to whom it may concern …

ok, recap. 2009=busy.

Las Vegas and killer heels

“i fell on boobie cards!” wailed a girl with mascara running down her face and bloodied knees. she carried her spiked heels in one hand while the other tried to wipe her face.
it was 3 in the morning and we were walking along Las Vegas Boulevard and taking in the sights.
one after the other, we watched as pretty young girls hobbled on their platforms or simply took the wretched things off and walked bare foot along the dirty strip.
i told myself i never would visit this place, that it was just too cheestastic for me and that i didn’t need to go there to see people in heat. but here we are. and it was fun. the city, i discovered was nothing and everything like what i had imagined.
and as another girl screamed out at the top of her lungs, “my feet hurt!” with every step she took, i realized, i’m glad i came.
the thick blanket of smoke that i am so not accustomed to in california was the first assault on our arrival but was shortly forgotten with what seemed to be a heavy disappointment of the strip.
granted, it was day time and we were at the airport. the stretch of road where “sin city” was born seemed tired and dusty and all in all, drab.
where were the colors and lights that i have been dished throughout the years and the only real reason i even agreed to this journey?
when we got to the hotel, i felt bad being the downer in the group, admitting that my fantasy of what vegas was supposed to be, supposed to look like was all but a tired prostitute. but i digress …

a list… or two

“There ain’t no devil, there’s just God when he’s drunk…”

photo credit: the original photog that took this and www.pitchforkmedia.com

“Do you know where friendship ends and passion does begin? it’s between the binding of her stockings and her skin…”

“I’m holding on, ’cause you’re my revolver, and I dreamed of ending, in a violent way…”

there just are too many lines in music lyrics to list, but i will, from time to time add to this list of my favorite liners…

fashion–> anti-fashion?

so yeah, i’ve been MIA. again. to my defense, life has been fast in 2009. trying to stay above water, being creative and keeping up on my blogo, well, it does take a toll.

so anyway, i’ve decided first things first. i had a car accident last friday. what is it about being hit that brings out the ‘abused-woman syndrome?’ and i mean this in a completely ‘nice’ kind of way. here it is; i was rear-ended on my way to work and first thought was, ‘did i do something to warrant this?’ lol. i laugh now because it all seems so silly but alas, it was the first thought that ran through my head. that and, ‘thank good my little boy wasn’t with me.’

anyhoo, i am on my way to see how much this little fender bender is going to cost me. not that this has anything to do with the title of this post. just an update, i guess…

i feel compelled to share: i am a closet fashionista. i say closet because, i fear, i refuse to admit it and then deal with the reprecussions of being labeled a said fashionista. i say this because [with very few exceptions] i cringe when people call themselves that.

i [personally] have always thought that fashion is just another outlet for the creative to express themselves. i don’t think it is something synonimous with high prices and following trends. i love chanel and it’s chic simplicity but i don’t own a single piece. instead. i tear through ‘regular people’ clothing stores and the occassional thrift store and look for chanel-inspired pieces, preferabbly made with natural materials [or at least ones that i can pronounce!]

i hate that so many pour themselves into a life of debt in order to have that must-have bag or pair of shoes at an obscene price. if the label ain’t right, keep walkin’. ugh. i know i’m passing judgment on this, but really? instead, i look to the people i know, who have managed to stamp out their ‘looks’ by mixing and matching and not falling victim to fashion trends.

my favorite anti-fashion hero, by far has to be Drew Barrymore.

photo credit: Bauer-Griffin from www.splendidcity.com

Her fashion sense is always somewhat off, but every ensemble has a twinge of ‘drew’. from boho dripped in beaded accessories to the clean cut, masculine dresses and suits Drew, i salivate! don’t get me wrong,
i  could care less about her acting career or world views, but my ears perk up at the mention of her accessory faves.

so here’s to the Drewes of the world; keep on making a statement through your wardrobe and accessories!

shitkickers and a bob

i’ve been MIA for a while. i could say i have been busy, that i’ve been on an important assignment or that life just caught up to me. i could say that i grew bored, lethargic or even felt i was done with it. but it doesn’t matter. i’m here now. again. and for a long time.

i think i’m doing ok. i still made the first month of a new year mark. not too late, right? so here’s to a better year. a new year. and to celebrate, i’ve purchased my first of many items that i’ve always been too intimidated of and am wearing them with a smile of confidence. my very first adult pair of cowboy boots, or as my husband lovingly refers to them as my ’shitkickers.’

this is a new year. i feel it in my bones. and now, these comfortably beat up pair of unassuming shoes, these boots that my mother found at a flea market last weekend will follow me through my discoveries and help me conquer my unexplainable fears. oh, and my new bob will complement them nicely.

what is it about a good pair of shoes? i like the rugged leather. the sturdy stitching throughout the tops, up my too-large calves, perfectly accommodating. mostly, i love the subtlety of it all. it feels so … western cowboy, so … american. i know this sounds terribly cliche, but i feel moved; compelled even to share my swelling pride in these new boots of mine.

so i’m taking this life of mine by the balls, squeezing every experience out of it and without fear, and a glimmer in my eye take what’s rightfully mine.

eat my dust 2008!

bum-rushed

it’s hard sometimes to live with yourself when your craft lays in stagnant waters. that passion inside of you, that hunger for life…

i used to read three books a week, revel in language and discovering a new word. i use to pour my heart out in words on the screen of my ibook, the words appearing with every click of the keyboard…

i used to enjoy snippy conversation, talking about the state of [the world/the industry/life], i used to enjoy an inside joke, a throaty, hearty laugh but the conversation has quieted on this side of the cursor…

guilt has overtaken me. again. i haven’t put together a sentence, a paragraph, a page in so long that has said just what i wanted to say. i haven’t allowed my inclination for creation to overpower the mundaneness of my current state. my current life. i choke it down before it can surface. i can’t.

and it feels like a part of me is missing. a part of me has gone, leaving me longing for the past, for inspiration, for … something.

sun; burn

you can always take layers off but when you’re in essentially your unmentionables, then what?

i hate summer. and now that i’ve said that, i am bracing myself because of the gasps. i know, i know. i live in California where the weather is warm and always sunny. boo hoo. poor you. but to tell you the truth, i don’t totally hate summer. only extreme summer days like the one that we’re experiencing today. nearly 100 degrees? what gives? i thought the weather was mild here.

it’s your bare skin all of a sudden having suction and the sticky sound of it lifting from a chair, a leather sofa, anything. forget about wearing a skirt–your thighs will look burned and pink at the end of the day from them sticking to one another, flesh against flesh under a heating lamp. and what’s worse, the lethargic feeling that inevitably increases with every degree above room temperature

is it just me or do the summers get hotter and hotter as the years go on? or is it just that i’m getting older and older and less tolerant? either way, i miss the 70s.

the girl with the sun in her eyes

–i sat there, outside under the navy sky and leaned my head against his shoulder. he kissed the top of my head and sat there, quietly with me, breathing the night in…
i had a dream last night where the man next to me was actually a reporter from work. strange, i thought. but then, after trying to decipher the meaning behind the rather random night vision, i remembered him. my friend. probably my best friend of my youth.
we grew up together, he and i. they called him ‘artist’ and i ‘claws,’ ‘cat,’ and any other variation of the feline. we never got the secret password that allowed us into the popular crowd. we read books, wore glasses and shared our deepest secrets.
it’s been years since i’ve seen him, talked to him. and to be honest, he simply slipped away from my mind … and heart.
until last night when this vivid dream reminded me of a similar night with him, after heartbreak, and he comforting me. i miss his laugh, his goofy smile. i miss the conversations we used to have, the late night Denny’s runs. it’s strange the lasting footprint some people have on our souls.

and he liked johnny cash

my grandfather died Tuesday night and I feel so, numb. Not my biological one, but the adopted one, Muzz. he was diagnosed with brain cancer last November and has since been fighting it until about a month ago. I hadn’t seen him since April, i think, and part of me feels very, very guilty. but on the other hand, i’m also glad that i will remember him as he was and not as what he became in the last months, which was a shell of himself.

he was the strongest person i knew, no bullshit either. he was straight up, to the point. he never “softened” the blow. he’d just say it. he was his own man, anti-establishment and he made a life like that. he was intelligent and very up and up with the high tech developments over the last 10 years; he was more high tech than i am and he was in his mid 70s.

i met him at a former job, a check cashing store where i worked for four years before a corporation bought the chain and ran us all out for more dumb-downed versions of ourselves. i remember, when i came in for an interview, i wore my first pencil skirt and a collared shirt. he was serious and to the point, but i fired back just as quickly. and he smiled. at the end of the interview, he offered me a job, but not before laughing and asking, ‘what the hell is up with your hair?’ i smiled. i had bright blue hair back then, and it didn’t matter to him because of my work ethic and experience, not to mention my lack of intimidation from his crotchety-old-Italian-man mannerisms; and i say this fondly.

we became an odd couple of sorts, he a teacher, a mentor and i the student. he spoke to me as an equal and shared his life growing up a single child through the Great Depression and how he met his wife, his kids and his grandkids. he introduced me to talk radio, and i actually enjoyed it. i still listen every morning and remember his bellowing voice yelling at the commentators about how stupid they could be. he questioned everything i thought, everything i believed. and he loved johnny cash.

he retired (one of the reasons the owners sold the company) but never left my life. he was there when i married my husband, even looped the rope around our heads (old marriage ritual.) he was there when i received my BS in Journalism from SJSU, in his usual naval cap and plumber shoes and a smile that, if you didn’t know him, could be mistaken for a smirk. and he was there when my son was born.

now, i’m supposed to go to this man’s funeral on saturday, pretend to know the pain his family is going through while i myself can’t explain my own. it hurts. i haven’t been able to stop crying since Marie [his wife] emailed me the news last night. my blackberry almost vibrated off the table at 9 last night before i caught it, and cringed.

i didn’t sleep last night. just drempt in technicolor, flashbacks and memories i have with this great, honest human being. i try not to mope, not to crawl in a corner and cry; for him because i know exactly what he’d say, ‘why the long face?’

the relevance of inconsequence

his eyes are hard as he stares ahead of him, exhales a cloud of smoke that hovers around stubble on his face. his swollen gut juts out in front of him and he waddles as he turns and looks at me.

my grandfather is dying and i’m not sure how to feel about that. that harsh face that always looked at me and my sister with indifference has soften with fear. emphysema came first after almost 70 years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes. then the rib-rattling cough. and now, he’s gone from 170 kilos to about 80. all this not to mention the dozen or so tumors doctors recently found in his throat.

my father’s father can’t breathe and needs to eat through a tube now. that hard-ass figure that intimidated me growing up is nothing but a shell of his former self and as my father leaves my mother for the first time in their lives to go see him in mexico, in tears, i can’t help but feel guilty for not feeling, well, anything.

i don’t know if it was the way he treated my father with such disrespect or the way he never really accepted my mother for being as strong as she was. maybe it was the way he was always disinterested in hearing about my sister and i, our education, our drive and our accomplishments unless that conversation also involved a man or an imminent marriage. whatever it was, it has left me numb and confused.

i want to be there for my father in this time of great pain for him, but i find myself indifferent and to be honest, panicked. why can’t i feel sympathy for this man that is dying? why can’t i settle my differences and be there for my own father?

i guess sometimes need and want is inconsequential.