Yeah So…

Harry and The Potters is what.  Not exactly changing the face of music,  but amusing enough.

I got in late Thursday night, only to find Parker hunched over a desk, desperate to finish his second project. Everyone in Arch 11 was tired, but in surprisingly good spirits as they trudged on through the night, marching toward the dreaded moment nighttime security would shut the building down.. and them out. My contribution to all of this was moral support and a few slivers of gray cardboard cut to 1/16″.

Parker and I slept a lot this weekend because he his tank was running on 0, and I can never pass up an opportunity to sleep too.

The Secret…

…Reason for all of this chaos in our lives, is that we willed the Universe to give it to us.

Or not.

Three people I know had a bad day today. All incidences of unwarranted chaos were mutually exclusive, but each relatively harrowing in its own right. The scope of the issues ranged from expected topics such as career, love, and life (general); each seemed unjust in its own right.

An unsympathetic and cruel boss, an investment gone bad, and a new long-distance courtship on uneasy footing.

Something has got to give.

The Incredibles is better than Finding Nemo. Period.

Between chewable Pepto and having my Pucci’s cleaned, it’s hard to say where the weekend went. I jest. Baby, thanks for those things, but really, they’re just the icing on a very large and insurmountable cake. Or in our case, a 6-inch tower of soft-serve.

Retrospectively speaking, the memories seem ephemeral but not because they are unworthy of being remembered. It’s because there are so many of them. And though the majority are not characterized by grandiosity, they are marked with love and a simple appreciation for what it means to have found it.

Most of our time is spent just languishing in each other’s company: whether it be sprawling out bedside crosswording it NYTimes-style on a languid afternoon, or doing dumplings at Moonhouse, or a spontaneous Chinatown search for the cheapest cool shoes (ever), we are an entity unto our own. At least that’s how it feels. Always coming into our own, and occurring together. It sounds a bit silly and contrived, but it’s the best I can do. Don’t laugh. Now I’m embarrassed.

I owe you a tremendous amount of gratitude really, but I don’t think I’m capable of thanking you in any conventional sense, just some approximation of the favor that comes in the return of unadulterated affection. I hope you can (and will) entrust yourself to me because I will keep you safe.

It’s a real struggle to not write the highfalutin mumbo jumbo I’m used to, especially since it was you who made me weary of it. When I said you were self-sufficient it was with the greatest degree of admiration – everything distills to a higher level of clarity when I see through your eyes. And it’s not because you installed 3 fantastic little lights in my room. Or cleaned it when you went on that rampage.

I know I make your life a little tough sometimes. It’s the sentimentality, and girly wishfulness that’s to blame. Problem is, I’ve got these heady afflictions that are often unfounded, and often (I think) quite fair. I will do my best to manage the things that make me a head case, if you will tolerate them long enough. In return, I will put up with your hogging all the space in bed and other notable items that should probably go unannounced.

I’m tired, and everything I’ve said has been far too abstract to make this post worthy of your time.

Love you, and hope you get everything done in time. I’m sending you good vibrations that go Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Summertime in the OBC (Ocean Beach Community)

When one moves, part of the transitioning process involves physically acclimatizing to what is (or isn’t) around you. As a soon-to-be New Yorker, I know I should be loathe to concede to anything the West might do better than the East… but I’m sorry, nothing beats the sunshine here. Nothing. With the beach literally at my doorstep, I have been hard-pressed to find reasons to go out and explore outside of OB. Although I’ve managed to bake my skin to a slight crisp (and this is not advised for regular skin, let alone freckled skin like mine), I know that I am making up for future lost time.

Anastacia

I’m not terribly witty, so i’m going to refrain from trying anything smart for this one. No title, no nothing.

Tomorrow marks my first interview of a designer, and celebrity for that matter. No guesses as to the person in question….Ta-da, it’s Anastacia (by European retail giant S.Oliver), the American (born and raised) European pop sensation, who is in the throes of launching her line with S.Oliver (ETA is listed on their site). Although at this point I am well aware of her nothing-short-of-impressive list of accomplishments, being situated outside of the frenzied fan base (34 mill records sold in Europe) will probably help to ease the nerves a little. I think it will also work to my advantage because I can address her as someone with a real design endeavor and not with the skepticism that surrounds most singer-cum-designers. I am waiting keenly to see if this packs the same punch as Karl, Stella, and now V+R (Madonna soon to follow) for H&M did. I suspect it’s a different ballgame given that all of these folks have established worldwide brands (Madge as the exception, but she might as well be one), but i certainly will not underestimate the power of celebrity and the desire of millions to emulate the stars they love so dearly. Details of the interview to follow at a later date; prelim photos can be seen here.

This weekend began and ended with a bang. In light of the Waves’ last netball tournie before break (and my impending move to NY), Parker and my father graciously agreed to a quickie expedition with me, up to Norcal. The intended plan was to drive up in the early evening Friday, do two days in the city and head down in the afternoon of the second. It certainly felt fast: packed with a constant throng of ‘things to do’ – the thought of it was tiresome but we plowed ahead with tireless aplomb.

Of course, there was no shortage of minor complications along the way; these of course, amounted to a pain in the bum, two of which i’ve detail below:

1) Friday night the Benz springs a flat while heading down to Del Mar, where Park works. Of course there’s nothing unusual about such an occurrence, however, there is something terribly wrong with the number of flats it has seen in the last 4 months – 5 to be exact. Destined for continual repairs, it’s almost as if its wings were clipped just before the keys were handed to us. Although the absence of a spare was a cause for consternation, we decided to brave the road.

2) Saturday morning saw me up at 7.30 am, prepping for the jaunt to Treasure Island. The tournie was being housed at the Rugby Club there, where an adjunct netball court had been built. Brand spanking new. Park has some great pictures from the day. When he tired of his man duties he excused himself to go into the city for a spot of Chinese food with my father, and his trusty camera.

During our break, Park and I purchased position-specific t-shirts reading: “My favorite position is on my back.” Wearing it outside the context of the tournament proved to be a tad embarrassing. En route home, after unwittingly spilling ColdStones all over my shirt, I changed into my netball tee, only to clutch my chest to cover its message when we were visiting the Mission (Park’s idea, as usual), which was coincidentally overrun with big burly bikers that weekend.

3) After jamming in as much sightseeing as was feasible, we made our way home via the “scenic route” along the coast. It was beautiful, although not the easiest to navigate given the winding avenues… Unfortunately due to our own underestimation of time, we did not arrive home until 1.30am. And of course, just as Park was leaving to go home that morning at 5am, the Benz sprang another flat.

Was one to remember. Ocean Beach was aswarm with tourists and natives at play as early as the late morning. Although, we didn’t venture out until a little after lunch time, one could only presume this was the case given there wasn’t an ounce of space to be had – unless you wanted to snuggle up amidst the beached kelp and the sand fleas they harbored. Gross out.The reason for our delay was my struggle with the guacamole (thankfully the picco di gallo turned out): the day before, Park had purchased four rock-hard a’cado specimens that were in no shape to be converted to a shape-less mass, let alone be eaten. Although he insisted it wasn’t worth the trouble, I persisted and came out on top with a dip that was edible, but only by me (and that was because I made it). Unfortunately, before the avocado ordeal, I managed to rub the juice from the peppers and onions in the PDG under my nose. The events after this can only be described as a sensory experience of the worst sort – I can recall for certain that my face was on fire. Much to Parker’s amusement I rushed to the loo, and proceeded to the tub where I showered my face with cold water, fully clothed. Tears began to stream down my cheeks instantaneously, and it was after Parker realized that these weren’t born of joy, that he was on hand to provide aloe gel, and profuse amounts of strawberry yogurt (with fruit chunks intact), that things began to simmer down. Needless to say my face was completely red, and I looked a hot, hot mess.The beach was overgrown with folks drinking under their shady canopies, children building soon-to-be-demolished sand forts, and the odd bbq billowing smoke whatever which way. It is funny how people leave to escape the confines of their concrete grids only to sardine-pack themselves together in closer proximity than they would ever dream of off the beach. It was all a bit redick, but also very hardy for the most part. We clamored to find a spot and finally settled on a rejected patch of sand which seemed to serve as walkway to the masses, despite our best efforts to fortify our space by laying out towels (and my flip flops for good measure). It’s quite remarkable how good people are at ignoring you, even when you’re 6ft4 and practically unmissable. The party beside us consisted of an elderly African American woman, her daughter and grandchildren. They began to feel quite agitated quite quickly, and rightly so. I learned that situating yourself by a massive pool of water does not preclude your right to not wanting to get wet! When the manfriend disappeared for an inordinate amount of time to boogie board, and the excitement of watching our neighbors swat away oncoming traffic wore off, i decided to make my own way into the ocean. I guess I wanted to get wet after all. Eventually I located Parker, who succeeded in dragging me like a shipwrecked plank out to where the “good” waves were. After gulping down more saltwater than was due, I insisted that I board from where we were. Within 10 seconds I was back on the shore. At least I didn’t have to battle my way against the current to get there. That evening, marshmallows and margaritas in hand, we walked down below the pier to watch the OB fireworks. From our vantage point neighboring shows were to be seen, but even though they were noteworthy in their own right, we learned quickly that nothing really beats front row seats (unless you’re in a cinema, in which case it sucks to be you). I dare say it was even romantic. That is, until I managed to emasculate Parker with my superior marshmallow chucking skills: many onlookers will vouch for me when I say I hit several folks dead on the head – it made me laugh like a 4 year old child, almost enough to pee my pants. It really was a splendid time.

Gnome Chomski Extravaganza

On Sunday, Jackie, Park, and yours truly ventured over to theGnome Chomsky house in Silverlake, home of the hipsters. Chris Meyer makes a guac to lust over, and his home isn’t so bad either. We’re told it was designed by an ex-Disney employee which makes for a rockin’ story if nothing else. A true CL gem, outfitted with specially customized sofas, and people like me cutting watermelon when the occasion calls for it. It was sweltering that afternoon, but the transportive quality of Chris’ new digs made for a pleasant distraction.

We ended up driving down to SD late, and in a rather clandestine manner. Okay it wasn’t all that covert, but still, darkness seemed to engulf the car as we putted down the 405. There’s that small bit after the 73 where the road curves ahead with ocean as backdrop. I’m always conned into thinking I’m on the home stretch as I’m nearing it, but am sorely disappointed when I see that the end is not in sight just yet. I suppose it wasn’t such a let down this time around, since the focus of my drive was seated (and asleep) next to me.

Day at the Races

Saturday morning rolled around uneventfully. However, as usual, Park was unable to be roused out of sleep. He’s my sleeping giant, a timbered log that cannot be rolled either way. These are warm mornings, and even the streams of petulant light through the drapes have little to no effect on his deep slumber. Aided, and after much pleading he agreed to get up. I am already in full netball garb, have packed our tiny All-Star Lemon-flavored Gatorades, and am complaining that we will be late. Nagging, rather. We arrived at the court at 9.45am to Jo hollaring at us: Marine park via Lincoln is not to be counted on as expected. I was told my new nickname is Lawnmower, and Parker conducted his first beep test…ever. He was thankful that Greg helped to even out the testosterone balance somewhat, the ratio of men to women is now: 2 : ∞ . After a few carefree games, we brought out the big guns – it’s me against Park in the ultimate matchup. My GS to his GK. My superior ball skills were for all to witness as i shot over his 6.ft 4 (+ 2 ft for arm span) frame. He took his defeat gracefully. As practice rolled to a close, I began to feel sad that my Saturday mornings wouldn’t be comprised of these episodes for much longer. The sun-drenched courts, children playing, the girly chats (that belong in a category on their own, and supplant smoking as the perferred breaktime activity).

Afterwards, I went to Madley for a bit of sample sale action and came away with a few pieces guaranteed to having people scratching their heads. I don’t care, I love it. At least Park had the good sense to wait in the car.

In the early to late afternoon we found ourselves at the laundromat, faculties bored. Neither of us was a real fan of doing our dirty clothes, so we quelled our boredom with whatever came to mind. For Park, this means fiddling with his camera, the result of which is a photoshoot consisting of a dirty wheel and a crusty book drifting through the city’s wet underpinnings. (see Exhibits A, and B – soon to be added). Bravo. I end up sketching and swapping pictures with a young Latin girl named Jasmine. I have her picture here somewhere, i hope that it isn’t lost in my abysmal mess. It’s of a sky, and what one might guess is the ocean (with turtles). I love that children are not beholden to anyone.

That evening saw us Dr.Strangelov[ing] at the less-than-dead Hollywood Forever cemetary. It was heaps of fun: between the wine, cheeses (a St. Andre, and some Brie), pate, proscuitto, fruit salad and fantastic company (Cathy currently starring as Viola in Twelth Night, and Vince) i managed to slip into a reverie. It was a beautiful evening, and the temperature couldn’t have been more ideal – warm with a slight but fragrant (herb-laced) zephyr. Although the crowd was broken into individually-blanketed camps, that we had come together to share in the same festivity made it a truly communal event. When the group of three in front of me failed to settle down I rested my head momentarily, face up to the stars (or the few that i could see)….and fell asleep. Oops. I learned an important piece of wisdom that night: “God willing, we will prevail, in peace and freedom from fear, and in true health, through the purity and essence of our natural… fluids.”

long weekend

July 1st: These past four days seem to have slipped by us in a hurry, but not the kind that is of a mechanical sort. The afternoon heat induces a languid stupor whose only remedy lies in a nap – and most of the time we acquiesce to it quite willingly.

I picked Parker up at Union Station close to 9pm on Friday night. Although we had set our sights on the Jazz night at LACMA, neither of us could muster up anything more than a tacit agreement not to go afterall. We returned home and exercised our fondness for sleeping.