know, maybe it was the unusual amount of hanging breasts around—and no, I’m not just talking about on TV—but the success of the show seemed to come more from the night as a whole: Halloween, the bar, the characters and yes, the porn. It wasn’t so much about Class Actress and Small Black, but about what they contributed. They put on a good show, I’ll give you that, and as one non-fan very eloquently put, “Hey, I’d give this show a great review. Not because of the band but because I had a great fucking time!” Well then, there ya go. I guess this Halloween was not so bad.

Blogs Are Not Meant to Be Read

2010-10-21T12:23:00.008-05:00

Today something terrible happened.

My class finished early. Now see, usually this would constitute as a happy occasion-- you're free to have lunch earlier, to sit outside and actually enjoy a cigarette without worrying you'll be late for your next class, you can take those extra 15 minutes and do an impromptu irresponsible shopping extravaganza. The works. But today, our teacher didn't let us out early-- the lecture was over, yes, but instead, she decided to take those extra minutes to look up...our personal blogs. In front of the entire class. Being communication majors, it would only make sense that we'd all have blogs, or tumblrs, or published articles in webzines. It's what we do, however sad or pathetic it may sound. What kind of communication major doesn't have a blog? she must have thought. I'll embarrass them to no end, she must have thought, as well.

We all got squirmy and tense, and you could notice the shift of mood and energy-- from, yay! no more boring lecture!... to oh, shit, did I rant about this teacher on my blog last night?

She pulled out some girl's blog first, and right away we could see it: the self-portrait. Taken from her cellphone most probably, hip out, pursed lips, tight dress, and a blog title like.... well, I'm not gonna give it away. Then the next blog was put up, and next was a tumblr, and then a flickr (that's not so embarrassing) and I could just feel everybody start to really hate this teacher. Needless to say, my blog was not put up. But my articles on Red River Noise were- phew. Definitely not embarrassed of those.

The truth is this teacher didn't really mean to humiliate us. She didn't mean to make us sweat with fear and make us cover our eyes and shake our heads. She was proud of us, for being pseudo-published authors and mediocre quasi-reporters. But we took it personally, fuck yeah, we did.

We choose to upload these posts, to put up pictures of ourselves looking what we think is sexy or intellectual, or posting a pretentious black and white picture, wearing a fedora tipped to the side (ahem). But we never actually think someone we know might come across it. Most of us don't advertise our blogs, most of us use them as little personal venting spaces, or start them to make us feel like some random stranger, far, far away, might give a crap what we think or say. But we do not want our classmates to read our poetry, or the word vomit that comes from half a tequila bottle and a bad break-up. We want that private--but public enough to reach hundreds or thousands or even millions of people. It's the fucking web. We know the risks, but we think, come on-- there are millions of blogs out there, who could possibly bump into mine?

Hey, I'm proud of Me Inside Your Head, I am. It's what got me my job. But we live and we learn. Best we keep our Sexton-esque personalities in a journal...under our beds...in a safety box...with a huge-ass lock that's impossible to break into. If it ever gets published, well at least you can say, if it got published at all, at least I know my editor and publisher read it and didn't think it was complete crap. That's gotta be something, right? And now I know my teachers could be looking at this right now. God, that's terrifying.

Fuck

2010-10-20T00:43:00.006-05:00

There's a moment in Nick Hornby's "About A Boy" in which 12-year-old Marcus confides in adult friend/pseudo father figure, Will, about what's going on in his life. Marcus tells Will about his suicidal mother, in the pit of depression, and how it pains him to see her cry [especially in the mornings]. Will, at a loss of what to say, simply says, "Fuck." Or whatever the British equivalent to "fuck" is. Sorry, I read the novel a few years back.

I remember that moment because it was so wonderfully and perfectly honest-- classic Hornby, who always manages to capture the humanity of characters in the simplest ways. That "fuck" was everything Marcus needed to hear, really, because it made him feel comforted. Much more comforted than an "I'm sorry" would ever make him feel. The simplicity of "fuck" makes a person feel better, like it did Marcus, because you feel like you're not overreacting, like you're not alone, like your pain or your anger is justified. You're not making something out of nothing. It's comforting that someone out there knows that what you're going through deserves a "fuck."

Today I was at a loss for words. Something happened, and I couldn't say "I'm sorry" and I couldn't say anything else. There are things that become too big for words, and that's why so many of us, I know, hate death. Not fear of dying, but fear of others dying, not just for personal pain, but the embarrassment of not knowing what to say to others for their pain. It's one of the stupidest things we worry about, but it's always there, looming over us, like the dreaded family reunion we have to go to once a year. We know we're going to have to deal with it. We hate discomfort, however selfish it may sound.

So today I thought, what am I supposed to say? Sometimes a simple "fuck" will do. Sometimes people feel better when you talk for them. But sometimes there are no words. Just the noise of the street as you sit with them while the moment passes, and the biggest "fuck" of all is left hanging between you, in the heavy night air.

I Write, Therefore I Think

2010-09-23T21:27:00.008-05:00

Joan Didion once said, "I write to find out what I think."

I believe everyone has a way to process information. To sort out what they're going through, to make sense of everything that seems to have no reason. It's been so long since I've actually sat down and written something, just for the sake of writing-- without a deadline, without purpose of a grade. Just write because I have something to say.

Tonight I interviewed a sexual assault victim for a story. After the interview, she glanced at my notes, and asked, "Did you get everything you needed?" My notebook was a mess of information, quotes, arrows connecting points and bold stars highlighting extra-worthy, gotta-have-'em snippets of, well, her story. "How are you gonna take everything I said and put it down on paper?"

Taking my J-school classes, I've so often heard that we're not there to write profiles, we're not there to write features, we're not there to write about music or fashion or cooking. We're there to write hard news, we're there to take a complicated issue and simplify it for someone who opens their paper each morning and wants to understand what's happening outside their door. "To all your parents who're worried that you're studying to become journalists," said my professor, "tell them not to. You'll always have a job, you'll always be needed. Because you're storytellers, and stories will be told forever."

The thing that bothered me about what my professor said that very first class, is this: aren't we all? Aren't we all storytellers? Aren't music writers people who give others a sense of beauty in what they listen to in a song? Aren't GQ reporters there to tell a reader that what they wear, what they put on their back every morning, is art made out of fabric? Isn't the girl who sits at the back of the class and gossips about what happened last weekend between so-and-so a storyteller, as well?

It seems everyone else is overlooked and underestimated, and it seems to me that the smallest things that don't seem to be front-page material are the news that people most look forward to, most learn from, most carry with them. Whether it be in their iPods or the book they take with them to read at the bus stop. The unworthy writers suggested those things, talked about that riff that's worth buying the whole album for.

It was after tonight that I looked at the girl and sadly thought that I wouldn't really be able to tell her whole story. Because I'm not in that class to write a profile on an assault victim, I'm just there to tell simple facts, without describing the cold look in her eye or the way she strategically places her arms across her chest. I'm there to write about when it happened, how it happened, who she called and what they told her. But isn't it the person behind the facts that everyone wants to know about? Not because we're instantly attracted to the dark side of things, but because we probably know that girl, that guy, we probably recognize the furrowed brow and have always wondered what's behind it.

A lot of people want their story told, and it's impossible to tell each one. I've never really known what I've wanted to write about, but I like to talk-- about myself, about others, about little things I've seen or lived. And I like to make stuff up every now and then, because I always wonder, "What if this were to happen?" Now wouldn't that be interesting... Didion always managed to take history and simplify it in a juicy, intriguing way that made us want to live it the way she did.

I don't necessarily write to find out what I think, but it is always after I write that everything seems to be more clear. It's frustrating when things don't sort themselves out, like a dream you frantically try to remember instantly after you've woken up, because all you know is that it felt so damn good when you were dreaming it. It's always the tiny things you remember the most, but it's in those details that I lose myself in the nonsense that are the characters of my life, in the unconnected chaos that I try to sort through like my notes after an interview.

Tonight I just wanted to write for the sake of writing--and unlike Joan Didion, I haven't learned some groundbreaking underlying notion about myself, and I haven't a new sense of what my stand is on some particular subject. But I wrote tonight simply TO think, about nothing of great importance and about everything I wanted to. That's the magic of writing, there doesn't always have to be facts, there doesn't always have to be a play-by-play and a conclusion. You can just write, to fucking write. And at least you'll appreciate it, be it or not front-page news.

RINGER by Glasser

2010-09-15T13:22:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted one of these in a while, but I recently reviewed Glasser's debut full-length album, Ring. It's a very beautiful and haunting collection, but it'll probably live a short life. Read my full review here, on Red River Noise.

Family Ties

2010-07-29T19:52:00.006-05:00

My big sister and I lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. It was late, and we had an early day, but for some reason, she began talking about our family.

She asked me what I thought about the fact that we were all split up-- my sister in one city, my parents in another. Me in another country, each of my parents in a different house. I told her I was used to it, that it's been years since we'd all been together. For a while we lay together, and she was telling me about feeling like she didn't have a family sometimes-- maybe not not having a family, she said, but not having what a family should be. What a family is supposed to be. Together. Supportive. Sundays spent with grandparents and trips of family bliss. It's been almost ten years, but here was my sister, asking me what I felt. We talked til morning, sharing facts of lack of support and feelings of not being enough, stories of disappointment and always being compared to the other-- who's prettier, who's smarter, who's more successful, who screwed up less. Who's which parent's favorite.

Three days later, something extraordinary happened.

One of my best friends took me to meet her family. I soon learned that her family's directly linked to one of my favorite artists of all time, and being there, in the midst of gifts from the artist, and portraits of unimaginable worth, books with personal dedications and photographs that served as proof of such a personal and obvious connection with someone who has gone down in art history, I was in awe. I walked through rooms that told the story of their family and their past, in disbelief that I had kept such a close friendship with someone from such an incredible origin and had never known...

But then I thought, how silly. Maybe she doesn't realize how amazing this is, or maybe this never directly affected her. Because, standing there, she was still just my friend, surrounded by her family. Her grandparents and her uncle, her aunt and pictures of the great and great-greats. They were just branches of her, extensions of her, people who have somehow, made her who she is, yet she isn't surprised at their participation of her person. Because they're what she was born into.

And then I felt even sillier. Because it was there, staring in fascination at their memories, that I realized everything reminded me of my family. Of my father, who always taught me of books and art and the power of creation. Of my mother, whose kindness was always so particular in the way she spoke and the smell of her hair when she hugged me. And of my sister, who, standing there with me, knows I know her as well as I know myself. We, too, are linked even when apart, not just by photographs and written memories and the paintings hung as proof of our fascination with color and expression, but by the knowledge that where we come from is also where we can go back to when we wish to. It was at that moment that I realized that it wasn't that I was used to our separation, but that even in separate cities and houses and countries I knew they were there--extensions of myself. I'll make sure to make my sister feel safe tonight, as we lay in bed, and tell her that there's no such thing as what a family is supposed to be. Families just are.

"love.doc"

2010-05-16T19:11:00.005-05:00

Looking through old files, found under "love.doc"

The convolution of his lies make you gasp with a feeling so painful yet hopeful; a feeling that you know is better than anything and everything else, because it means you are not lying where you used to stand. And this is the only time you would rather things be unpredictable than safe. You impatiently wait for that moment, once again, in which your life is on the line, and you are at peace. Calm. Everything you thought you had and lost, you now realize was nothing. Is nothing. This, today, is everything. There are very few truths in life, and usually they pass you by. This time you are prepared for the beautiful insecurity that arose from this relationship. Between you and him. When he looks at you, you can feel it. The doubt, hesitation. Wondering if there's something better, thinking if maybe he's missing something great while he's with his something good. However, you believe you hold enough hope for the both of you, and as he takes your hand roughly...you oblige. And then you jump back and realize...you deserve more.

I had almost forgotten the inexplicable beauty that lies in the heart of honesty. The good in this boy can be seen through his eyes, those deep brown eyes that in the light of sun turn the sweetest shade of green. Truthfully, I can say that nothing I have felt before has come close to what he makes me feel every day.

Never has so much pain seared in me when someone looks at me with disappointment or anger like when he does...And never has so much joy filled me as it does when he glances at me with a smile. I can tell he is in love with me by the warm sound he makes when my lips touch his, or the way his fingers intertwine with mine so perfectly. His is the only touch that drips with desire as well as love and respect. So intimate, a wonderful security that never loses its utter exhilaration.

It breaks me softly when I see a twinge of doubt in his eye. However unusual, it exists every once in a while. That look of pain when he furrows his brow and his eyes get lost in midair, wishing above all not to be thinking what he's thinking. I have learned to read his every expression; his jaw clenches and his neck stiffens. He turns his head upwards because he dares not face me. I know what he feels. It is an aching so familiar now, but one overshadowed by the immense feeling of trust I have for him.

Never have I wanted something or someone so much that my nightmares taunt my every night; the fear of losing him is palpable. Whenever I awake with the foul taste of last night's nightmare I turn and he's next to me, asleep, dreaming intricate dreams of his own. I pray secretly that they are nothing but kind fantasies, so he is spared what I lived through in mine.

I have always had words that never had a listener. I love to speak, to be heard, to be appreciated. With him I know I have this and more. This wondrous boy knows me like no other. I notice how well he knows me whenever he tells me I am beautiful, those moments that I live for every day. I wait eagerly for the sound of those words. And whenever he forgets to tell me, I fear I have been overlooked or forgotten, I am horrified to be taken for granted. They are terrors of insecurity; the panic of never being enough. And the one true terrible thing about love is that it is an overwhelming combination of feeling safe and comfortable, yet always wanting to be more, enough for him to always be happy and never forget to tell you that you are beautiful to him. Perfect for him.

Deep inside I know I need not hear it every day, that he loves me, that he wants me and forever will. But still, the way I feel my heart sigh whenever I hear it-- there's no feeling quite, quite like that one.

Blessed

2010-05-12T23:24:00.004-05:00

No matter how busy I've been, I try to keep up with my writing. My blog has been disregarded lately, but it's been for good reason... work, work, work. School. Fun.

Concert reviews, album reviews, film fests, roadtrips, parties, farewells, another semester gone. I share with you my latest pieces of writing that have been published, proving me once more that everything I set my mind to, I'm gonna get done. I've been lucky, but I'm talented, and I work hard for what I've gotten.

Visit my page at Austin Vida magazine to check up on the latest albums, concerts, and film festivals going on in the great city of Austin, Texas... I had an amazing time getting to meet new people, artists, musicians, producers, and fans of great work.

I've also been working for Red River Noise, a great music blogazine that has taken me in, from the Austin Vida family. Check out my work...

More to come.

Clorofila

2010-04-14T18:05:00.002-05:00

Nortec Collective presents "Corridos Urbanos", from Jorge Verdin, also known as Clorofila, who's lent his musical and graphic design talents to Nortec for years. It was an exciting solo release that I thoroughly enjoyed-- make sure to read my full review here in Austin Vida!

I Gotta Go See About a Girl...

2010-04-07T21:13:00.006-05:00

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In all the writing workshops I've taken, and all the conversations I've had with writers or teachers or mentors, they always tell me to write-- just fucking write. Without thinking, without erasing, without wanting to take anything back. Without thinking, why would anyone read this? Why would anyone care? Without wondering if you're just being pretentious by even considering someone might be touched or changed by reading what you've got to say.

This is a difficult thought not to think of.

Whenever a person writes something, anything, it's usually because they're going through something so strong all they can do is try to put it into words. If you're happy, or sad, or royally pissed-- you write it. And then you read it-- five minutes later, or a week, or months or seven years later and you inevitably think- What was I thinking? I was so naive, I was so dramatic, I was so...Whatever.

This always happens.

I thought about this a lot today because I found a quote I really loved. It's nothing incredibly special, but I loved it. And I searched and searched and couldn't find whom it was written by. Finally I found it on Helena Kvarnstrom's blog. And this is what she had to say:

"I wrote this. I wrote this when I was twenty-two years old, right before I got married, right after my partner scraped together $400 to fly to California to live on a boat with me and drive all night to Las Vegas and drink hard drinks in Laguna Beach at ten in the morning and I posted it on Livejournal when I had a very public and alarmingly popular one. That was more than seven years ago and this past fall someone transcribed it, made into a JPG and suddenly it was on ffffound and even more suddenly after that it was on thousands of people's blogs. Literally thousands. But it was credited to Anonymous, which I guess is understandable since seven years is a long time to keep track of who wrote something on a Livejournal. My friend Erin found and told me about it, she had remember it all those years ago and at first I was so embarrassed. Of everything I've made why did it have to be this melodramatic thing, made before I really knew anything at all? IT IS SO MELODRAMATIC. But my possessiveness is greater than my self-consciousness because when I see that some people weren't even going along with Anonymous but saying they wrote it themselves I kind of wanted to claw their eyes out. It's my melodrama. (Although one person credited it to Harvey Milk and that was the best).

Anyway, I wrote that."

via styleandsubstance

It's funny. Sometimes what seems so silly to you can be truly appreciated by someone who would never dare put it into words. Who would never even think of actually saying those words out loud.

Never take back what you've written. You never know where it'll take you.

Kvarnstrom's blog: http://inne.day-lab.com/

The Story

2010-03-30T18:01:00.005-06:00

When one of my literary gods, Chuck Palahniuk, spoke about Pygmy (2009), his book about a teenage foreign exchange student/secret assassin who works to destroy middle America, he told the story of the inspiration behind the novel.

The author was volunteering in a homeless soup kitchen about 10 years ago, and nobody there knew who he was. He didn't give anything away, and so the workers began making up stories, taking guesses at what was the story behind the man. Palahniuk said some believed he was a sex offender released from prison doing community work, or a murderer, or an arsonist. And he never corrected them or hinted at his innocence-- "I loved their stories better than the truth," he said. And so the character of Pygmy-- an undefined, mysterious, somewhat free character-- was born.

Anyone who knows me (or follows me on Twitter) knows I'm a journalism major with no interest whatsoever in being a journalist. It's the first thing I say when someone asks me what my major is, and a friend once told me it's as if I'm embarrassed people would think I want to be a journalist. It's not that. I just love fiction.

I'm taking a journalism course this semester, and so far we've been working on hard news stories. Yesterday, my professor announced we're starting with features, profiles and soft news. Everyone seemed equally uninterested as if he'd said we were continuing with hard news. Nobody in my class is pursuing a career in print journalism. Most want to be sports broadcast journalists, or want to work for Vogue, or wish to have their own cooking show (to each his own). I'm the only one pursuing fiction. I went into journalism at the suggestion of a beloved teacher who once told me it's a great foundation for creative writers. So far, I'm hating it. But I'm learning.

So yesterday, after noticing our carelessness, my professor oh-so-wisely said, "Everyone has a story." He slowly walked around our work table and then stopped, pointed, and asked one of my classmates, "You. What's your life's theme?"

The girl was embarrassed, put on the spot, and stuttered. "I don't know."

He didn't give us a moment to think, he just pointed and asked. Love, confusion, indecisiveness, hatred, independence, awesomeness (guess whose that was?). And then stories emerged. With soft voices at first, tentative, stories about testing out 11 different majors at four different universities. Stories about divorce, tragic (and shit- I mean tragic) family deaths, success, finding comfort in extraordinary places. Stories spilled out from these people I'm with every Monday and Wednesday for 2-and-a-half hours and always wonder what their stories are. Some people are surprised to hear stories from people they never really think about. I think about everyone I see-- it's annoying at times. I see people in the street or in my class, or in the pages of a book, and I want to know.

There's a boy in my class who wears a Spurs something every day-- Spurs jersey, Spurs hat, Spurs button, Spurs sweatshirt. He's fascinating. What does he like other than the Spurs?

There's a girl in my class with a perfect middle part in her perfectly even brown hair. She's fascinating. Does she have a problem with disorder, is she obsessed with perfection, would she freak if I walked up to her and messed up her perfect hair?

There's a boy in my class who writes notes to the girl who sits beside him every class, and thinks no one is noticing. I am. He's fascinating. Does he have a girlfriend and wishes he could cheat?

There's a girl in my class who's so loud and so, so skinny. She's fascinating. Does she overcompensate for her tiny figure with her booming voice? Is she a middle child, and why does she moisturize with her L'Occitane hand lotion so often? Does she suffer from chronic dryness?

These are the people who surround me every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, and yesterday, I learned their stories. Not all of their stories, and they were probably just tiny snippets of their lives, or maybe broken versions of the truth. But as they spoke, their voices changed. Maybe they had never been asked before. Maybe they had never thought they were worthy of an interview, or a profile, or to be the focus of class conversation.

Yesterday I found out journalism is not necessarily just in reading the newspaper or watching 60 Minutes. It's not about glorifying The New York Times or giving a 15 minute recap of what's going on in the Middle East. It's about stories. It's about asking hard questions, or any kind of question that might bring out a story, whether it be the truth-- or an incredible lie that just sounds far better than the truth. I remember reading Palahniuk wrote all of his books based on real research- hands-on, going to AA or Sex Addicts Anonymous, full-on research. He asked the uncomfortable questions. He pretends to be one of them. That was the beauty of Hunter S. Thompson's work too, wasn't it?

Stories are everywhere, in every one, behind every action and every decision, no matter how insignificant or worthy of worship one might appear to be. So maybe this journalism thing ain't so bad. I just wish we didn't have news quizzes every freakin' Monday.

MTY Showcase in ATX

2010-03-28T20:43:00.003-06:00

The time has come, The Vilah says, to bring more bands from MTY.

Come to STUBBS Wednesday March 31st to watch Sexy Marvin, Rubik and Vinyl Dharma, presented by Austin Vida and Go Hispano. Make sure to stop by our Facebook event to check out the full details!

Honey You Are a Rock

2010-03-12T12:13:00.004-06:00

When I was 13, I was going through hell.

Music saves you. And when I was 13, only "Green Eyes" could soothe me, calm me, relax me, and give me a moment to think and breathe and rethink the screams that were building up inside me. "Green Eyes" was not the first Coldplay song I heard. It wasn't the first Coldplay song I fell in love with, or the reason I began to buy their records. But "Green Eyes" had the power of making me feel at home.

It's been said that there are more people in the world who hate Coldplay than those who love them. I, for one, do not understand who these people are. I've met these people, and some are friends. I've heard people say Coldplay's music is depressing, or pretentious, or stupid. I, for one, do not understand why these people believe this.

I've been waiting for years for Coldplay to come to my city. And I've been planning that concert with my best friend, whom I made a pact with that we would not go to our first Coldplay concert without each other. Which is why, after many opportunities of seeing them live in other cities, we waited until we could both go to Coldplay's first concert in Monterrey. That was last night, March 11 2010, when the band played at Estadio Universitario to close their Viva la Vida tour.

After a 10-hour bus ride from Austin and a 10-hour wait outside and in the stadium, my back out, my legs and feet sore, my eyes red and puffy from the lack of sleep, my mouth dry, the lights went out and I heard screams.

Coldplay's songs are not about sex. Coldplay's songs do not have the word "bitch" in every other verse. Coldplay's songs are not about getting wasted, or the curve of a fine ass.

Coldplay's songs speak of hope and urgency, confusion and dreams, they speak of loss and about finding a way back. They speak of belonging, friendship, possibility and politics and wishful thinking. They speak of freedom. They speak of fairness.

Chris Martin's voice is not the finest. It's far from perfect. Weird, even.

Chris Martin's voice is pure and honest, the sound of heartbreak. The sound of peace.

When you see the four boys live, they look like just that- boys. Boys running around the stage, smiling tiny secret smiles when listening to the thousands of voices that know their music by heart.

Last night I cried. At first I cried of frustration, pain, tiredness, and because my best friend was nowhere to be seen. In midst of the madness, we lost each other. And then I cried for the music. And no, I was not the only one. And no, it was not only girls that cried last night. Coldplay's music does not only speak to girls, it does not only speak to gay men (like many straight Coldplay-hating men would think). It speaks to the hopeless, or the worried, the excited and eager, the joyful, the madly in love, the indecisive.

I tightly grasped a friend's hand last night while "Fix You" was playing. The lights bright and Martin at the piano, there was a silent wish that could be heard through everybody's singing.

The beauty of their music lies in the impact it has in its listeners. After seeing them live, all I wanted to do was write. Write while the memory of "Shiver" was still fresh in my mind and the image of Will Champion's smile was still infectious. And like I wanted to get home and write, I bet a lot of people left wanting to play the guitar, or paint, or take a photography course, or dance and laugh, or play soccer with more drive and confidence than they had before, or with a greater reassurance that one day they will accomplish what they've been wanting to accomplish.

"Green Eyes" wasn't played last night, and neither was "See You Soon", another one of my favorites. But it was an amazing night, a memorable night. And when I found my best friend outside the stadium after the concert, it did feel like the plan didn't go 100% like we wanted it to. But there'll be more nights like this, without the 10-hour bus ride and the sore feet.

And for those who say they hate Coldplay, I hope for their own sake that they give their music another listen.

All music has the potential of saving someone.

For those who didn't watch it...

2010-03-10T00:41:00.005-06:00

Para aquellos que no vieron el tributo a John Hughes en los Oscars 2010, aquí está. Es uno de mis escritores y directores favoritos, murió en el verano del 2009. También pueden leer mi propio tributo a él aquí.

LA GUERRILLA

2010-03-09T14:42:00.006-06:00

I recently caught La Guerrilla live at Sixth street music venue Mi Casa. I'd never heard of them before that night, and then just a few days later I had their EP in my hands.The band's mix of raggae/ska and latin rock has been growing to be one of Austin's favorite live shows...Read my full review here at Austin Vida!

Austin Vida showcase!

2010-03-08T17:27:00.005-06:00

April 1st will be Austin Vida's next showcase! You gotta get out to La Ruta Maya to check out bands La Guerrilla, Maneja Beto, Este Vato and El Tule, starting at 9 pm. To get the full info, check out Austin Vida's Facebook page or the announcement at Austin Vida webpage!

Here are some videos for you to check out, just to get a little taste...

LFC

2010-03-01T22:25:00.003-06:00

Los Fabulosos Cadillacs have been around for a while, over 20 years-- and that's earned them a little sumthin': a tribute album to be released tomorrow, March 2nd, from Nacional Records that brings together versions of LFC classics by latin american artists like Los Amigos Invisibles, Massacre and Andrés Calamaro. Read my full review here on Austin Vida!

Listening Party

2010-02-23T19:39:00.003-06:00

Hey guys, Austin Vida is having a Nacional Records Listening Party on March 2 at Mi Casa on 6th!

We are giving away 2 tickets to see Los Amigos Invisibles and you must be present to win. Check out our Austin Vida events on Facebook for the deets.

Suicidal Tendencies

2010-02-18T17:24:00.004-06:00

Lo poco que he escrito en el mes de febrero, ha sido para la revista donde trabajo ahora, Austin Vida. La oportunidad surgió de la manera más rara... o bueno, no rara. Just unexpectedly. Mi editor me encontró por aquí, mi blog, y me buscó por twitter. Ah, thank God for modern times. Lo que más recuerdo es que el día que recibí su mensaje fue cuando escribí el post Green Eyed Monster, un día de malas noticias. Al final del post escribí: things just happen. En el momento, estaba pensando en cosas negativas-- shit happens.

And then this happened.

En el mes que llevo trabajando, he estado muy feliz. He conocido a gente diferente, lugares nuevos, escuchado grupos que nunca antes pensé que me fueran a gustar...un poco de todo. Pero una pequeña historia me hizo sonreír. El viernes pasado fui a un show con mi editor. Tenía que entrevistar a un grupo (se publicará pronto la entrevista), y después de hacerlo, conocí al papá de mi editor.

Él me saludó, yo pensando que el hombre no tenía idea de quién era yo. Y en eso me dice, "Yeah I found your blog, I suscribed a few months ago and I've been reading since then." Me contó que él le avisó a mi editor (su hijo), y él le contestó que también me leía.

Después me dice, "You have some suicidal tendencies in your posts... I read between the lines."

Me dio mucha risa, especialmente porque el día que me enteré de la posibilidad de este trabajo, si había sido un post uber deprimente. Pero al mismo tiempo, me dio algo-- yo sé que es mi decisión escribir sobre mi vida en el internet... no siempre soy específica sobre qué hablo, but still. It's there, for the world to see and read and make fun of. Y hay gente que piensa que soy la persona más feliz del mundo, y otros, que meses después me entero que leen lo que escribo, piensan que estoy al borde del suicidio.

Funny. Creo que soy un poco de los dos.

Far and Wide

2010-02-08T12:31:00.004-06:00

California singer-songwriter Rachael Cantu's second album, Far and Wide, was a great listen- her beautifully seductive voice and folksy tunes definitely kept me relaxed through the hectic week. Read my full review here at Austin Vida!

WIN Free Tickets to Carnaval Austin from Austin Vida!

2010-02-03T18:07:00.003-06:00

Hey people- just wanted to let ya know we at Austin Vida are giving away tickets to Carnaval Austin, which is coming up on February 20th. It's a great event for music, art and meeting different people! Women in body paint a plus.

For the tickets, you have to add Austin Vida on Facebook. Names will be drawn from the group members on February 8th and again on the 15th.

Add Austin Vida on Facebook HERE:

http://www.facebook.com/austinvida

Album Review: 'Magical Radiophonic Heart' by Banda de Turistas

2010-02-01T23:40:00.005-06:00

Argentina's Banda de Turistas' first album, Magical Radiophonic Heart, is a refreshing throw-back to the 60's with its cool, quirky beats and simple lyrics. You don't need to be fluent in Spanish or give a crap what the band is saying to enjoy the music- please give it a listen. Guaranteed you'll be put in a freakin' good mood. Read my full review here on Austin Vida

Watch Him as He Goes

2010-01-28T19:29:00.002-06:00

El último domingo, 24 de enero, recibí una llamada a las 4:07 am. Me medio desperté en pleno sueño y contesté el número desconocido. Era un amigo mío llamando desde Monterrey- y cuando oí su voz supe que algo Malo había pasado. "Qué paso? Estás bien?" le pregunté, todavía acostada. "Te tengo que decir algo..." Esto me levantó. "Qué?" insistí, urgiéndolo a que escupa la noticia.

"Johnny Depp se murió."

Mis lágrimas salieron instantáneamente: "QUÉ?" Then hard, aggressive sobs. Histérica. Él nadamás me decía, "Lo siento, lo siento...no me gusta ser el que te da esta noticia, pero lo acabo de ver, está por todas partes- CNN, Facebook--" Lo interrumpo, "Qué le pasó? Qué PASÓ?!" Seguí llorando como idiota. Los siguientes 10 minutos fueron pánico puro, entre que abría la computadora, ya completamente despierta, y buscaba la noticia. Todos sabemos ahora que fue solamente un rumor. A mi ni me cruzó esta posibilidad por la mente, ya jodida por las célebres muertes del 2009.

Una persona "normal" podría interpretar mi reacción como aquella de una vil loca, obsesionada con alguien que no conoce y probablemente nunca conocerá, resultado de influencia de los medios, yada, yada, yada. Ahora recuerdo la voz de mi amigo, su pésame sincero, absoluto. Como si hubiera muerto mi padre.

La última vez que escribí un tributo a un ícono en mi blog fue sobre John Hughes (aquí), y conté la historia de la fuerte amistad que comparto con mi maestro de AP English, que comenzó gracias a nuestro amor por The Breakfast Club.

Hoy murió JD Salinger, autor de (for those who live in obscurity) trabajos muy reconocidos como Franny and Zooey, Nine Stories, y el inolvidable Catcher in the Rye.

Mi maestro de AP English, amante de palabras sobre todas las cosas, admiraba a Salinger como nunca otra persona ha admirado a un autor. Catcher in the Rye era una de las novelas incluídas en el currículum para mi segundo año de prepa, y mi maestro se quejaba que no había suficiente tiempo en el año para hablar sobre ella. Un día nos contó que decidió hacer un road trip y se paró en casa de Salinger, en New Hampshire, para dejarle al autor una caja de sus donas favoritas. Ya que para este entonces Salinger ya vivía como recluso, mi querido maestro dejó las donas en el buzón. Hoy, día de la muerte del autor, chequé la página de Facebook de mi maestro, LLENA de mensajes de sus estudiantes. All saying "I'm so sorry", "I hope you're doing okay", "at least you gave him donuts".

Again, esta historia podría escucharse como rara, o un poco patética y enfermiza para un lector cualquiera. Por qué todo el drama? Yes, Johnny Depp is just an actor, and JD Salinger was just a writer-- pero les quiero decir la verdad: I hate the word "just".

Me desespera cuando leo una entrevista en que le preguntan al sujeto quién es su ídolo, o a quién admiran más en el mundo, o quién le cambió su vida, y responden con: "My mother is the strongest person I know...she truly believes in me...she's my hero, every day." No offense to mommas (and to those who are actually being sincere in this phony-sounding response), but Forrest Gump stole that answer many, many years ago. Por qué hay una mala asociación, o eres considerado superficial, si dices "tal actor cambió mi vida" (sin ser tu un actor)? Claro, la persona más fuerte que conozco y a la cual más admiro no es una celebridad ni un artista, pero mi ser es resultado de todo tipo de experiencias y todo tipo de personas-- and yes, I'm not sad to say, writers and musicians and actors are at the top of the list.

Supongo que la razón por la cual nos apegamos a estas personas que no conocemos es porque tenemos la libertad de siempre asociarlos con una imagen de perfección. All we know is their work, and that's all we wanna know. Supongo que la razón por la cual nos apegamos a estas personas que no conocemos es porque existe el bello concepto de Posibilidad. They give us hope. No de fama o de dinero, de belleza o moda. Simplemente la esperanza de que puedes llegar a ser alguien reconocido por tu pasión. Por tu innovación. Por tu maravilloso talento para escoger personajes poco convencionales. Por escribir una novela que muchos piensan solo trata de un adolescente atormentado, y otros consideran es La Novela sobre la pérdida de inocencia (en mi opinión, siempre será Lord of the Flies). La esperanza que existe al ver individuos que decidieron irse por un camino un poco peligroso e inseguro. They're not lawyers or doctors or engineers. And they did good.

La belleza de su trabajo es otro tema.

So here's to Jerome David Salinger, escritor y héroe para muchos, tema morboso para otros (John Lennon assassination).

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." You told us, we miss you.

Words

2010-01-27T19:08:00.008-06:00

"Funny how we scare ourselves as children with ghoulish visions, I thought...Funny, when what usually undoes us as adults is something that's been alongside us the whole time, always familiar and often beloved. We lose the luxury of monsters."- Michael Redhill (Martin Sloane)

Hoy estuve hojeando libros en mi cuarto, escogiéndolos al azar, y entre ellos encontré el primero que leí llegando a Austin. Recuerdo que hace año y medio llegué a mi departamento por primera vez, y el día siguiente, después de desempacar mis cosas, fui a la librería de la esquina. Lo leí durante mis primeros 3 días aquí, mientras me acostumbraba a un lugar nuevo, cuando mi departamento aún no tenía sillas y no había comida en el refri. La página 201 estaba doblada, y esta frase subrayada.

Green Eyed Monster

2010-01-19T16:51:00.004-06:00

Para cualquier persona que alguna vez en su vida ha recibido malas noticias, que creo que somos todos, llega la pregunta: cómo lidiar?

En el mundo tan pequeño que me ha envuelto desde chica, han llegado momentos que he pensado que estoy sola- cuando me siento en un lugar y veo pasar a gente pacífica, tranquila...y por esos minutos u horas te aseguras que nadie más tiene problemas- you and your burdens are alone. Más tiempo pasa y entiendes que cada quien tiene sus propias dudas y cargas, y que a pesar de que no hablen de ellas, ahí están, un peso interminable sobre sus hombros.

No sé si alguien recuerde la primera escena de la película Stand By Me, basada en la novela de Stephen King, The Body. El narrador comienza la historia diciendo, "I was 12 going on 13 the first time I saw a dead human being..." Recuerdo que una vez al ver esta película con mi papá, él comentó que era tan buena línea, íncreible forma de comenzar una historia. Creo que hasta ahora puedo decir que estoy 100% de acuerdo con él, porque ahora entiendo que lo bueno de esa línea es que entre las palabras del guionista y el tono de Richard Dreyfuss puedes sentir el impacto que algo así pudo haber tenido en un niño de 12 años. Es una historia de una pequeña aventura que se convierte en algo que deja marcado al niño de por vida, y en esa corta línea te dice todo...

Ahorita me encuentro leyendo la última novela autobiográfica de un autor que disfruto siempre, Augusten Burroughs, acerca de su relación con su padre. A Wolf At The Table, se llama. Comparto un fragmento:

"We had to get away from your father. He's not safe to be around right now."

This is my first clear memory of my father: I am in Mexico, I am five, and he is not safe to be around.

I could not fathom what this meant. The things I knew that weren't safe included furious dogs, putting a fork in a toaster, rushing water. How was he like these things?

Me llamó la atención esta pequeña parte del libro porque el autor deja muy en claro la forma de pensar de un niño, la forma de relacionar las cosas. Un tipo de problema que tal vez a los 5 años pudiste acomodar y organizar y despedazar, llegar a un tipo de conclusión que capáz y no es correcta, but then again, a los 50 años llegas a una conclusión no más sensata o clara...nunca llegas a entenderlo bien. Creo que todos recordamos que de niños, nuestros padres nos decían de vez en cuando, "lo entenderás de más grande", o nos tratan de proteger de un evento o situación porque "no estamos listos".

When the fuck are we ready?

I say never. No estoy diciendo que he tenido una vida llena de problemas, ni de más dificultades que el de alado. He tenido una vida increíble, feliz, y llena de cosas que me han ayudado a comprender otras, no sé si comprenderlas más o mejor, pero mínimo a tratar de comprenderlas sin volverme loca en el intento. Lo que sí trato de decir es que, creo que para todos llega un momento en cual las cosas se sienten ya tan tranquilas que de una manera, no sé, you stop preparing for the unexpected. Y entonces una mala noticia rodeada de previas malas noticias no te afecta tanto...estabas algo preparada, no sé si ya por cinicismo o por un tipo de defense mechanism...pero una vez que entra la calma, se te olvida que puede llegar otra tormenta.

Y entonces, ahora qué? You swallow, take a deep breath, offer words of wisdom? Me encantaría poder manejar las cosas así siempre. Pero esta vez, se ha tardado el llanto, sigue el nudo en la garganta que no te deja tragar tu comida, y no hay consejos ni palabras que tranquilicen. Y entonces ves Stand By Me, y lees Wolf At The Table, y esperas que Gordie Lachance y Augusten Burroughs hayan llegado a un tipo de epiphany, un momento de claridad en algún punto de sus vidas, y esperas que eso te llegue a ti algún día. De seguro se tardaron en llegar ahí, ya que no hay edad para comprender las cosas, no hay momento específico en cual decir, "Ah, ya. So this is why shit happens." Lo único que queda por entender es que there are things that happen which have no explanation, there are things that happen that you will never understand, and yes- things just happen.

Hodgepodge

2009-12-27T23:39:00.004-06:00

hodge·podge

n. A mixture of dissimilar ingredients; a jumble.

Hace tanto que ya no escribo. Me impresiona lo tanto que afecta el ambiente en que te encuentras. Parece que cada vez que llego a casa, me distraigo con familia, con amigos, con películas y chismes, y no encuentro (ni busco encontrar) tiempo para escribir. Right now, I'm alone. Cada vez que estoy sola, pienso en cada cosa, una tontería o lo que puede parecer la cosa más importante del mundo. Cuando manejo por mi ciudad, o estando sentada en mi cuarto que ya tanto ha cambiado desde que me he llevado cosas a Austin, pienso... life seems to be arranged in a straight line, but memories break the timeline, little interruptions everywhere, with no particular order or importance.

Hay cientos de cuadros en mi casa, y hoy al ver uno me di cuenta, por primera vez en mi vida, que es un abstracto. Ya ni sé de qué hablábamos o qué comentamos sobre el cuadro, pero me lo dijo mi mamá: "...bla bla bla...abstracto." Y voltié a verlo por milésima vez en mi vida, a painting that's hung in the same place forever, y me sorprendí... porque yo siempre lo había visto tan claro: un dibujo de un monte, y dos arboles moviéndose con el viento. Everything's up for interpretation.

En el camino a casa, leí Less Than Zero, de Bret Easton Ellis, y a pesar de las escenas que a medio viaje en carro me causaron náusea, I really enjoyed it. El hecho de que Ellis lo escribió a los 19 años y para los 21 lo publicó sí lastimó el ego un poco, debo de admitirlo, but more than anything it's worth admiring. Durante toda la novela el personaje principal flota por Los Angeles, pasivamente aunque notando cosas pequeñas, como la letra de una canción en el radio, o un billboard deprimente, algo que le dice un amigo sin cuidado y él interpreta de más, de mil maneras. Disappear here. I wonder if he's up for sale. You're a beautiful boy and that's all that matters. People are afraid to merge.

Tengo dos cuadros en el mueble atrás de mi cama que hice en mi clase de pintura, años atrás. Es un tipo de collage usando óleo y fotografías, con frases y páginas de revista. Recuerdo cuando decidí hacerlos, no tenía una idea en particular en mente. I just took things, anything I liked, anything I found beautiful or funny or inspiring or negative...y los usé. Viéndolos ahora, no tengo idea si lo que decidí usar tenía que ver con lo que estaba viviendo en el momento, si alguna foto la relacionaba con una historia o con una pesadilla. Viéndolos ahora, they seem so personal and intricate yet hopelessly irrelevant. Protect me from what I want. Pero nos vendimos. It's better to burn out than to fade away. In the cut. Bob Dylan en el piano, una copia de un Picasso, mi mejor amiga riéndose, Donna Karan pintada de dorado.

Me han dicho que me meto de más a las cosas. I don't really know what that means. Que soy intensa, dramática, me han llamado hipersensible.

Hay una escena en Almost Famous (lo siento, es mi referencia para todo), cuando están hablando Penny Lane y William sobre Russell. William, desesperado, le grita. "Wake up," he says, "Don't come to New York!" Alguien recuerda la escena? Penny le dice que él no conoce a Russell, "you don't know the things he says to me in private..." Finalmente, The Enemy le da la noticia que Russell la vendió a Humble Pie "for fifty dollars and a case of beer". Y lo que pasa después es uno de mis momentos favoritos de la película: Kate Hudson stares, then looks away, tears in her eyes, hand to her mouth, then to her hair, puts her arms up then shrugs. She wipes away the tears. "What kind of beer?" she says, and smiles sadly. Cada vez que veo esta escena pienso, goddamn-that's acting. Porque por un minuto se me olvida que en la pantalla se encuentra Hudson, hija de Goldie Hawn, and all I see is a real Penny Lane, heartbroken and facing a humiliating reality.

Y así como acabo de escupir todo un párrafo acerca de una escena tan pequeña en una película de hace años, así hablo de todo. Sale una idea de la nada, hablo de eso por horas, me descarrilo, me distraigo, I pick up something else, y se repite. Una vez me dijeron que lo que le faltaba a mis historias era una buena manera de cerrar, una manera de conectar todas mis ideas y que tenga sentido y relevancia. Batallo mucho en eso porque la mayoría de las veces, al escribir, lo único que hago es seguir y seguir sin editar, así como todos pensamos, así como funciona nuestra mente y memoria. Life seems to be arranged in a straight line, but memories break the timeline, little interruptions everywhere, with no particular order or importance. Disfruto de la ausencia del orden a veces, porque parece tener más sentido y ser más real.

Conozco a una persona que le fascina, después de una conversación, regresar y ver cómo cambiamos de tema en tema, ver cuál fue la conexión. Si vuelvo a leer lo que acabo de escribir, no puedo encontrar un camino concreto de cómo me fui de un abstracto a Ellis a mis pinturas a Penny Lane- pero de esto tenía ganas ahorita. Just a hodgepodge of ideas. More than confusing, it's kinda soothing...is it not? Y si eres de esas personas que necesitan la estructura, just think they're all ideas linked by randomness. See if it works for ya.

Bad Generation

2009-12-05T21:53:00.008-06:00

El jueves por la noche platicaba con un amigo que es de Los Angeles. Estudió toda su vida ahí hasta venirse a UT en su carrera. Fue a una prepa pequeña, donde también atendían hijos de celebridades como Viggo Mortensen y Jamie Lee Curtis, y frecuentaba con la hija de Bob Saget (alguién recuerda el episodio de Entourage donde Saget le recalca a Vinnie, "Just don't fuck my daughter"? hay aún más historia ahí, pero no la puedo divulgar) entre otros. Aparentemente Neil Patrick Harris le presentó (accidentalmente) a su novio antes de que estuviera oficialmente fuera del closet. El jueves mientras platicábamos le pregunté si tenía historias de otros celebs...los que me interesan. Johnny Depp no, pues vive en el sur de Francia. "DiCaprio?" pregunté, al cual contestó, "I wish." Y luego, "Jack Nicholson?" el Dios de mis Dioses...Y me contó que sí. Conoce a la hija de Jack, y uno de sus amigos es vecino- de un lado tiene a Nicholson y del otro a Adam Sandler (whom, of course, we care nothing about). Bueno...I think people know me well enough to know...that if I ever saw Jack Nicholson, I would die. Or faint. Or have a heart attack. Or stalk him, find his house, crawl through an open window, and be shot to death by security. So...die.

Pero en todo caso, dejando fuera mi obsesión for all things celebrity and glamour, me acordé mucho de algo que hice hace poco. Mi revista favorita, Harper's Bazaar (US), decidió poner a las estrellas de la Twilight saga en su portada. Sí, Rob Pattinson está hermoso, that much I understand. Pero al ver la portada, mi reacción natural e inmediata fue escribirle una carta a la revista, o a la editora Glenda Bailey, o a quién de puro chiste la lea. It went something like this:

Dear Bazaar,

Why must you put these people on your December cover, instead of being the only respectful publication to choose someone other than Kristen Stewart, Rob Pattinson, Miley Cyrus, The Jonas Brothers, Taylor Swift, aka someone worthy.......... DIE DIE DIE!

No, no puse el "die, die, die", but I could've. No recuerdo mis palabras exactas, pero estaba enojada. Everywhere I go, veo imagenes de gente que en verdad, no entiendo por qué son famosos. Kate and Jon Gosselin? Famosos por tener octillizos y un terrible divorcio. C'mon. Mínimo GQ, en su último Men of the Year Issue, incluyó a hombres de todo tipo (como lo hacen todos los años). En su lista se encuentran Obama, Clint Eastwood, Tom Brady, los hombres de The Hangover, Kobe Bryant, los creadores de Twitter, entre otros. Leí artículo tras artículo, historia tras historia, y no encontré a ningún hombre en la lista menor de 29 años. Y no pude evitar preguntarme: are generations becoming stupider, less talented, and more annoying by the second? Hey, no offense to my generation, and I ain't calling myself stupid. Y sí, sé que en todas partes hay gente inteligente y talentosa y que con las oportunidades correctas, podrían ser el siguiente Einstein o yo que sé. Pero constantemente me doy cuenta que gente de generaciones previas critican a la nuestra, y pelean por sus actores, sus autores, sus músicos. Si yo pongo en mi Facebook status la letra de una canción ochentera, uno que otro adulto que tengo en mi Facebook me dice--"Hey. Get your own music! Put a Miley Cyrus song in there!" (F.U. Tony) O algo por el estilo.

Observo mi cuarto y veo fotos de Johnny, de Steven Tyler, de Diane Von Furstenburg, Andy Warhol, The Beatles, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Annie Leibovitz (entre fotos de amigos y familia, claro). Okay, maybe I'm the one living in the past. Sé que todo lo que a mi me gusta se debe a cómo me críaron y las influencias de mi hermana, también. But do I like older generations because of that, or because they're just fucking more talented, more influential, more interesting, more everything (even lame, if you include 80's No Wave and all that crap).

Mi novio me dice: pues yo estoy bien con lo de ahora (pero no se preocupen, él también odia a los Jonas Bros). Mucha de la gente que yo conozco está feliz con escuchar las mismas 5 canciones R&B en cada antro (y Lady GaGa YA fue suficiente), comprar Vanity Fair con Rob Pattinson en la portada, que la escritora más reconocida de este año sea Stephanie Meyer (no offense to her), y que los American Music Awards nominen a Taylor Swift en la misma categoría que a Michael Jackson. De hecho, en el último issue de Glamour, una lectora mandó una carta (dudo que mi hate mail lo publiquen) preguntando que por qué nos quejamos tanto con las revistas por poner a los "teenyboppers" en sus portadas? Que no por que sean más jovenes significa que no tengan qué ofrecer...Fine. She's right. Lástima que en serio dudo que Miley Cyrus tenga CUALQUIER cosa qué ofrecer. Even the Spice Girls had more spice (jiji) and originality.

No sé qué sea...Capáz y debo de dejar de vivir en el pasado, and embrace the legacy of my own generation? Ey, debo de admitir que la niña de 13 años dentro de mi MUERE por Zac Efron.

But yes, I'd still choose Jack over Zac.

Antone's

2009-12-03T16:15:00.011-06:00

Tomando un merecido break de mis trabajos esta semana, quería compartir un trabajo que hice para mi clase de música. El trabajo consistía en ir a un concierto y hablar del artista, su música, el ambiente, y la importancia de la música en vivo. Desafortunadamente, no había tenido el placer de ir a un show aquí en Austin, which ironically is known as the Live Music Capital of the World. El día después de Thanksgiving fui a Antone's, y esto fue lo que encontré...

Austin, Texas takes pride in having the title of The Live Music Capital of the World. Antone’s Nightclub has been in business for 34 years, hosting bands and launching careers of many musical talents such as Stevie Ray Vaughan and Los Lonely Boys, and it’s a monumental reason for earning that title. The club, dark and dirty, with its peeling wallpaper and posters of Muddy Waters and B.B. King hanging proudly, is a place you know has its regulars, people of Austin who are passionate for live music and look forward to going to Antone’s two to three times a week, for what they know will be an amazing show. Last night, the Friday after Thanksgiving, was no exception.

I arrived eager to watch Gary Clark, Jr. and paid my $15 for general admission. Clark Jr., an Austin gem—born and raised—has gained his reputation throughout the years playing around the city and has graced the stage of Antone’s several times already. He was scheduled to play at 11:30, and at 10 o’clock the place was half-full. Looking around the crowd, it was strange to notice I was, hands down, the youngest person at the bar. Mostly caucasian, there were people in their mid-20’s, but the clear majority were in their 40’s and 50’s. Many were sitting down at their tables, beer in hand, ready to hear some music. Some were standing, with their spouses or group of friends. Others were gazing up at old Antone’s advertisements or lingering at the front table, which showcased t-shirts, stickers, and assorted CD’s. Everybody was waiting.

The thing about live music is that the unexpected nearly always happens. I arrived last night with the sole purpose of watching Gary Clark, Jr., so when at 10:15, I heard a female voice yelling out, “How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” I turned to the stage, surprised. The opening act was Blues Mafia, a group of kids that looked even younger than I am. Four guys, two at guitar, one bass player, a drummer…and a girl.

The girl, by the name of Sasha Ortiz, was the lead singer. As soon as they began, murmurs and whispers took over the crowd, positive comments all around me, people pleasantly surprised. By the middle of the first song there was an energy about the place, as if everybody knew they were witnessing something great. The girl, whose raspy yet soulful voice resembles that of Amy Winehouse, had such a spunk that when looking around the place, I saw all sets of eyes on her: attentive, willing, completely hooked. She was young and relaxed, wearing a Jimi Hendrix shirt and a yellow scarf she used as a prop, playing around with it as she swayed and jumped and danced around the stage; the girl gave a whole new meaning to “singing your heart out”. Their music, blues-based rock with a touch of deep soul, turned the crowd on, getting people who were sitting down to stand up and dance or just gape at the talented singer. Between songs, Ortiz happily talked to the crowd, about the Thanksgiving holiday and the Texas-A&M game, clearly knowing her audience. They played a 9-song set, including an amazing cover of Hendrix’s “Purple Haze”, in honor of his 67^th birthday.

Never had an opening act caused such great reaction. The band had talented musicians; one of the guitarists and backup singer by the name of Max Frost had a voice so sweet and smooth that definitely acted as a powerful force to their sound, but Ortiz was undoubtedly the star. When they were done, the crowd roared and applauded. I’m sure many, like me, were left wanting more.

The main act, however, was Gary Clark, Jr. He began playing at 11:30 on the dot, and the crowd welcomed him with cheers. He began the show with two songs, fast-paced, that shone and leaked of influences such as Curtis Mayfield, Otis Redding and James Brown, deeply rooted rock and roll with a hint of soul and reggae. The audience danced, much more than to Blues Mafia. Many people, you could tell had heard Clark, Jr. play before. After the first two songs, which were played back-to-back, the singer stopped to thank us for the warm welcome. There was a sense of familiarity in the club, comfortable enough for the singer to say, “Sorry to be a bother, but there’s a need for adult beverages up here on stage,” which the audience chuckled to in response. The band followed with more mellow songs, all original Gary Clark, Jr. If there’s a way to describe his sound, I would call it comfort food for the ears. Bluesy, folksy, very sensual.

The main difference between Clark Jr.’s live performance and recorded music is the actual experience of watching him play the guitar. In every song, he inserted 4- to 5-minute guitar solos so insane and vibrant you couldn’t help but stare with the fear that his hand might melt off. The artist went through three guitars throughout the 15-song set; each time he needed to switch the instrument, the audience laughed and cheered, appreciative of his mad energy. His talent appears effortless, his eyes closed as his hands managed the electric guitar so perfectly.

His fifth song was a beautiful cover of Elizabeth Cotten’s “Freight Train”, which clearly shows his love and respect for the folk, blues and roots genres. When listing his influences, you can’t help but notice it’s made up mostly of African American icons and artists, ranging from the Jackson 5 to Marvin Gaye, Jay-Z to Notorious B.I.G (Clark Jr. May 2007: MySpace.) He also includes rock and roll influences like The Beatles and jazzmen like John Coltrane and Miles Davis. His style is multifaceted, yet intricately cohesive.

The artist already has well-established recognition, especially in Texas. Having begun at age thirteen, he could easily be considered a veteran performer by now. May 3^rd, 2001 was declared Gary Clark, Jr. Day in Austin, and he was honored by the mayor for helping the city maintain its claim to fame as the “live music capital of the world” (Xiola Sept. 2, 2009: current.com). Clark, Jr. was also recognized for Austin’s Best Blues Musician in the Austin Music Awards in 2004, 2006, and 2007. He’s worked for years now as a songwriter, having written all the lyrics for his albums Worry No More and 110, and the score for Jason Wiles’ movie Full Count (Xiola). The artist has even segued into acting, seen in the 2007 John Sayles movie “Honey Dripper” (Xiola). He’s a well-rounded artist; in addition to playing the guitar, he plays the harmonica, bass and drums.

After 12 songs, the band left the stage only to return after loud requests for an encore. Three more songs followed, the last a cover of B.B. King’s “Three O’Clock Blues”, which was received enthusiastically by the crowd. Gary smiled, knowing that at Antone’s, there was no better way to close his set than with a B.B. King song.

Clark, Jr.’s performance was polished yet appeared completely natural and spontaneous; one could tell he felt at complete ease with what he was doing. Near the end of the show, he pointed out his family in the crowd; his mother and sister sitting at a table to his right, his father at the back, who waved when everybody turned to see him. The artist was at home.

While I was at Antone’s I vividly remembered something Lester Bangs said in the Cameron Crowe film Almost Famous: “Music, you know, true music, not just rock ‘n’ roll, it chooses you. It lives in your car, or alone, listening to your headphones…” I thought about that, and looking around the bar, the bar filled with young twenty-somethings and middle-aged men dancing with their wives, and homeless men huddled at the door hoping to score a free concert for a night, I thought about the difference between the music that lives in your car or in your bedroom… and live music. Live music is a whole different experience. Live music is something we share with complete strangers for one night, where we learn enough to feel closer to the artist or the band; it’s something we end up loving and enjoying not just because of the music but because of the whole thing- the heavy smell of beer and the swaying of the crowd, the expression on everybody’s faces, hoping that their cheers are loud enough for the band to come back for an encore. Live music is personal.

At the end of the night as I was walking out, I noticed the young band members from Blues Mafia standing in a group with their friends, talking and listening to the playback music that now followed Clark, Jr.’s performance. Clark, Jr. himself had joined his family at their table, enjoying his night after a successful show. When I passed the bar I saw Sasha Ortiz talking to a young man who then asked her to dance. When they’re up at the stage they strike the crowd as simply musicians, artists who put on a show because that’s what they love and that’s what their job is. It doesn’t matter if they’re an up-and-coming band like Blues Mafia, or a well-known performer like Clark, Jr; you forget that when they walk off the stage, they have a life, they have friends, they like to dance and drink and be with their family.

It is Austin’s pride to have the title of the Live Music Capital of the World, and at Antone’s last night I understood why. Like in the city of Austin itself, the bar buzzed with a close and familiar atmosphere, where live music isn’t just watching a show, but a way of life that brings strangers together, at least for one night.

Waiting For Change

2009-11-10T18:13:00.003-06:00

This is for my friend [you know who you are]:

He oído a gente decir, high school isn't like in the movies...Yo les puedo decir que my high school experience was actually very much like in the movies. Existían los cliques- ya saben, los geeks, los losers, los populares, los in-betweens- el estrés por buenas calificaciones, la presión de irte a una buena universidad (especialmente en mi prepa, donde te presionaban por irte a estudiar fuera), las fiestas donde las cosas perdían el control y todo mundo hablaba de ello el lunes, y hasta que hubiera un chisme nuevo. No me estoy quejando, pues yo soy de esas personas que se la pasaron increíble en prepa, y que hasta la fecha hay veces que lo extraño mucho, demasiado. Los amigos, los maestros, el desmadre. Pero al mismo tiempo, my hometown was a giant high school itself. Nunca voy a olvidar cuando se estrenó The OC y salieron las reseñas-- diciendo que era excelente, buen guión, increíble química, personajes diferentes a los que hemos visto antes, y compararon Orange County con San Pedro- un lugar donde los padres no tienen control sobre sus hijos, todos saben la vida de todos, y hay black-tie event fin tras fin. Y en ese programa, indudablemente, el personaje con más éxito fue Seth Cohen, el adolescente torpe perdido entre bonehead jocks y daddy's girls, cuyo defense mechanism era el sarcasmo interminable, y planeaba su escape de The OC desde los 6 años. Mi teoría es, que la razón por la cual tuvo tanto éxito este personaje es...because there's a Seth Cohen in all of us.

Hace poco me llegó un correo de una amiga en Monterrey, quejándose de la monotonía de la ciudad, desesperada por un cambio- un cambio de lugar, un cambio de gente, un cambio de rutina. Que estaba harta de salir al mismo antro todos los fines, ver a la misma gente siempre, pero que sabía que si se quedaba en casa en lugar de salir al pedo iba a estar "más mandada que nunca". Esta persona ha estado buscando un cambio ya por mucho tiempo, aplicando a universidades fuera, tomando los SAT's, rezando por becas y oportunidades. No es la primera vez que una persona de mi ciudad se queja de esto (o busca sugerencias y consejos, o simplemente desahogarse) conmigo. No sé qué decirles excepto que no se dejen presionar por la vida social de la ciudad, que busquen el cambio que quieren hacer, que tengan paciencia, y que no les importe si estar "mandados" o no, con tal de estar felices con lo que hacen. It sounds simple, but I know it is not. Lo que sí sé es que si buscan un cambio, no deben de buscar irse a otro lugar nadamás por escaparse de problemas o de monotonía, pues una rutina se crea donde sea, y los problemas te siguen a donde vayas. However, no tiene nada de malo querer salirte de lo que has conocido toda tu vida.

Yo me vine a Austin, que es básicamente una versión gringa de Monterrey (o como me dijeron, se ha convertido en "el rancho de San Pedro", como si fuera la Isla del Padre). Claro, es muy diferente el ambiente de la ciudad, y la gente que ves en la calle y que conoces lentamente en tus clases también lo son. Pero cada año, más y más gente de San Pedro busca venirse aquí. Ha llegado a ser un lugar (al menos alrededor de la universidad) donde te topas a gente conocida en cada esquina, salen al mismo antro cada fin (que se ha clasificado como el spot de los mexicanos), y es la misma gente en cada pre, cada after, cada fiesta. La semana pasada hablé de esto con un amigo que también se encuentra aquí, él desesperado por salir de la rutina que ya ha formado en Austin. "Es como si nunca hubiera dejado Monterrey," él me dijo. Hey, I'm all for listening to problems and trying to give you some advice... pero a veces debemos de admitir que el problema no es la ciudad, eres tú. No tiene nada de malo buscar una safety net en que apoyarte cuando empiezas una vida nueva, pero debes de saber como salirte de ella.

Yo fui de esas personas que siempre soñó con irse a NYC, escribir, conocer gente nueva y diferente. Pensaba que college no tenía nada que ver con high school-- que era una etapa donde ya no había gente juzgamental, no había cliques, y podías estar en tu pedo sin que te comentaran o te clasificaran como, well, a loser. Como diría Tyler Durden, "We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact." Puede ser muy cierto-- parece que todas nuestras vidas se han basado en mentiras. Perdón por la negatividad. A pesar de tener momentos difíciles de vez en cuando, yo soy feliz en mi vida nueva, aunque no es tan diferente como me la imaginaba, he tratado de romper las costumbres y evadir esa misma gente, mismo antro, mismo todo. Things shouldn't have to stay the same.

Una maestra [en Monterrey] me dijo hace unos años, "You're too big for this place." Yo sé que lo dijo como cumplido, pero al mismo tiempo, we can be great anywhere and everywhere. El lugar donde te encuentras y la gente que te rodea afecta, y muchísimo, pero si tu sabes lo que quieres y decides no ahogarte en la burbuja de la monotonía, no hay por qué ser infeliz. No hay por qué dejarte presionar. No hay por qué no cambiar, no traspasar los límites que se llegan a crear con la rutina. And hey, there'll be cliques everywhere, there'll be the possibility of sameness wherever you go and, in a way, life can be one giant high school-- pero en el momento de desesperación, recuerda al Seth Cohen que tienes dentro...pero en lugar de solamente quejarte y planear un escape, hazlo. Por las razones correctas.

Safety Blankets

2009-11-05T19:39:00.005-06:00

A todos nos entra un momento de crisis. En algun punto, ya sea por trabajo, por un problema en una relación, o simplemente porque tienes un bad hair day- te cuestionas a ti mismo. Muchas veces las dudas que tenemos son completamente irrelevantes, y después de unos minutos o capáz y hasta después de unos dias, te das cuenta que no tienes nada por qué preocuparte- you were just having an off day. Pero qué si en ese momento de crisis no encuentras ningún alivio, no te llega ningún punto de claridad, y te quedas a oscuras? Te preguntas a ti mismo, “Am I good enough/talented enough/pretty enough/smart enough/courageous enough?” étc, étc. Qué si la respuesta no te gusta? Y no porque tengas tu autoestima hasta el piso ese dia, pero porque la respuesta resulta ser…verdad.

Recuerdo el episodio de How I Met Your Mother en cual Barney por fin decide conocer a su papá…Bob Barker. Hace todo un plan para llegar a The Price is Right, y jura decirle a Barker que él es su hijo perdido. A la hora de la hora, decide no hacerlo- y la decisión surge de un miedo: What if what you’ve believed for so many years turns out to be a complete lie? La verdad duele. Y la verdad duele aún más cuando llevamos tanto tiempo asegurándonos que nunca podría ser mentira. “Que triste es creértela y después ver que todo fue una larga serie de indefiniciones que culminaron mal,” me dijeron un día. Se puede ver en algo tan sencillo como una oferta de trabajo que nunca se establece, o darte cuenta que un talento que pensabas tener simplemente era porque no habías salido de tu zona de confort, o terminar la honeymoon stage de una relación y entender que no hay razones racionales por las cuales están juntos. Hay decepción tras decepción en la verdad.

Cuando llega ese momento de crisis, buscas un rincón en donde te puedas tener lástima en paz. Donde puedes llorar, gritar, mentar madres, quejarte de las injusticias de la vida- y eventualmente salir del rincón y empezar de nuevo (pathetic as you may have been a few minutes before).

Me fascina conocer dichos rincones de la gente- sus safety blankets. Esas cosas que los hacen sentir mejor cuando nada ni nadie más puede. Tengo una amiga, let’s call her X, que llena sus paredes de post-its motivacionales, recordándole lo guapa que es, lo inteligente, que tiene mucho talento y potencial, que hay oportunidades a la vuelta de la esquina. Y todos los días cuando despierta, ve los papelitos de colores y logran darle un oomph, una buena manera de comenzar su día. Es un pequeño método que le ha ayudado a traves de los años, de la manera que ni un psicólogo ni amiga ni novio ha podido. [Les debo confesar que una vez probe este método, y resulta ser muy efectivo- I love reading good things about myself] Conozco a personas que tienen todo tipo de safety blanket- se acorralan en la musica, buscan a su mejor amigo, hablan con sus padres. Yo después de un mal par de semanas, le rogué a mi mamá que viniera hasta a Austin- just to make me feel better (y sí, llega en menos de dos horas, y sí, soy una chiflada y qué). Some turn to food, drinking, writing, or curl up with a stack of fashion magazines and shut off their phones and try to steer clear of Facebook for a few days.

Otra persona muy cercana a mi, let’s call her Y, tuvo una crisis hace unas semanas. Y en el clímax del problema lo único que quería hacer era encontrar un rincón de privacidad que no pudo conseguir. Cómo logras sentirte mejor si todo aspecto de tu vida te recuerda al problema- si no puedes escapar del trabajo, o del internet, y bien sabes que no puedes vivir sin tu teléfono prendido? It all comes back to the truth. A pesar de que muchos logramos escondernos de nuestros problemas por un tiempo, siempre surgirá alguna conexión a lo que originalmente quieres escapar.

Es como (perdonen por siempre citar SATC) Charlotte York dijo, “The thing is, there’s some things people don’t admit because they don’t like the way it sounds…” y todo, inevitablemente, te guía a la fea verdad- safety blanket or no safety blanket. Pero vá, enough negativity, el punto de todo esto es recordar que podemos tener nuestras mil feas verdades, pero también, after pitying yourself shamelessly, hay una apertura en la oscuridad de tu rincón. You just gotta know how to break through it and get to the other side.

By the way, cuáles son sus safety blankets?

Favorite Images From the Fashion Blogosphere

2009-11-05T17:33:00.013-06:00

The scandalous Steve Madden copy of the Alexander McQueen's from Fashion Chalet.

Enviable shoe rack from Jane's Sea of Shoes.

Beautiful drawing from I See JaneMary

My future Parisian Baby from Jak&Jil

Perfection on Coco Rosa

The amazing Anna Dello Russo, from Jak&Jil

Beautiful (and British=bonus points) Karen from Where Did U Get That

Crazy paparazzi in (I don't remember-gulp)

All black from Stockholm Street Style.

Gorgeous contrast from Stockholm Street Style.

Models partying from Absolutely Oblivious.

The fave twins from Olsens Anonymous.

New Music

2009-11-03T18:07:00.006-06:00

Hace ya varios años, por no sé cual coincidencia ni por qué milagro...conocí a un amigo. Eran de esas amistades muy raras, muy advertidas y prohibidas por los padres, que se basan en platicar por internet. There was nothing creepy or seemingly dangerous about it, refiriéndome a que no era un hombre de 40 años usando el MSN para conquistar a niñas de 14 años. Simplemente era amigo [de un amigo de una amiga] que conocí un día y me puse a platicar con él. El centro de nuestra amistad era la música. Con él aprendí el gran secreto de mi ciudad de Monterrey: there are people who listen to decent music. You just have to look for them really, really hard. Or stop looking all together. En fín, fue su amor por Pete Townsend lo que me llamó la atención, y a traves de los años hemos tenido de esas relaciones que dejas de hablar por meses, y de repente un día podemos volver a hablar, y luego no y luego sí, étc. Pero lo constante es la música.

Entonces un buen día, cuando me mandó un link de un grupo nuevo, I knew it was gonna be good. And it was. Y aparte, it was his own [band]- so even better. Entre los incontables grupos regios que están tratando de llegar a la fama, todos popperos-wannabe-rockeros, Yusatico me da algo refrescante, diferente, with a little Interpol here and there, que verdaderamente espero lleguen a donde quieran llegar.

Please give them a listen: http://www.myspace.com/yusatico

Ah...Y ni pregunten de dónde salió el nombre. Not even they know.

He Still Believes In Inner Beauty

2009-10-27T18:39:00.013-06:00

Hay tantas cosas que me recuerdan (inevitablemente) a la importancia del Punto de Vista en cuanto a la idea de la belleza. Es algo que se discute diariamente, porque todo depende de los gustos de una persona individual, o de lo que te implementaron en casa, por cultura, por ciudad, por país, por generación, todo. Y es verdaderamente increíble ver cómo algo que tu consideras tan hermoso es visto como algo feo a traves de los ojos de alguien más.

El viernes pasado, escribí acerca de mi humor negativo y de la letra de Mad World, que yo describí como algo "beautifully pathetic". Me recordó mucho al principio de una novela, The Story of Forgetting, que relata la historia de un hombre que nació deforme- a hunchback- que vive enamorado de la mujer de su hermano. El autor nos describe como por las noches, el hombre sale a su patio, sube un árbol que yace directamente en frente de la ventana de la habitación de su hermano y su esposa, y los ve. Más bien, la ve. La observa dormir, la observa moverse, se sienta en ese árbol "like a dirty old man, like the man I have perhaps become...as I watched Mae sleep, her face to the window, me falling in love with the way the arch of her nose pressed into her pillow, I began to rub myself in that tree." Y creo que este es el momento en cual los lectores nos quedamos boquiabiertos, y hacemos una cara de asco...what? Imagínenlo...a hunchback. On a tree. Rubbing himself. Great. Es una imagen que te puede llegar a perturbar, pero...es muy triste, no? Su amor tan grande que siente que jamás podrá llegar a ser. Y a los extremos que llega una persona para evitar la soledad. So beautifully pathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Puede que, y con buena razón, nos fijemos más en la fealdad de la imagen que en el mensaje que nos trata de dar el autor. We're always focused on the ugly, the morbid, the grotesque.

Hace unas semanas mi hermana publicó una pequeña serie sobre la historia de la pornografía (aquí). Cuando le pregunté cómo la gente había reaccionado, ella me dijo que la mayoría se concentraron más en las imagenes que incluyó, que demuestran personas de otras épocas que no son lo que nosotros consideraríamos "guapos" o "sexy". Se fijaron más en la gordura de la mujer (o que no estaba depilada-gasp!) que en el punto que mi hermana estaba tratando de hacer.

Y así son muchos casos- casos en cuales los creadores no se quieren concentrar tanto en lo bonito, but there we go trying to find it. Es algo que me interesa mucho en la moda, por ejemplo, y lo veo mucho cuando me la paso viendo revistas con mi novio a lado. De repente hace un ruido de ugh, what the hell is that? Y claro, es el nuevo runway de McQueen. Y miles de veces me ha dicho, "No entiendo. No se supone que el punto de la moda es hacer que las viejas se vean bonitas? Quién querría ponerse eso? Quién se maquillaría así? BLEGH!" Creo que para personas así, it's best to steer clear of McQueen and just go for the Victoria's Secret runways-- because that is pretty, right? A veces pasa hasta en la música, cuando una canción que a mi me inspira y me relaja a alguien más llega a darle un dolor de cabeza, o le parece una canción que saldría en una película de miedo justo antes de matar al protagonista (cough, baby, cough).

Hay muy pocas cosas que son universalmente bellas, y todo lo demás se queda en un intermedio, luchando por ser entendido. Pero quién sabe, sometimes this is better. A quién le gustaría siempre ser descrito como bonito? Debemos de mantener las cosas interesantes. I'll take something "beautifully pathetic" over pretty any day.

McQueen Fall '09

Google Images

Go Fall in Love

2009-10-27T01:04:00.007-06:00

Para cualquiera que no haya visto Where the Wild Things Are, do yourselves a favor and Go. Watch It. Now. No va a ser lo que esperan y puede que la película resulte ser un poco más oscura de lo que se imaginan--it's definitely not a kid's movie, a pesar de los mounstritos y que el protagonista es un niño. Supuestamente, el studio no quiso lanzar la versión original del director Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich) porque estaba muy, uhm, diferente- so they settled for a more "normal" version (whatever that means). Solo veanla, por favor. Y llegando a sus casas bajen el soundtrack completo. Sí. Gracias. Ah, y no se pasen toda la película tratando de descifrar la voz de Carol- yes, that is Tony Soprano.

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

Quick Rant

2009-10-23T13:30:00.006-05:00

Tengo 20 años, entonces técnicamente no me pueden reclamar que escribo como (frase favorita de mi padre) "adolescente atormentada"- de vez en cuando, todos nos encontramos en un punto que queremos estallar y desahogar y criticar y quejarnos de todo. Ya sea del trabajo, la tarea, un maestro, tu jefe, que una vieja no te pela, que tus papás no te quieren, que tus hijas no se acuerdan de ti, que no te alcanza el dinero, que necesitas más tiempo libre, que porqué todavía no le dan un Oscar a Leo, que te cancelaron un viaje, que se te quemó tu bagel, que porqué esa actríz se viste tan mal (por Dios consíganle un estilista)...étc. Te encuentras en un estado constante de negatividad- recuerdo mi verso favorito de "Mad World" (Gary Jules): The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. Isn't it so beautifully pathetic?

Creo que en ese estado me encuentro yo hoy.

Creo.

So We Fall in Love with Ghosts

2009-10-12T18:52:00.003-05:00

Durante el verano, leí Divisadero, de Michael Ondaatje. No es mi obra favorita del autor, pero entre sus páginas encontré un pasaje que disfruté mucho. Es un pequeño ejemplo del lenguaje que tanto me capturó la primera vez que leí a Ondaatje:

...Anna is not aware that the casualness in Rafael she witnesses is inconsistent with his nature...while he knows scarcely a thing about her. Who is she? This woman who has led him into this medicine cabinet of a room where most of her possessions exist- books, journals, passport, a carefully folded map, archival tapes, even the soap she has brought with her from her other world. As if this orderly collection of things is what she is. So we fall in love with ghosts.

Me enamoré del pasaje, supongo, porque me relacioné perfectamente con él. Recuerdo cuando mi hermana se mudó al DF, un día que decidí entrar a su cuarto viejo, cuya puerta seguía cerrada desde que se fue. Entré porque me había acostumbrado ya muy rápido a su ausencia, y una parte de mi quería comprobar que sí estuvo ahí alguna vez. Vi sus cuadros de Marilyn Monroe sobre su sillón negro, sus películas, sus libros, sus fotografías. Todo lo toqué cuidadosamente, sin mover nada de su lugar. Me senté en su cama y la única parte de mi que se movía eran mis ojos, absorbiendo todo lo que ella había dejado. Ahí estaban todas sus cosas, pero mi hermana ya estaba muy lejos.

Me acuerdo de ese momento, y al leer las palabras de Ondaatje me pregunto, qué es lo que nos forma? Las cosas, a pesar de su superficialidad, siempre han sido muy importantes para mi. Soy una persona que se apega fácilmente a lo material. Mi cama, mi almohada favorita, mis libros, mis cuadernos de dibujo, los cuadros que cubren mis paredes, mi carro. Todas son cosas que batallé en dejar cuando me fui de casa. Quería subir a mi camioneta uno de mis cuadros para poder meterlo a mi depa nuevo. El libro de Andy Warhol que me regaló mi hermana una Navidad, que pesa como unos malditos 7 kilos- insistía en cargarlo hasta acá. Mis libros, que de vez en cuando presto, en cuanto los terminan los quiero de regreso, porque son parte de mi. No? Mi papá siempre nos enseñó que en casa, en recámara, en oficina, en biblioteca, todo debe de ser bonito. Todo siempre debe de estar limpio y bien decorado, y nos enseñó sobre arte y arquitectura y que "un libro no se presta, pués estúpido es quien te lo regrese." Y supongo que en los años de oírlo, fui formando mi opinión: que estas cosas que llenan mi casa, mi recámara, mi biblioteca... no solamente son las cosas que llenan lugares, sino que me llenan a mi.

Call me sentimental, pero desde Monterrey me traje una caja que he tenido ya por varios años. En esta caja- sencilla, lisa y negra por fuera -se encuentran muchísimas cosas que pienso nunca poder tirar. They're the stupidest things- regalitos de mi mejor amiga, fotografías de mis abuelos, cartas que tienen fechas desde el '98 hasta el día antes de venirme a Austin. Tengo un mapa de Manhattan, un papel con frases de autores como Kerouac, Whitman, George Bernard Shaw, James Barrie. Miles de cosas pequeñitas que de alguna manera y por alguna loca razón, yo sigo creyendo que me hacen quién soy.

Creo que por ésto mismo siempre me llamó la atención la vida de los hippies, los gypsies, los beatniks, bohemians, como les quieran llamar. Aquellos que por voluntad propia, carry their whole life on their backs. Lo esencial. Y creo que en ese aspecto, es una buena forma de vivir. Sin atarte ni apegarte a cosas innecesarias y materiales, pero solo preocuparte por vivir, por conocer, por aprender, por escuchar, por experimentar, por observar. It's a nice concept. Uno que nunca podría vivir personalmente, excepto a través de las historias que leo. Pero, tiene algo de malo? Uno que escucha lo insistente que soy con ser rodeada por mis cosas- would you think I'm crazy? Creerías que soy materialista? Maybe mommy and daddy didn't give me enough love as a child and I'm trying to fill a void with things?

"As if this orderly collection of things is what she is. So we fall in love with ghosts." Supongo que Ondaatje tiene razón- si alguien fuera a entrar a mi cuarto vacío sin haberme conocido personalmente, puede que mis cosas simplemente reflejen un fantasma que le gustaba el color rojo, estaba obsesionado con Johnny Depp, las revistas de moda y el mundo de Neverland. Y yo sé que, in the bigger picture, yo soy una colección de mil cosas- mis opiniones, mis decisiones, mis errores, mis logros, mi familia, mis amigos, mis inseguridades, las historias que he escrito a través de los años, hasta los encuentros que he tenido con extraños me han formado lentamente. I know that's all bigger than a cheesy picture frame sitting in the corner of my room- pero todavía es importante, si no por algo más, mínimo porque son cositas pequeñas que nos hacen sonreír cuando las vemos. That's enough to become a part of you, isn't it?

On A Cold & Rainy Day

2009-10-09T14:30:00.010-05:00

Jak&Jil

En un día como este no se puede recomendar nada más que tomarse un café calientito (o un caramel macchiato, para los de la Starbucks Era), estrenar tu ropa de otoño que has estado guardando y saboreando todo el verano, escuchar un poco de Cat Stevens, y rezar que el calor no regrese mañana...

Happy Weekend!

The Sting

2009-10-06T19:53:00.005-05:00

Recuerdo un día que estaba viendo Sex and the City cuando entró al cuarto mi abuelita. Muy mala suerte la mía, pues entró en una escena de Samantha. Para aquellos que veían el programa, saben a lo que me refiero. Mi abuelita, con ceño fruncido, me dijo, "Esto es lo que jode a todos los jóvenes de hoy. Este programa tiene la culpa de todo!" A mi abuelita se le hizo muy fácil y razonable culpar a los escritores de SATC de tooodo lo que tiene mal nuestra generación. Otro día, años después, estaba viendo Requiem for a Dream cuando entró mi mamá. Vió la pantalla y me preguntó, "Cómo puedes estar así, un martes cualquiera, viendo esta película tan campantemente? Ya nada les afecta...se les hace cualquier cosa ver imagenes así." Ésto es típico de mi madre, que disfruta criticar todo lo que se ha ido a la mierda de generación en generación-- la forma en que se nos hace normal escuchar música que contiene "bitch" en cada verso, o la falta de reacción al ver escenas de sexo, matanzas o cualquier tipo de violencia. Supongo que hace buen punto- we have become so jaded that we no longer cringe when we're supposed to.

Sin embargo, el día de ayer mi hermana, que actualmente por su trabajo se la pasa investigando sobre pornografía (long story), me mandó un ensayo escrito por Catharine MacKinnon- "Pornography as Defamation and Discrimination". De lo que leí del ensayo, les puedo decir que disfruté del estilo de la escritora- it was different and refreshing for a professor, quienes tienden a ser mas secos y clínicos al escribir. Digo "de lo que leí", porque la verdad es que no pude terminar el ensayo. Y no, no porque estaba aburrido o porque encontré algo mejor que hacer, pero porque sus palabras llegaron a ser tan fuertes que por fin sentí un sting. I actually cringed, for once. En las páginas que le tomaron a la escritora para llegar a su conclusión (que se debe de prohibir la pornografía, for reasons I'm too lazy to get into right now), describía escenas pornográficas con palabras que me convencieron que yo nunca podría ver porno en mi vida.

Consta recordar que soy mujer de una nueva generación, y aparte escritora educada de manera que se puede llamar liberal, y aparte fanática del cine y del arte que tienden contener violencia, ya sea sexual o no. Conozco a gente que no puede ver A Clockwork Orange porque las imagenes les duelen, o que al ver la última escena de Taxi Driver juran prohibírsela a sus hijos por su propio bien...pero yo siempre he tenido cierta tolerancia para cosas así. Until now, apparently.

Nunca les ha pasado que leen un libro que después convierten en película, y piensan que el libro fue mucho mejor? Me ha pasado a mi ya varias veces (y también lo opuesto, pero muy pocas veces). Yo creo que esto es porque al leer, somos libres para usar nuestra imaginación- el texto se convierte en película en nuestra mente, pero nosotros somos el director, y el editor, y el camarógrafo, todo. We have absolute creative freedom, absolute creative control. Y al verlo en la pantalla, todo está restringido dentro de la mente de alguien más, y la mayoría de las veces, esto lo hace menos espectacular y menos apantallante.

Yo sé muy bien que este punto se puede debatir- hay muchas personas que piensan que cuando las palabras se convierten en imagenes en una pantalla, es mucho más impactante- pero una parte de mi no puede evitar pensar que dichas personas no son verdaderos lectores. Aquellos que se sumergen en el poder de las palabras, y que al cambiar de hoja entran en un mundo nuevo, completamente libre, completamente suyo.

Parte de mi sintió un tipo de alivio al leer el ensayo de MacKinnon- it feels good to find out we're not completely dead inside, not entirely jaded. Luego trataré de terminar el ensayo, simplemente por interés y curiosidad, and because it was actually pretty damn good, sin importar tu opinión personal acerca del tema discutido. Y cada vez que sienta el sting, y me de tentación saltar al siguiente párrafo, me acordaré de mi madre y de mi abuelita. Don't lose all hope yet, momma, I'm still able to feel.

The WWW

2009-10-01T17:09:00.009-05:00

Twitter, Facebook, MSN, Blackberry MSN, Skype, iChat, Hotmail, iPhone...regular phone...regular mail...am I missing anything? Hoy en día podemos enterarnos de noticias, chismes, fechas de conciertos, modas, hasta la ubicación exacta de una persona en particular en cuestión de un segundo. Sé cuando alguien está tomando un café, cuando está atrapada en tráfico, cuando van a salir de viaje, cuando tiene hambre. Me entero cuando alguien cortó, o se casó, o se embarazó. Sé si alguien está feliz o enojado, triste, o si se le rompió su vestido en plena fiesta. Me llega la noticia de que alguien está crudo, o si piensa salir esa noche para volver a estar crudo el día siguiente. Veo fotos del outfit que escogió una persona para ese día, o de lo que comió esa tarde. Y me preguntan que por qué no extraño a personas, si no a mi camioneta, o las montañas que rodean mi casa, o poder fumar adentro de mi cuarto? I don't even get a chance to miss people nowadays-con Facebook, I feel like I never left.

Hace unos días estaba viendo los 40 Hottest Hotties of the 90's, y en el número uno se encontraba Mark Wahlberg, que en los 90's era conocido como Marky Mark. Alguien lo recuerda? O más bien, alguien no lo recuerda? Le gustaba el rap/pop y presumir su six-pack y sus boxer briefs cuando cantaba en vivo (moda que le consiguió su trabajo como Calvin Klein underwear model). Su video de Good Vibrations sigue siendo un clásico. Cuando se lo mencioné a mi novio, no me creía. He had no idea that the respectable actor had such a muddy past in the music business...And so I youtube'd it. Después de verlo, con boca abierta, me dijo, "Si no tuviéramos internet, ni Youtube ni Google, nunca te hubiera creído." Y es verdad. It's so powerful, isn't it?

Para aquellos que no tuvimos la fortuna de vivir en los 80's y ver el primer Moonwalk de Michael Jackson, se imaginan no poder tener el placer de simplemente googlearlo y encontrar el video de su live performance de "Billie Jean" en Motown 25, año 1983? O qué sería de mi clase de Historia de Rock, en la cual mi maestro debe de usar Youtube para poder enseñarnos la era del surf rock y la influencia que impusieron The Ventures en los 60's? O la imagen que nuestra generación ya se sabe de memoria- las torres gemelas cayendo lentamente- que estará en documentales y será googleada y vista por el resto de los tiempos. Yes, it is so powerful.

Recuerdo el pánico que le entró a una amiga cuando terminó con su novio. Me dijo, "Qué horror cuando lo publique en Facebook- no quiero todo ese drama." El poder del internet and all that comes with it tiene sus consecuencias. La privacidad y el anonimato llega a ser un verdadero privilegio...y en aquellos momentos que nos queremos evitar el drama, llegamos a considerar cerrar nuestras cuentas en Twitter, Facebook, dejar de bloggear por un rato- simplemente para tomarnos un break, have some "me" time. Tengo una amiga que no tiene Facebook. No me dio ninguna razón, she simply shrugged. Honestamente, la juzgué. Pero tengo que admitirlo...I was also a little bit jealous. Vivir libremente, sin ser atada a los efectos y el poder de Facebook? Huh. Interesting. Liberating. Scary.

La verdad es que yo no podría vivir sin todo esto...I honestly can't think back to life without it. Lo que sí, es que debemos de aprender a balancear la adicción- if that's possible- y recordar que sí se pueden vivir dos o tres días sin estar pegado a la pantalla de tu computadora, que sí es posible pasar un fin de semana sin-gulp-updatear tu status, o picarle Refresh a tu homepage cada 5 minutos. I hope.

Oh, and P.S.- Enjoy.

Michael's First Moonwalk. Motown 25.

Marky Mark's "Good Vibrations"

The Ventures' "Walk Don't Run"

Things That Make Me Happy

2009-09-17T16:22:00.017-05:00

Las cosas (aparte de amigos, familia, novio, étc.) que nos hacen felices pueden ser muy pequeñas...pero su efecto es innegable. They put me in a good mood. Yay!

Like when the new Harper's Bazaar comes out- monthly magazines!

Shopping! (And if it's Chanel, even better)

El cine- especially this guy. Scorsese= Genius. And his eyebrows just make me love him even more...

Pedir libros por Amazon! I love getting mail. (Pic: Lullaby de Palahniuk)

Hervé Leger 2010 (Style.com)

Sorry...La verdad los disfruto.

Music! No hay vida sin la música- Favorite Dylan song: Shelter from the Storm

Grande Iced Caramel Macchiato- yum!

Bad TV & guilty pleasures, AKA, The Rachel Zoe Project. OMG I die.

Good TV, AKA, Entourage. Ari Gold, you're my hero!

Ray Ban Aviators- they just make us look good.

Sigh. Dream car: 1967 Ford Mustang (y si me dan el 1956 Porsche Speedster no me quejo)

Fotos de Google Images, Style.com, Bazaar.com, HBO Photo Gallery

I'm Into the Music, Not the Uniform

2009-09-15T19:03:00.008-05:00

Desde siempre, la música y la moda han estado inevitablemente conectadas. En un runway show, la música es igual de importante que la ropa que muestran- le da su personalidad, actitud, permite que el público vea la colección de la forma en que el diseñador la imaginó al crearla- ya sea romántica o punk, con influencia de los 20's, con un toque de rock n roll. Y desde siempre, habemos personas que al vestirse día a día queremos expresar nuestro estilo y personalidad. Existen los estereotipos, como cuando piensas en un goth lo imaginas todo de negro (uñas incluídas), o una fresita la imaginas vestida de rosa con todo de marca; los punks tienen su propio estilo- aunque en las épocas de Avril Lavigne, that took a nasty turn (she's not fucking punk, goddamnit). Y al parecer, llegó un punto en cual si no traías una tee de Led Zeppelin, no había manera que escucharas esa música. Hasta surgió el emo- que a pesar de su comienzo en los 80's, it broke into mainstream culture años después, y ahora si decides escuchar a Chemical Romance (que ellos mismos han dicho "emo is bullshit"), parece regla que debes vestirte de negro, taparte media cara con tu pelo y querer cortarte las venas.

Al entrar a mi clase de History of Rock (which is fabulous, by the way), tuve una agradable sorpresa. Mi maestro vestía pantalones kakhi (which I hate, but that's not the point), una Penguin polo, y lentes de armazón. Very simple, very Seth Cohen, and very not what you'd expect from a History of Rock professor. And the guy knows his shit. I love. Dos días después, fui a mi primer discussion section- donde, a causa del gran tamaño de la clase, nos dividen en pequeños grupos con un TA (Teacher's Assistant) para ayudarnos con preguntas, proyectos, étc. Esperábamos afuera del salón antes de que comenzara la clase, y mientras iban llegando más estudiantes, yo los veía, preguntándome quién iba a ser nuestro TA. Habían personas con jeans y tees, en gym shorts, otros que cabían dentro de la imagen de rockeros. Uno en específico me llamo la atención: chaparro, con un tatuaje en su tobillo, una t shirt de AC/DC, pelo negro relamido con gel, 5 aretes en una oreja, y una barba larga acomodada con una liga. Me reí por dentro, a decir verdad. Así como que, Okay, you listen to rock, you don't give a fuck, I get it. Ya eran las 6 pm, y entramos al salón uno por uno. En eso, el hombre con camisa AC/DC acomoda su laptop en el podio al frente del salon, y dice, "Hi. I'm Rob. Feel free to call me Rob." Este guey era mi TA. Lo que el maestro de la clase no nos dió, this guy more than made up for it.

Rob es el Jack Black chicano.

Lo primero que nos dijo, aparte de su nombre, fue: "I'm here to hip you up and make you stop listening to Nickelback- no offense to Nickelback fans, but that's not rock." Seguido por: "I'm kinda like the Chevy Chase character from SNL, did anyone see me trip down the stairs on the first day of class?" y "Rock is about making people orgasm." La mezcla perfecta de quirkiness y rock n roll. Again, I love. En estas tres semanas de clases, he llegado a disfrutar mis discussion sections de History of Rock con Rob (que aparte, se apellida Vela) aún más que la clase principal. Le quita la mala imagen que me había formado de aquellos que visten el uniforme de la música que oyen. Tiene gusto impecable, es chistoso, creativo, honesto. And again, this guy knows his shit. Lo que más disfruto de esta clase es ver a todo tipo de gente juntarse por un mismo interés. Atrás de mi se sienta un típico white Texan boy con botas vaqueras y pelo guerito que cada vez que Rob hace referencia a una canción, él murmura el grupo o año en que se publicó el albúm, todo. Lo que he aprendido de él es que es fan de todo- ha confesado que entre escuchar Miles Davis y Van Halen, también piensa que Britney Spears tiene su encanto. Very refreshing.

De vez en cuando, I like to be proved wrong (repito: de vez en cuando). Es inevitable toparte con gente que se toma demasiado literal el expresar sus gustos através de su ropa, pero supongo que ese es el chiste de la relación entre la moda y la música. Ver cómo se influyen entre sí. Y a primera vista, es interesante formar una opinión acerca de alguien en base a lo que visten. Y si tienes tiempo de llegarlos a conocer a fondo, even better. People surprise you, no denying that. Nunca sabes...puede que la niña vestida toda de rosa con su bolsa Juicy Couture que se sienta alado de ti sea una hardcore Metallica fan. Fuck, yeah.

Aw, Screw It

2009-09-14T20:15:00.008-05:00

The Beach Boys said it best: None of the guys go steady 'cause it wouldn't be right/to leave their best girl home now on a Saturday night. Cuando solía escuchar esa canción, lo único que escuchaba, fuera de la linda melodía, era el mensaje directo- guys won't date girls 'cause they don't deserve to be mistreated. Supongo. Pero ahora la vuelvo a oír, y no sé si simplemente me ha entrado una onda de negatividad y cinicismo or if I'm actually on to something- pero parece que nos trataban de decir: No se arriesguen, porque no importa cuánto se esfuercen, la van a cagar. Huh.

Todo esto empezó por una cadena de eventos personales, y aparte, porque veo abajo de este post y en las letras más grandes, está: "Just Do It." Nike tiene uno de mis slogans favoritos de todos los tiempos- sencillo, directo, estimulante. Al fin y al cabo, la semana pasada al hacer esa lista de frases todas tenían más o menos el mismo sentido y objectivo: inspirar, motivar, y aconsejar que no te tomes las cosas tan en serio. Ah, but everything changes day to day (in this case, week to week). Las palabras sabias de Nike me inspiran la mayoría del tiempo; he tomado de las mejores decisiones en base a ese consejo, igual que he cometido errores (como gastar de más en un impromptu shopping trip), pero el efecto en mi siempre ha sido el mismo- me impulsa. Until now. Supongo que es normal tener un poquito de miedo de vez en cuando. Pero en qué momento se distingue "un poquito de miedo" con, estem, "being a little chicken shit"?

Debería de ser un crímen todo el tiempo que nos pasamos cuestionándonos- Do I take this class, or should I wait for next semester? Should I go to New York this Thanksgiving? Should I break up or just ask for a break? Should I skip dinner to buy this month's Bazaar? Should I tell my parents to fuck off, or guilt trip them into forgiving me? [Muahaha] Everything's a question. Y en un momento, esa pregunta se convierte en un miedo, que se convierte en la decisión de mejor no hacerlo...'cause you'd rather not blow it. Hence, Beach Boys. Y lo que yo me pregunto es, ¿cuándo sé si el miedo es excesivo? Muchos me dirían, igual que Last-Week-Me, que debería de actuar en base al consejo de Nike-- más que todo, porque ese es el consejo popular, y a todos nos gusta creer que somos atrevidos y/o seguros. Y porque, let's face it, no se escucha igual de alentador: Just Think About It, and Then Maybe Do It.

Entonces, antes de llegar a una decisión, tenemos que admitir que sí tenemos que pensar en muchas cosas. It's not always a matter of risking my own neck- usually it's much more than that, ya sea que resulte en consecuencias para alguien más (que creo que es lo más importante), o en algo que nunca podremos cambiar. So...eres cobarde, o simplemente cuidadoso? Está todo destinado a joderse? Y más importante que todo, when do we know it's time to stop questioning (y lo digo en forma de pregunta-ironic)?

A Few Words of Advice

2009-09-09T21:44:00.009-05:00

Write what you want. Just don't take any classes where you have to read Beowulf. Do what you love, and fuck the rest. That's how you become great, man, hang your balls out there! Just Do It. Never take it seriously, if ya never take it seriously, ya never get hurt, ya never get hurt, ya always have fun, and if you ever get lonely...just go to the record store and visit your friends. The truth will set you free. If it is worth doing, it is worth overdoing. Imagine. There's still time to be an utter jackass for whatever it is you want.You're gonna eat lightning and you're gonna crap thunder. You must chill. Breathe and Reboot. Be Yourself-but not too much. Celebrate good times. Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.

[Almost Famous; Woody Allen; Little Miss Sunshine; Jerry Maguire; Nike; Almost Famous; Nick Hornby; Steven Tyler; John Lennon; That's Me Inside Your Head; Rocky; Say Anything; Sex and the City; Friends; Kool and the Gang; Michael Pollan]

Unblock

2009-09-01T17:27:00.010-05:00

Nunca había tenido que sufrir el writer's block...esa vil enfermedad que resulta en una mente en blanco. Puedes tener una pantalla enfrente, o una pluma y papel, te pueden pasar mil cosas y tener el propósito de escribir algo- lo que sea, algo increíble o lo más mediocre del mundo- but it just doesn't happen. The words don't come. Es de los peores sentimientos del mundo. Pedí ayuda, y me dieron sugerencias como caminar en la lluvia, oír mi música favorita, ver Entourage (it's been done), ahogarme en whiskey (it hasn't), todo. It's sort of fascinating to learn what people do for inspiration. Hasta regresé al lugar donde siempre se me ha acomodado y facilitado la estudiada, donde puedo oír música, leer, tomar un café y un cigarro, y escribir sin que me molesten. But blocked I remained. La última vez que escribí en paz fue cuando murió John Hughes, y pensé: Does someone have to fucking die for me to write again?

Finalmente llegó un momento, gracias a mi clase de Rhetoric, en que pensé en algo que me podría ayudar. El maestro nos encargo un mini-assignment, típico para el principio del semestre, acerca de nosotros mismos. Who are you? Where do you come from? What's your major? What's your favorite book, your favorite movie, your favorite music? Do you procrastinate? What are you like as a reader, a thinker, a writer? And it hit me. Me fascina escribir sobre mi misma. I could talk about myself for hours (ya sé, vengo de una familia egocéntrica, lo siento), principalmente porque me conozco. Y, para cualquiera que haya visto Never Been Kissed alguna vez en su vida, sabemos que "to write well, you have to write what you know."

Y entonces comencé mi tarea: I'm Eugenia Vela. I'm from Monterrey, México. I'm majoring in Journalism. I love A Clockwork Orange, Peter Pan, and anything Chuck Palahniuk. My favorite movie's Forrest Gump, am also a Scorsese, Hughes and Cameron Crowe fan. I listen to Aerosmith, Coldplay, Dylan, The Beatles. I'm a big procrastinator. I think I'm an avid reader, I don't know what I think about myself as a thinker yet, but I know that as a writer I'm-- blocked. Fucked. Entonces, aún bloqueada, pensé en primeras impresiones. Cuando otros te dicen lo que pensaron de ti a primera vista es una oportunidad para aprender de ti misma.

Pensé tiempo atrás, back to the beginning of my senior year at high school. AP English class. No sé cuantas personas vayan a leer esto que también conozcan a la persona de la cual voy a hablar, pero para aquellos que sepan, saben lo que yo sé: mi maestra de AP English era una mujer muy brillante, un poco malentendida, honesta, directa, sarcástica (no, I'm not talking about me), a veces despistada. Y como todos los seniors del ASFM, tuvimos la tarea de escribir un college essay.

La primera vez que lo entregamos (tuvimos como mil revisiones y peer editing después de eso), eran principios de octubre (capáz y finales de septiembre). We were over a month into the school year. El día que la maestra los iba a entregar de regreso, todos estábamos nerviosos pués ella tenía fama de ser, excuse my French, una perra al momento de calificar. Todos sentaditos, ella entró con el paquete de ensayos en sus manos, y lo primero que preguntó fue, "Who's Vela? Who is this Vela person?" Todos me voltearon a ver, y tenía miedo de lo que me fuera a decir, pero sobre todas las cosas, primero pensé: Cómo? How the hell does this crazy woman not know who I am by now? Indignada (y con miedo), levanté mi mano.

No recuerdo sus palabras exactas, pero el punto es que se enamoró de mi ensayo. Hizo una copia para cada estudiante no solamente de nuestra clase, pero de sus otros salones también. Me pidió que lo leyera en fuerte, y al hacerlo, ella se reía en todos los momentos adecuados. Sentía su mirada fija, intensa, viéndome con fascinación. To all those reading this who knew this woman, you know she could be pretty nerve-racking. Cuando terminé de leer mi ensayo, la voltié a ver, y ella estaba sonriendo.

Y esto lo recuerdo perfectamente- ella me dijo, "You know what's so good about this essay? It's honest. It's real. You know what I love about it? You were such a bully! You were so mean, you were, well, you were like me! HA!" Después de esto se tomó un minuto para reírse, that evil witchy laugh of hers. Yo? Chirp, chirp. Claro que estaba feliz porque sabía que iba a recibir una buena calificación, pero...I guess I was also terrified. Was that what she thought of me? Supongo que la niña que describí en mi ensayo si parecía ser un poco mala, but-LIKE HER? Was that supposed to be a compliment?

Al pasar el tiempo, aprendí a apreciar su personalidad, su honestidad, su talento como maestra de literatura. Y a ella nunca se le olvidó quién era Vela. Al fin del año habló conmigo y me dijo que mi ensayo, mi historia, fue la mejor manera de conocerme. Que capáz y cuando yo lo escribí, no me vi de esa manera, pero por eso es bueno que otra gente te lea, que otra gente te conozca. Hay muchos lados a tu persona, different shades of grey, para ponerlo en un cliché. Para mi, mi ensayo se trataba acerca de una Eugenia de 11 años que conoció a su mejor amiga quien la ayudó a superar muchos problemas. Para mi maestra, se trató de una niña honesta y un poco maligna que no tenía miedo de expresar su individualidad. Para mi mamá, se trató de una niña perdida que se desquitaba con los demás. Everyone reads you differently.

Bueno, pués. No estoy viendo Entourage. Estoy tomando un iced latte, no whiskey. Estoy sentada bajo techo, no caminando en la lluvia. Y así, sin darme cuenta, the block has been lifted. Lo más sencillo siempre ayuda-- en este caso, pensar acerca de mi misma sirvió como inspiración (didn't mean for that to sound so cocky). I guess my writing isn't fucked.

Back @ UT

2009-08-26T21:08:00.009-05:00

Voy empezando un segundo año en UT Austin. Esto significa depa nuevo, gente nueva, maestros diferentes y clases, ya sean obligatorias o que tomas por placer, que llegan a (hopefully) dejarte un poco más sabia (o aún más segura que no, no te importa la biología). Me encanta comenzar un año con una meta, y esa dulce esperanza que esta vez puedes llegar a sacarte pura A (a bit unrealistic, but come on, it's gotta be doable some day).

Se nota inmediatamente quienes son los nuevos freshmen-- esas personas que ves alrededor del campus con un mapa en sus manos, una mirada de confusión al ver todos los edificios, tratando de averiguar donde se dividen Jester West y Jester East, y que llegan a sus clases 25 minutos antes de que empiecen. It feels a little weird knowing you were one of them just a year ago.

Lo más raro es ver las reacciones de los nuevos al llegar aquí. Mi papá me trajo esta vez, a ayudarme a instalarme en mi nuevo depa y ver dónde he vivido este último año. Me decía lo que pensaba al ver las calles, los edificios, el campus, al probar la comida y ver la gente que camina por la ciudad. Y parecía que todo lo que él no entendía y le parecía feo o absurdo, yo entendía perfectamente y si no lo hice desde un principio, aprendí a amarlo al pasar el tiempo. Like the heat on our backs as we walk from class to class, o saber que si pides un Julio Reposado lo más probable es que no sepa igual al que estás acostumbrado (y aparte, adulterado). Aprendemos a calcular todo ya con tax incluído, y si te pierdes en el carro ya sabemos que te puedes guíar por la torre, and you'll find your way home.

En fin, hay cosas diferentes (like plus and minus grading), pero al caminar por el edificio principal de la universidad ves que lo más importante no cambia. A un lado sigue la placa que lee, Core Purpose: To Transform Lives for the Benefit of Society. Supongo que un lugar no puede ser casa para todos. Algunos deciden volver a sus raíces, otros se van a lugares más lejos y misteriosos...Pero muchos si encontramos un segundo hogar aquí. Sophomore year, here we go.

Don't You (Forget About Me)

2009-08-07T14:44:00.019-05:00

El primer semestre que entré al ASFM, a donde llegué sin conocer a nadie, tomé un curso llamado Creative Writing. Eramos un grupo de como 15 estudiantes guiados por un maestro. Hasta esa edad, fuera de mi familia, no había conocido a una persona que fuera tal como yo. Que tuviera los mismos gustos, los mismos hobbies, la misma perspectiva y forma de pensar acerca de, no sé...literatura, música, cine, la sociedad en general. I was always the odd one out. Un día en mi clase, estábamos aprendiendo sobre Screenwriting y el maestro decidió llevar películas que él creía fueran ejemplares para el tema. Metió la película de The Breakfast Club, y por dentro me emocioné. Justo empezó la movie, y empecé a decir el diálogo que me sabía desde los 13 años: Saturday, March 24, 1984. Shermer High School, Shermer Illinois, 60062. Dear Mr. Vernon... Junto con los personajes, decía sus líneas con el mismo tono y las mismas expresiones, según yo con voz baja. Little did I know, todos me escucharon. Pero aún más sorprendente fue que no era la única que se sabía la película de memoria. Oí una segunda voz, diciendo las mismas palabras que yo, y al voltear ví que era mi maestro. My thirty-something teacher knew The Breakfast Club by heart.

I know, suena como un after school special, but whatever. Nos llegamos a conocer ese semestre, igual que nos hemos ido conociendo los últimos 4 años. It was like suddenly, the two biggest pop culture freaks found each other; hablábamos de películas, libros, criticábamos lo que nos parecía estúpido, y nuestra tendencia al humor sarcástico nos unía aún más. Pero más importante que todo, él fue y sigue siendo uno de mis guías, el que me empuja a creer que everything's gonna fall into place if I want it bad enough. Y supongo que de alguna manera, todo comenzó ese día- just for quoting the words of those five characters stuck in a library for a whole Saturday in detention.

Ayer me mandó un mensaje, dándome la triste noticia que Hughes, el creador de The Breakfast Club y muchas otras películas clásicas (Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Some Kind of Wonderful, Sixteen Candles) había muerto. Y con el mensaje incluyó algo más, diciéndome: "You have the ability to be to others what John Hughes was to me and you."

Y no pude evitar pensar en el gran talento que fue, y más importante que todo, el gran talento que compartió John Hughes. Ese día en mi salón me di cuenta de la manera en que una historia que se había estrenado en 1985 formó parte de la adolescencia, igual que del aprendizaje, de mi maestro de treinta y tantos...Igual que formó parte de mi adolescencia, y mi amor por el cine y las historias bien contadas, más de 15 años después. The story was just as funny, just as smart, just as wonderful and heartbreaking- afectando a generaciones através de los años. El escritor, director y productor tenía una abilidad impresionante para crear personajes que nos hicieran pensar a su público, "I know that guy, I know that girl, and I know that feeling." Llevaba ya tiempo fuera de Hollywood antes de morir, pero eso es lo fascinante de una película, una fotografía, una canción o de un buen libro. It keeps on living after you're gone.

Tengo muchos escritores que admiro, ya sean novelistas o guionistas, uno que otro poeta. Hay actores y músicos que idolatro, y pintores y fotógrafos que respeto. En todo tipo de profesión se encuentra alguien que te deja con un buen sabor de boca, que te da el gusto de aprender algo nuevo de una manera pequeña (o grande). Y un día te encuentras con alguien inesperado, ya sea un amigo, tu pareja, o un maestro y mentor, que fue afectado de la misma forma por aquella persona. And so thank you John, and here's to you- for the great lessons, the unforgettable characters, and a helluva good time. Here's to The Storytellers, who live through the ages.

The Bad and The Ugly

2009-08-04T00:35:00.007-05:00

Hace poco estaba frente mi pantalla, viendo el título: "Hobbies". Era una madrugada entre semana, sin nada que hacer, y decidí contestar las preguntas All About Me, de Facebook. Escribí las típicas cosas... Ver movies, leer, escribir, pintar, salir con las amigas, étc, todo en automático. Pero esta vez también agregué "criticar". Me salió escribirlo naturalmente, y cuando repasé mis respuestas noté ahí la palabra- al lado de mis más grandes pasiones como el cine y la literatura estaba la de criticar. Me quedé pensando un momento, dudando si borrarlo o no, y luego pensé, "Oh well, I ain't the only one."

Hay algo muy satisfactorio que viene de criticar. La comida, una película, una persona, un outfit, una canción. Sobre lo que sea, surge una opinión personal (va, también se acostumbra criticar opiniones), sea buena o mala. Pero, lets all admit it, it's usually more bad than good. Y es aún mejor cuando se comparte. Cuando te sientas con alguien a--to quote Seth Cohen--"quietly mock people", es definitivamente una actividad que se goza. Y después de ver eso...mi último hobbie...pienso en todas las historias negativas, todos los pensamientos negativos que tengo diariamente. Normalmente, acostumbramos a contar o hablar de lo malo más que de lo bueno, no? Le marcamos a una amiga para ir a un café porque tienes una historia "interesante" que contar, and that usually means drama, drama, drama.

Cuando se trata de relaciones, o de problemas familiares, de amistades...sueles contar las cosas malas, porque por alguna razón resaltan más que las cosas positivas que pasan día a día. Hace poco, tuve un momento en que me di cuenta que todo estaba bajo control. School was still not in session, boyfriend was great, friends were good, the family issues were tranquil...Entonces me dije a mi misma, "Something wicked this way comes." Debe de venir una tormenta si hay tanta calma. Said and done. El día siguiente, all hell broke loose. Claro, han pasado peores cosas, pero aún así, why the fuck did I jinx things? Why do we always have low expectations? Acaso nos hemos ido entrenando lentamente a ser, no realistas, pero negativos?

Parecemos tener una pasión por lo terrible, por el sufrimiento, por el desamor. La semana pasada un amigo me dijo que a él de vez en cuando "le sale el poeta", y le gusta leer Benedetti en su esplendor. Me prestó El Amor, Las Mujeres, y La Vida del mismo autor. Le dije que no solía leer en español, pero una vez empézandolo le dije que no estaba sufriendo tanto. Él me contestó, "sufrió el que lo escribió!" Parece que en aquellas épocas que "nos sale el poeta" es porque estamos pasando por malos ratos, and not because we've got something to celebrate. Al fin y al cabo, si estás feliz no te vas a poner a leer poesía verdad? You're most likely to go out and get smashed (ironically so). Es igual con como pensamos sobre las personas--he pensado últimamente que la gente en realidad no cambia, y si lo hacen son muy pocos y para su propio beneficio. People don't surprise you, they just try to manipulate you into thinking they're good, right? Si alguien con quien tuviste un pasado obscuro hace algo, some small or grand gesture, whichever...vas a dudar de sus intenciones, vas a pensar que está jugando, que es una manipulación o un tipo de trampa. There is no pure goodness. Why is there always something?

Va pués, no sé a qué conclusión estoy llegando, I don't even know if there's a point to this...Nadamás admiro nuestra capacidad y gusto por siempre fijarnos en lo Malo. Supongo que mañana si me pasa algo bueno, aunque sea lo más mínimo, pensaré en este post y me diré a mi misma: "This is something worth telling." Y le marcaré a alguien para decirles que estoy feliz; que también viene la calma después de la tormenta. Don't cha think?

A Quickie

2009-07-30T15:11:00.007-05:00

Bajar música de Empire of the Sun (thanks Jay)

We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it...

The Goddess

Style to Go

Y para cualquiera que este teniendo unos malos días, como yo...

If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative. -Woody Allen

Maybe I'll Be a Whore

2009-07-22T16:26:00.008-05:00

Entre todas las malas películas que he visto este verano, no hay otra como Finding Amanda, la historia de un hombre (Matthew Broderick, who is definitely not as cute today as he was as Ferris) que va por su sobrina a Vegas, donde ha estado trabajando como prostituta. Claro que al pasar la movie, nos demuestran que la sobrina tuvo una jaded childhood, que un pariente abusaba de ella, y que está buscando amor verdadero, bla, bla, bla...Pero no es tanto el enfoque en eso como en el éxito que tiene la niña como working girl. Tiene su casa grande, novio mantenido, y buen carro convertible. And so you wonder...should I be a whore?

No lo tienen que tomar muy literal. En mi caso, estaba platicando con un amigo (hola Choco) sobre su recent musical success, diciéndole que su música (que, honestamente, no he oído más que una canción) es pop. Él me reclamó que no, es rock pop (nótese el rock antes que pop). Que pop se escucha "plástico", and he doesn't wanna be plastic. Pero bueno, putting aside the fact that Michael Jackson and Madonna made pop a respectable genre, hace un buen punto. Vivimos tratando de evitar ser categorizados con nombres que nos parecen malos, que nos dan pena...Supongo que cuando eres músico, you'd rather not be labeled as a pop star.

De ahí surgió el tema de querer ser famoso y rico. Él me dijo, "Keep writing and you will." Yo de broma dije que si sigo escribiendo, nunca seré rica. Pero entonces él me contestó que aplique la de Jo Rowling (autora de Harry Potter, para los que viven en una cueva). Va, yo soy una Pottermaniac y lo he sido desde que leí el primer libro en el 2000, pero a pesar de mi fanatismo, as a serious writer, you don't want to be labeled as the next Jo Rowling. Es un cumplido, sí, pués significa que tienes talento y podrías ser más rica que la reina de Inglaterra. But why can't people call you the next Palahniuk, Thompson, Salinger, Kerouac, Toni Morrison? Supongo que porque dije que quiero ser rica y famosa...

So, should you be a whore? Podrías vivir con el dinero y sabiendo que pudiste haber hecho algo diferente, algo completamente tuyo. O puedes seguir tu pasión, tu sueño, sans lana (who knows, maybe you'll get lucky--like Rowling herself). What to do? Se tiene que decidir jóven. Sin embargo, existe el sentimiento que surge de haber creado algo... aunque no sea lo que tenías en mente originalmente, it still becomes yours in the process of making it. Te apegas a la creación y te encariñas, because you poured a lot of yourself in it. Entonces al fin y al cabo, cómo saber si te prostituíste? Creo que sólo sabes si al final de todo, se forma un nudo en tu garganta, un mal sabor de boca, un dolor que viene de la insatisfacción. No cualquiera puede vivir con eso. Yo todavía no llego al momento decisivo. Por ahora, hay que dejarlo así: when the time comes, I'll know.

"Let's admit we're all whores..." (Michael Ondaatje, 2007)

Beliefs

2009-07-18T01:40:00.009-05:00

Hace 21 años, Kevin Costner protagonizó en Bull Durham, una historia de amor y baseball. Lo que más recuerdo es cuando su personaje dio un discurso que dejó a Annie Savoy (interpretado por Susan Sarandon) boquiabierta...

I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.

What do you believe in?

No Purpose or Place

2009-07-18T01:06:00.004-05:00

"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off." (Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club)

Parece que a todos nos educaron en base a una historia común: queremos algo, enfrentamos obstáculos, los vencemos, and we get the fairy tale ending. Lo vemos en los libros y películas, el final de una canción de amor. El final feliz no es extraño a el amor, o historias de negocios exitosos, o familias que logran aceptar y vencer una dificultad, étc. And we eat it right up, porque se siente bien pensar en la posibilidad, o más bien, en la supuesta seguridad, that everything's gonna be alright. But what if it isn't?

My Current Events

2009-07-03T00:02:00.011-05:00

1. I'll start with a list of this summer's must-reads:

Divisadero de Michael Ondaatje

The Story of Forgetting de Stefan Merrill Block

The Rum Diary de Hunter S. Thompson

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle de David Wroblewski

2. Chuck Palahniuk dijo, "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." (Invisible Monsters) Hace 2 años escribí un short story que cuenta las historias de 5 pacientes en la oficina de su terapeuta. Hace una semana descubrí el programa In Treatment de HBO, que trata de básicamente lo mismo. Igual, cuando un maestro editó mi historia me comentó que le encantó, que le recuerda a The Sopranos. Is that a compliment? Is anything original anymore? En momentos como esos, dudo que algún día pueda crear algo que sea 100% mío.

3. Mientras la mayoría del mundo se estresa por las elecciones (obviously a manner of speech)....Yo estoy fascinada con nuestra obsesión por The Good Life. Fuera de tratar de trabajar, tratar de leer y tratar de escribir, he llenado mis días (o más bien, mis madrugadas) viendo programas como Make Me A Supermodel Australia, Project Runway, Greek, étc. It's refreshing now that I'm watching Lost again (algo que, de una extraña manera, requiere neuronas). Lo más fascinante es el opening theme de MMASA, "The Fame" de Lady GaGa: I can't help myself/I'm addicted to a life of material...Aren't we all. Igual con Entourage, parece que después de 4 temporadas de self-indulgence, Vince hits a rough patch (en la 5ta) y todos nos quedamos rogando: "Please God, please! Give Vinnie his millions back!" After all, la razón por la que vemos esos programas es para ver gente bonita en Maseratis without a care in the world...No?

4. Me indigna ver listas mal hechas... Ejemplo: Después de ver E!'s Sexiest Men in Sports me he dado cuenta de la obsesión mundial por Cristiano Ronaldo. Cómo lo pudieron haber puesto más sexy que Becks, Cannavaro y Ljunberg? The world's a fucked up place, no doubt about it.

5. Looking forward to Public Enemies, Michael Mann's latest, a pesar de que las críticas have been less than stellar. En fin...No man sexier than Johnny Depp. Dudo que alguien hubiera podido interpretar a Dillinger de mejor manera.

The Big Issue 2002

Total Anonymity

2009-06-29T00:23:00.003-05:00

En un mundo de Facebook y MySpace, y todas las otras maneras de anunciarle al mundo quiénes somos, sigue existiendo la inseguridad y la preferencia por mantenerte anónimo. Obviously won't mention any names, pero me llamó mucho la atención cuando recibía posts y comentarios de parte de un tal Anónimo que escribía y me hablaba como si nos conociéramos. I was honestly freaked out, y cada vez que me llegaba un comentario me preguntaba quién podría ser, y por qué si me conocía lo suficiente como para llamarme "Velita", se mantenía anónimo? Después de un tiempo supe quién era, y al preguntarle por qué no publicaba su nombre, me contestó: "Me ibas a madrear de lo que te comentaba." Well, that shut me up.

Vivimos en un lugar donde no es cool leer el periódico (more than the Arts&Leisure section) en lugar de Us Weekly, en donde si prefieres quedarte a leer en vez de salir a agarrar el pedo eres clasificado como un loser, en una época en la que es mejor jugar Halo que ir a clases, y si eres alguien popular (which is the same as being an "airhead") o fresa, tienes que escuchar Lady GaGa porque si oyes un poco de Death Cab eres un emo (even if you're into the music, not the uniform). Y como una persona a la que le gusta un poco de todo, no se sintió bien ser vista como una que se burla de otra por expresar su opinión o por querer escribir bien en español (no pochamente, like yours truly). De las pocas cosas que aprendí en mi clase de Mate del último semestre, fue el hecho que total anonymity encourages people to tell the truth...No me pregunten porqué estudié eso en una clase de matemáticas, but I did.

Ya sea si es porque te da miedo que se burlen de ti, o porque quieres criticar sin sentirte culpable, porque no quieres que te cachen una mentira-- o una verdad--, o porque no tienes los huevos para decir "this is me who's saying all this crap", hay millones que prefieren esconderse bajo un seudónimo. What I think is, en qué tipo de mundo vivimos que hay miles de maneras para comunicarte o expresarte, pero sigue el miedo de qué pensarán los demás. I'm putting myself out there through here. Cuando escribo de estupideces, están los que me dicen "escribiste lo más estúpido del mundo en tu último post". Cuando le atino y de repente meto un buen punto entre idioteces, like right now, hay una que otra persona que me lo dice. And it feels good to hear...Entonces para aquella persona, you know who you are, perdón. Ya no te madreo...You got all the right in the world to say what you think. Y para los que me comentan bajo un seudónimo, guess that's all right too. Nadamás sepan que no tienen que hacerlo. It's all just for the sake of conversation anyways.

...but the kid is not my son...

2009-06-28T23:41:00.006-05:00

Todas las generaciones tienen los suyos...Algunos tuvieron a JFK, Elvis (the other King), otros a John Lennon, varios a Kurt Cobain. Muchos lloraron por Heath Ledger, un talento perdido tan jóven (y guapo). Millones vivieron todas estas tragedias, pero claro está que cuando murieron aquellos íconos, especialmente los primeros mencionados, se recuerda el momento exacto en el que recibiste la noticia. Vá, I still remember the day Selena died...Yo estaba en el club San Agustín desayunando taquitos de huevo con jamón cuando salió en las noticias. She doesn't come close to the latest headlines, pero en fín, lo recuerdo.

Ya fue hace tres días, y apenas llego a escribirlo...Murió el Rey. Michael Jackson, también conocido como the King of Pop, murió el 25 de junio de 2009 y todo el mundo lo recordará. Yo iba en el carro de mi prima cuando una amiga suya le marcó por su nextel, le echó un rollo inmenso al cual no le hice caso y al final oí las palabras, "Ah y no sabes...que se murió Michael Jackson." AH, okay. Gracias por la noticia...Quedé en shock por como 10 minutos, sin creermelo, sin llorar ni reaccionar. Solamente hubo silencio por 10 minutos seguido por como 30 "ni de pedo" 's...About 5 phone calls followed, marcándole a gente para preguntarles si ya se habían enterado, si era verdad o solo un tabloid fairy tale. Fue confirmado en 40 minutos después de eso, que sí, el Rey del Pop había muerto. And then the world shifted.

Sí, llevaba años sin trabajo, entrando y saliendo de demandas, tratando de recobrar su fama (and maybe get a few bucks, since he was bankrupt) con su comeback tour. Tuvo una subasta en la que vendió pertenencias como sus famosos guantes, por los cuales yo hubiera gastado una millonada si tuviera la lana, estatuillas de Mickey Mouse y Peter Pan vestidos de él mismo, y otras cosas que te hacían preguntarte en qué más se habrá perdido su fortuna. It was so sad, que al momento de su muerte te hacía pensar "maybe it was time". Maybe he had given all he had...Pero en fin, no se puede negar que era el Rey. Un talento como ningún otro...There will never be another who oozes utter coolness while gliding on the dancefloor. Y digan lo que me digan, he made everything (yes, even a black man turned white) look sexy while moving. Se merece respeto. Para los que piensen que era un gasto de ser humano por los chismes y los reclamos y las denuncias...well, he always said he was Bad.

My personal favorite (followed closely by "Billie Jean"):

2009-06-19T01:21:00.001-05:00

"Vanity, definitely my favorite sin."- John Milton

The Wind

2009-06-14T23:17:00.005-05:00

No sé si alguien lo recuerde o lo haya visto...Hace ya un año, Foo Fighters tomó el escenario de Wembley Stadium. Y en esa noche, cual Dave Grohl llamó "the greatest day of [his] whole entire life", Jimmy Page y John Paul Jones se unieron y tocaron con ellos. Me imagino que mucha gente, al igual que yo, sonrió al oír las palabras de Grohl...because we all knew it was true. Para los Foo Fighters fue una noche histórica, en la que leyendas subieron a compartir con ellos unos minutos de música y energía recibida por los gritos del público. Para los fans, puede que hubieron unos que ni sabían quiénes eran esos músicos, ya en sus sesentas, but I bet they sure did enjoy the music anyway. Hay momentos en que lo único que puedes hacer es detenerte...detenerte a apreciar un pedazo de música, una parte de una canción porque sabes que vas a recordar ese sentimiento por mucho tiempo, talvez por siempre. Lo llegas a relacionar con un día, o con una película o una frase, con una persona, una expresión. La música tiene una habilidad impresionante de cambiar tu humor...te relaja, te prende, te prepara.

Almost Famous es una de mis películas favoritas. La he visto miles de veces, y cada vez que veo esas escenas, las que Cameron Crowe y su grupo de expertos supieron juntar y perfeccionar con música tan viva y hermosa, me siento de la misma manera. "You are home," le dijo Penny Lane a The Enemy en el camión (Doris) cuando el grupo entero se puso a cantar "Tiny Dancer". Qué escena tan perfecta. Sientes harmonía y felicidad, familiaridad, sientes que llegas a conocer a los personajes y deseas estar en esa situación de aventura y libertad absoluta.

O aquella sonrisa en la cara de Chris Martin al final del video de "Fix You"...cuando el público canta con él, las palabras que él canta. Sabes que no es una noche cualquiera, cuando las luces prenden el estadio y Martin toma su lugar en el piano, y escuchas las miles de voces: "Tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace..." Ese video, hasta la fecha, me deja con la piel chinita y hasta con dolor de cabeza de tanta emoción. It's not just anything.

Y hay canciones o escenas que se llegan a confundir entre clásicas o cliché, pero sea lo que sea todos sabemos que las recordamos y nos fascinan...Nos divirtieron alguna vez, o nos inspiraron, unas cuantas notas llegaron a causar miedo. Dudo que haya una persona en el mundo que no se levanta de su asiento con las primeras notas de "Eye of the Tiger"; que no se sintieron invencibles o juraron ser Rocky, que no la usen para que le den ganas de entrenar o ir al gym. Dudo que haya una persona que no relacione la música de Jaws con un villano, con nervios o miedo a lo desconocido. Y dudo que haya una persona que ha visto Ferris Bueller's Day Off que no quiso regresarle a la escena de la Von Steuben Day Parade, where The Beatles' "Twist and Shout" got everybody in the mood to do just that- twist and shout.

Como cuando vas en tu carro, con el viento en la cara, y ahí es cuando la música parece tener más sentido. When it's an "a-ha!" moment, porque puedes concentrarte solamente en el camino y la canción que escuchas. Y te imaginas todas las historias que existen detrás de la música, todas las personas que oyen lo mismo que tú oyes en ese mismo momento; piensas en las conversaciones que se inician o las discusiones que surgen de una canción, o del amor u odio hacia un grupo, o la emoción que siente una persona al enseñarle a alguien más un nuevo descubrimiento musical. Y hasta te da envidia pensar cómo personas que de otra manera parecen ordinarias pudieron haber creado eso, tomando instrumentos básicos y convirtiéndolo en una experiencia para alguien más, para millones. A tiny melody can sometimes say much more than an entire novel can. Y te puedes identificar con ese pequeño pedazo de música, o te puede intimidar, o te puede hacer llorar o ponerte a bailar, o te puede inspirar...darte un poco de esperanza.

I think my friend Cat Stevens said it best, en una canción de solo 1 minuto, 40 ("The Wind"): I let my music take me where my heart wants to go... And man, is it true.

Click

2009-06-09T21:50:00.010-05:00

Presidents, Rock Stars, Models and Movie Stars...

Barack Obama

by Terry Richardson

Natalia Vodianova

by Patrick Demarchelier

Meryl Streep

by Annie Leibovitz

Mick Jagger

by Helmut Newton

"I'm Not Young Enough to Know Everything"

2009-06-04T17:57:00.013-05:00

Desde chiquita, cuando leí la historia de Peter Pan por J.M. Barrie, me enamoré del personaje principal y de la idea de nunca crecer. Neverland parecía un lugar al que podía llegar mágicamente, aunque no estuviera ahí Peter para llevarme volando. Siempre me imaginaba lo que sería irme y divertirme todo el día, sin tener que preocuparme por ser adulta. La historia ha sido de mis libros favoritos por años. Me encanta no solamente el libro, pero la película versión de Disney, la de Hook protagonizada por Robin Williams y Dustin Hoffman, la última que cuenta la historia de Barrie (Finding Neverland) y hasta las más chafas versiones también las disfruto. I insist, it is one of the best stories told in the history of literature. Aún hoy, saco el libro y me pongo a hojearlo, repasando mis frases favoritas. Las que más me fascinan y me dejan pensando, hablan de los adultos...

"In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed."

A los adultos los describía el autor como personas que habían olvidado lo que era ser niño, divertirse, sin preocupaciones...No era que ya no les interesaba lo que antes, pero que ya no lo entendían. Y Peter Pan igual que Neverland nos ofrecían a los que no queríamos olvidar una oportunidad para escapar. But it was your choice, in the end. Just like Wendy decided to grow up. De más chiquita nunca comprendí por qué Wendy decidió regresar a Londres. Si fuera por mi, yo me hubiera quedado a jugar con los Lost Boys para siempre...

Otra historia que disfruto mucho es la de El Principito. Tan sencilla y fácil de leer, pero creo que hasta una cierta edad puedes en verdad entender el mensaje que te tratan de transmitir. No habla sobre la diferencia entre adultos y niños tan explícitamente como Peter Pan, pero sí de la diferencia entre ver y creer, la pérdida de la inocencia, la imaginación y la importancia del amor.

"Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding. But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say: 'That is a hat.' Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars. I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man."

Siempre que leo esa pequeña parte del libro, me llama mucho la atención la manera en que los adultos vemos a los niños y nos parecen simples, hasta tontas, las cosas que les gustan y de las que hablan...cómo no nos ponemos a pensar que ellos pueden pensar lo mismo de nosotros? Las cosas que llenan nuestro tiempo no son las estrellas, o dibujos, o juegos en los que tienes que imaginar todo, desde el paisaje en el que estás hasta las armas con las que atacas al enemigo. It seems so simple and silly compared to our hectic lives. But don't we miss it? Desde los 12 parece que estamos tan desesperados por crecer, ya sea para poder ver películas PG-13, para tomar, para votar (algunos jaja), para manejar, para poder llegar a las 3 de la mañana...para escapar el control de nuestros padres. And suddenly here we are, standing on the edge of a cliff ready to fall into Adulthood.

Y ya que estamos aquí, todo parece tan oscuro...Por primera vez, vemos a nuestros padres por quiénes son en realidad, conocemos argumentos sobre ideas que antes se veían tan lejanas, nos peleamos con amigos y tenemos relaciones que se desbaratan por razones que no sabíamos que existían. Nos preocupamos por dinero, educación, por ser aprobados, por ser aceptados, por conseguir trabajo, por saber qué vamos a hacer, por ser responsables, por simplemente no cagarla. When did that cross our minds at the age of eight? Maybe Peter Pan had it right... What's the hurry? Y claro que hay belleza en crecer, porque también nos introduce a cosas nuevas que cambian nuestras vidas. Pero every once in a while, capáz y deberíamos de tomarnos un momento en el día y pensar: "What would the kid version of me do right now?" Then go ahead and jump off that cliff.

RIP

2009-05-31T23:58:00.001-05:00

Me llamó la atención un post reciente de mi hermana, en cual habló sobre la resucitación de Heath Ledger en Cannes, donde abrió su última película- "Death is so strange, isn't it?" Yes, it is. No puedo evitar pensar, al regresar a la tierra de los reencuentros, sobre la muerte y la resucitación, ya sea literal o metafórica. Con muerte metafórica me refiero a, ya saben, when you break up with someone, or lose a friend, o simplemente alguien queda en el olvido lentamente. That kind of death, not the actual 6 feet under kinda death. Anyways, parece que cuando alguien "muere", inmediatamente le damos un poco de más valor o atención...Lo llegamos a apreciar un poco más porque ya no lo tenemos, porque en el momento que tuvimos esa relación o esa amistad no supimos valorarla. Puedo estar completamente equivocada, and after death just comes hatred or joy from loss. Já. Y luego pienso en la "resucitación", aquel momento en que te topas con esa persona que significó algo para ti hace ya tiempo, o cuando te empiezas a llevar con una amiga con la que te habías peleado por x razón, o cuando encuentras un pedazo de memoria- una foto, una carta, a little slice of something that meant anything (or everything) once upon a time. Creo que la mayoría lo hemos vivido.

En fin, when all of these thoughts started bouncing around in my head, I started asking around...Primero, por qué pasa esto? This whole "appreciating them when they're gone" crap. Recibí respuestas similares y medio cliché, "you don't know what you have until it's gone" sort of thing. Y vaya que ese refrán es pinche cierto. Pero isn't this deeper than that? No es, más bien...que también entra la culpa cuando se van, de no haber manejado bien las cosas? O capáz y el arrepentimiento, o el miedo de que no vendrá algo mejor? The moment when it hits you- Damn. That was probably as good as it gets. Y de ahí surge el apreciar a esa cierta cosa/persona perdida. No? Sort of? Y número dos, cuándo se da más importancia- después de la muerte o después de la resucitación? Algunos opinan que la muerte es la causa de la idealización, la razón por la que pones a una persona en un pedestal... you end up letting go of all the bad shit that came before. Otros opinan que en la muerte puedes dejar ir fácilmente, pero en el momento del reencuentro es cuando todos los sentimientos vuelven, no necesariamente por aquella persona pero por el recuerdo de quién tu eras con esa persona.

Al final, I doubt a friendship can be rebuilt into what it once was, I doubt a post-war relationship can feel like what if felt like pre-war, y dudo que puedas volver a ser la persona que eras...La verdad es que nos reinventamos en cada situación; our personality can bend and stretch according to the person we're with or the social group we go out with. Y en los momentos que algo o alguien nos recuerda del personaje que alguna vez adoptamos, pués pueden haber muchas diferentes reacciones. There can be embarrassment or regret, or the hope that we can once again play that character, porque por razón alguna we enjoyed who we were while we were with them. Supongo que, después de todo lo dicho, es inevitable...that glimpse of a moment that reflects who you once were or could've been. Por qué nos deja tan tiesos?

Back Home

2009-05-28T16:34:00.001-05:00

Después de estar un tiempo afuera, regresas...y cuando regresas, hay tantas cosas que te llaman la atención. La forma en que para ti, todo parece ser igual a como lo dejaste, y para la gente que se encuentra en aquella burbuja que hace tiempo habías dejado las cosas si parecen cambiar...aunque sea lentamente. El típico "The more things change, the more they stay the same" comes to mind. El lugar si tiene varios cambios, ya sean las calles o nuevos edificios, pequeñas evidencias de que tu hogar poco a poco se convierte en una ciudad y en un lugar de comercio. Ya no son solamente las montañas que rodean tu casa, pero aparte un mall en cada esquina, un nuevo café, una rotonda que apareció de la noche a la mañana. La gente puede que ahora ya no habla con quien solía salir, y puede que ahora resultó una nueva relación que tiene al pueblo entero sorprendido, o las elecciones que se aproximan causan críticas y chismes que pueden parecer absurdos o tienen un poco de sentido. Por fuera, si hay cambios sútiles.

Pero que hay de ti? La persona a la que todos preguntan cómo le está yendo, cuáles son sus planes, cómo termino en clases, en calificaciones? Para nosotros si hay cambios en nuestra persona, pensamos que somos un poco más abiertos o más sabios, y según nosotros si le pusimos suficiente energía y ganas a lo que vivimos en nuestra nueva casa o ciudad. But what if they don't see it? Así como tu no puedes notar el cambio en ellos....Aquellas personas que son tus amigos, o así se hacen llamar; una persona que puede que ya habías olvidado y te vuelve a buscar porque le da curiosidad saber si eres la misma persona o simplemente una versión renovada de quién solías ser; nuestros padres, those mysterious people we so want to impress and want to be approved by, aunque tanto lo neguemos y en nuestra mente pensamos, Fuck them. Pero claro que todos sabemos la verdad: siempre serán nuestros papás, y queremos que estén orgullosos de lo que crearon.

Entonces, después de encontrarnos con estas personas y hablar con ellos, is everything we thought had changed in us gone? Permitimos que nos digan que seguimos siendo la misma persona, y que todo permanece igual, cuando nosotros pensamos lo contrario? Nos quedamos satisfechos con lo que nosotros presenciamos estando en elsewhere, las cosas pequeñas que ellos no pueden ver? O les hacemos caso, y a la próxima le echamos más ganas a esa lucha interminable de convertirte en la persona con la que sueñas ser? And why do they not see it? Por qué están seguros que les mentimos, y que usamos un antifaz cuando los vemos? This post is full of questions. Creo que la más grande es: Podemos coexistir con las personas que nos conocían antes del cambio, or is that all shot to hell? No hablo solamente de los que nos vamos a estudiar, pero también de los que cambian de trabajo y vuelven a encontrarse con aquella persona que los despidió, o un adicto que por fin se atreve a pisar el antro que solía frecuentar antes de enfrentar su enfermedad, o alguien que se topa con una previa relación that ended in plenty of scars. Imagínense ese encuentro...Could we talk to those people and after hearing the most feared, "You're still that same person you used to be", remain confident of the change we see in ourselves?

Porque no tiene que ser algo grande lo que cause una nueva inseguridad, puede ser un pequeño comentario de una persona cuya opinión significa mucho para ti. Puede que para ellos no sea nada, y lo digan por decirlo, o puede que les importas y les preocupas y simplemente no supieron cómo decirtelo. They end up hurting you, in purpose or by accident. Al final de todo, queremos creer que tenemos la fuerza dentro de nosotros mismos y que lo que piense alguien más no importa--but we're just kidding ourselves, aren't we? Para muchos, tener algo o a alguien que siempre quisiste no importa hasta que alguien más se de cuenta de tu felicidad, o hasta que alguien esté celoso de tu éxito. Why? Por qué la opinión ajena pesa tanto? Yo no sé...I'm just the one asking the questions. I'd love it if I got some answers.

2009-05-21T18:19:00.001-05:00

"If it is worth doing, it is worth overdoing." - Steven Tyler

The Game

2009-05-21T17:20:00.001-05:00

Toda mujer que ha formado parte de una relación lo ha pensado (y no se hagan): "Would my boyfriend rather watch the game than be with me?" Y les seré honesta... lo más probable es que sí. Estoy segura que todos los hombres sueñan con una mujer que sea tan perfecta que hasta estén dispuestos a apagar el fut para estar con ellas...Now that's the dream for us. Ya he hablado del cultural capital, y de cómo permitimos que nuestros gustos a veces se intrometan en nuestras amistades u otras relaciones, but I think sports are in another field, entirely. Pués sabemos que a aquellos que le gustan los deportes en verdad les apasionan, y cuando gana su equipo celebran como si hubieran ganado ellos... y cuando pierden...well lets just say it ain't a good day. Especially for the girlfriend. Para aquellas que estamos dispuestas a compartir esa pasión, y estar dispuestas a aprender de algún deporte que digamos que no se nos hace tan interesante, a veces terminamos ganando. Sometimes we don't, especialmente cuando nos gusta un equipo contrario...Me encantaría pensar que that would just make things all the more interesting; ya saben, el trash talk que a veces borders on flirty, and so on...Pero tiende a ser un poco desesperante cuando las cosas no salen a tu manera, huh?

Nosotras nos quejamos, pero tenemos que llegar a aceptar que it's just a part of who they are, right? Sin embargo, una conversación reciente que tuve con una amiga me llamó la atención. Qué si con una persona compartes todos los mismos gustos superficiales que mencioné en Cultural Capital....excepto tu mayor pasión, tu trabajo, what you do for a living? Qué si son tan diferentes que te llega hasta a ofender que la otra persona no entienda lo que tú encuentras tan interesante? En verdad pueden ser nuestros amigos los que piensan que es estúpido que te guste tanto leer y escribir? Podrías tener una pareja que prefiere el diseño de moda o la vida de DJ cuando tú piensas que la política es lo más fascinante del mundo? No es como cuándo les gusta música diferente o tienen opiniones diferentes acerca del cine...This time it's your work, your carreer, your biggest passion. Se va al otro extremo...Y es como los deportes para los hombres, no? Porque para ellos, you hating their team or their favorite sport is just as insulting as them hating what you do for a living. Anoche después del juego Cavs-Magic me llegué a asustar cuando mi novio estaba tan molesto, especialmente ya que mi obsesión por Dwight Howard es muy explícita.

Qué pasa cuando le digo a una persona, "(Whatever it is they do) is stupid and I don't get what you like about it." It becomes personal... Or are we just taking it too far, and we just think it's personal? Es verdad que lo que hacemos es gran parte de quién somos, but then again it's just what we do, not who we are. Y deberíamos de apreciar a la persona que trata de entender, que trata de compartirlo, even though inside they're wishing they were doing something else. Después de todo, lo que nos gusta de un amigo o de una pareja es la persona, y llegamos a quererlo con todas sus fallas y las cosas que no podemos entender, como por ejemplo, why he takes it so hard that his team lost the first game of the series. Y para los que no tratan en lo absoluto y se dan por vencido, y dicen que lo que te gusta o lo que haces es aburrido...Well that's okay too, isn't it? Te llega a molestar, but it's not everything...

Capáz estoy equivocada. A algunos nos molesta más que a otros, pero sé que no podemos esperar encontrar a alguien a quién le gusten las mismas cosas. Imagínate. Si a la otra persona le interesara tu trabajo como a ti, then when you came home from work, you'd still have to talk about it; there'd be no escape. Y sí, a veces es emocionante tener esa conversación con otra persona al que le apasiona lo mismo que a ti. Pero, isn't the opposite just as exciting? Llegar a tener un rango de intereses tan lleno que siempre tienen algo de qué hablar, de qué discutir? It wouldn't be a fight, per se, just a heated discussion. Y comoquiera, tienes a esas personas con las que sí puedes tener ese mismo interés...the people you work with, the people you go to class with, your "other friends". Tal vez mi forma de pensar es muy diferente, y la razón por la que batallamos tanto en encontrar a un grupo de amigos con quién nos llevemos perfectamente o una pareja de quién no nos cansemos es que sí es clave tener aquellas mismas pasiones. Maybe that's why guys don't find a girl to turn off the game for....Pero entonces, wouldn't you be watching it together? Huh.

Tiny Break

2009-05-16T20:37:00.001-05:00

Trying not to kill myself over American Politics.

I thank the Lord for the people I have found...I thank the Lord for the people I have found.

Cómo es que una canción te puede tranquilizar tanto en tiempos de estrés?